Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 435. Reckless
The fire crackled again. Soft. Steady.
He moved his hand from her cheek to her neck, thumb brushing the hollow of her throat.
"You should stop saying things like that," he murmured.
Rose blinked. "Why?"
His smirk was small. Dangerous. "Because it makes me want to do something reckless."
She tilted her head. "Define reckless."
He stepped closer. Close enough that their breath shared the same space. His palm slid down to her shoulder, slow and deliberate.
"Like claiming you right now," he said. "Like pushing everything else aside and forgetting the duty. The court. The ghosts. Just you. Me. And this moment."
Rose's breath hitched. Her heart thudded—once, hard, against her ribs.
"You could," she said, voice lower now. "But it won't fix what's broken."
"No," Angel agreed. "But it might remind me I'm still alive."
They stood there, inches apart, two sovereigns made of trauma and loyalty, of firelight and shadows. Neither speaking. Both feeling.
Rose lifted her hand. Touched the center of his chest.
Right where his heartbeat echoed—slow and steady—beneath layers of tailored black.
It was grounding.
It was dangerous.
It was him.
Her palm rested over the warmth of his body, feeling the way his magic stirred just under the surface. The shadows in the room stretched a little, curved toward them without truly touching—like the darkness itself understood this wasn't its moment.
Angel didn't move.
He just breathed.
Like her touch was the only thing holding him together right now.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the lapel, trailing slowly down to the first button of his coat. She felt it then—the tension in him. The kind of restraint that wasn't forced, but trained. Centuries of discipline packed into this single inhale.
His hand came up. Slid gently along her waist, pulling her closer. His voice, when it came, was low. Rough silk.
"I feel like I don't want to return to my study room yet…"
Rose gave him a knowing look. "Oh?"
Angel's lips twitched—half smile, half confession. "I mean… Chancellor Allan's been pressing again."
"For?"
His eyes glinted. "A heir."
She blinked, half-amused. "And?"
Angel leaned down, just slightly—enough that his breath ghosted across her cheek, his voice dipping even lower.
"And I've been busy lately. Neglectful. You could say… delinquent in royal duties."
Rose couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up from her chest—soft, sharp, delighted.
"Here you are," she said, smirking, "seducing me in the middle of a political crisis."
"Not seducing," Angel replied smoothly. "Merely multitasking."
"You're incorrigible."
"I'm strategic," he corrected, inching closer still. "What better time to conceive a future than when the present is trying to burn itself down?"
She rolled her eyes. "That's not how most monarchs explain it."
"I'm not most monarchs."
And he wasn't.
There was something too raw about the way he looked at her right now—like he was no longer the king or the weapon or the cursed heir. Just a man. With rough hands and soft intentions. With battle scars under expensive fabrics and shadows curled like beasts in his chest.
But here, in this moment, he didn't feel cold.
He felt starved.
She could see it in the way his gaze dropped to her mouth. The way his hand at her waist gripped just a little tighter. The way his pulse picked up under her fingers, betraying how much he wanted her.
And not just to fulfill some royal decree.
He wanted her.
Rose brushed her fingers over his collarbone, then down—slow, teasing—until she felt the edge of a familiar scar through his shirt. "You're really using the 'produce an heir' card on me, huh?"
"I didn't say it was a card. I said it was policy," Angel replied, his mouth curving into a devilish grin.
She arched a brow. "And here I thought you hated bureaucracy."
"I hate it," he said, lowering his mouth to hers. "But I like results."
Their lips met again—this time hotter, firmer, with more intent behind it. There was no patience now. No careful, polite diplomacy between royalty. This was hands in hair, fingers curling into fabric, gasps between kisses.
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