His Discarded Queen

Chapter 27

[Tessa's POV]

Lord Delacroix smiles like a snake. "Of course House Delacroix supports your coronation. We simply have concerns about the... rushed nature."

Fifth house representative in four hours. Same script, different faces. Support that feels like threat.

"The timing was necessary given recent events. Unless you're suggesting House Delacroix had a hand in yesterday's assassination attempt?"

His smile freezes. "Certainly not. Though one must wonder—"

"Thank you for your time." I stand. "Your concerns have been noted."

He leaves. I collapse into my chair. Three more meetings before sunset.

I can't do this.

"That was well handled."

Soren. In the doorway. Pale but steady and definitely shouldn't be out of bed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Saving you from your next disaster. Lord Thornwick arrives in ten minutes." He settles beside me, wincing. "And you need to be prepared, because so far you've been reacting. There's a difference between that and being prepared."

The exhaustion wins. "Fine. Tell me about Thornwick."

"Ambitious. Cowardly. Three years ago he tried to undercut Nyx's northern territories. Silas shut him down publicly." Soren pulls a document. "He'll try to extract concessions. Mention old disputes. Push for reparations."

"So I negotiate?"

"So you remind him House Thornwick was caught smuggling blood slaves through Nyx territory. Capital offense. Silas could have executed him." His eyes meet mine. "You don't owe him anything."

"Threaten him with exposure."

"Threaten him with justice." Sharp smile. "There's a difference."

Thornwick arrives. Aggressive demands wrapped in politeness. But I'm ready. When he mentions reparations, I mention blood slaves.

His face goes white. He leaves within minutes, supporting the coronation without conditions.

"That was..." I stare at Soren with something like awe.

"Politics." Already pulling files for the next meeting. "Something I'm actually good at."

The words hang between us.

"You never showed me this," I say quietly. "During our marriage. Never included me in your political work."

His hands still. "No. I didn't."

"Why?"

"Because I'm an idiot." He won't look at me. "Because I thought keeping you separate was protecting you. Because I didn't realize what a partner you could be until I'd already lost you."

The honesty cuts deeper than any wound.

We work through the afternoon into evening. Soren coaches before each meeting—who to flatter, who to threaten, who to ignore. He's brilliant. Sharp and calculating in ways I never saw because he never let me see this side of him.

By midnight, it's done. Every major house agreed to support the coronation. Reluctantly, conditionally, but agreed.

"You should rest," Soren says, gathering documents. Slower now, exhaustion catching up. "Tomorrow's fittings take strength to endure."

"Let me help." I reach for the same file.

Our hands collide.

Neither of us pulls away.

His fingers are warm against mine. Familiar in ways that make my chest ache. I should step back. Should remember all the reasons this is complicated and dangerous and wrong.

But I'm tired of being careful. Tired of pretending I don't feel this pull toward him. This man who took an arrow for me. Who spent all day helping me navigate political waters that would have drowned me. Who looks at me now like I'm precious and he's terrified of breaking me again.

"Tessa." His voice is rough, desperate, like he’s been holding back for centuries and finally snapped. My name drips from his lips like honey, sticky and sweet, begging for me to drown in it. I don’t hesitate. I crash into him, our mouths colliding in a mess of teeth and tongue. His good arm slams around my waist, pulling me so close I can feel the bulge in his pants grinding against my stomach. His shoulder’s injured, but he doesn’t care. Neither do I.

The kiss is filthy, wet, and hungry. Not the kind of kiss you share in public. No, this is the kind that leaves you panting, your lips swollen and your core throbbing. He’s devouring me, his tongue sliding against mine like he’s trying to memorize every inch of my mouth. I grab fistfuls of his shirt, yanking him closer, and he groans—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through me and sets my entire body on fire.

"Are you sure?" He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark and obliterated with need. "Because if I touch you, and then lose you again—"

"Shut up," I snap, cutting him off. I’m not here for his self-pity. I yank him back down, and our mouths smash together again. This time, there’s no hesitation. He’s all over me, his hands everywhere—dragging up my thigh, gripping my behind, pulling me so tight against him I can feel every inch of him.

He backs me up until my butt hits the edge of the desk. Papers go flying, but neither of us care. His hand slides under my skirt, and I arch into him, my hips grinding against his. His fingers dig into my thigh, rough and demanding, and I hear him growl—a sound that makes my insides clench and my knees wobble.

"Your shoulder—" I start, but he cuts me off, his lips crashing into mine again.

"Don't care," he hisses against my mouth. "I care about this. About you. About finally feeling you."

He’s everywhere—his lips trailing down my neck, his teeth nipping at my collarbone, his hand sliding higher up my thigh. I’m trembling, shaking with the need to feel him inside me. We’re a mess of limbs and clothes, struggling to get them off without hurting his shoulder, but damn, it’s worth it.

When he finally pushes inside me, we both freeze. His forehead drops to mine, his breath ragged, his good arm braced beside my head. He’s thick, hard, and stretching me in ways that make me see stars.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I never stopped. Even when I should have. Even when I didn’t deserve to."

I don’t say it back. I can’t. My mind’s a wreck, torn between love and lust and the years of pain between us. But I kiss him—hard, deep, wet—and let him move. His hips roll against mine, slow at first, testing, then faster, harder, rougher. Every thrust sends shockwaves through me, my nails digging into his back, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.

He’s everywhere—his hands, his mouth, his member—and I’m drowning in him. The desk creaks beneath us, the sound mixing with our moans and the slick, wet slap of skin against skin. He’s panting, his breath hot against my neck, his teeth grazing my skin as he pushes into me harder, deeper, like he’s trying to make up for every second we’ve lost.

I can’t think. I can’t breathe. All I can do is feel—him, this, us. And it’s everything I’ve been waiting for.

He slows, his forehead pressed to mine, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. "I’m not stopping," he growls, his voice rough and wrecked. "Not until you’re screaming my name."

I don’t argue. I just hold on tight and let him take me apart.