Aiden laughed.

It wasn't a quiet, polite chuckle. It was the kind of laughter that rolled like a storm across the stones, echoing in the corridors and spilling into the shadows.

The man had come to kill him — a blade in the dark, a shadow lurking behind oath and loyalty — and now he scattered like dust in wind, his confidence shattered, his fury impotent.

Golden eyes, sharp and unyielding, had met his own, and in that reflection, Aiden had seen everything. Fearless delight, yes, but also confusion, helplessness, and the scattered essence of a man who realized the war had already been lost before the first arrow was loosed.

He allowed himself a breath, long and slow, tasting the cold metallic tang of the air in the dungeon hallway. Victory, he mused, was a curious thing. Not the grandiose triumphs sung in halls of kings and viscounts. No, this was subtler. Quiet. Complete. The enemy didn't even know it yet.

And that was perfection.

As he returned to his guise — the scholar buried in ledgers, the quiet man of letters and candlelight — his instincts prickled. He could feel another presence before it even spoke, a figure moving with the elegance of purpose, the sort of precision that belonged to those used to obedience bending to desire.

Tanya and Akidna appeared first, moving silently, like shadows adhering to the walls. Then, behind them, the familiar shape of the woman he had encountered only a day before yesterday: the wife of the drunken Earl of Saxon, also known as Northumbria. Her hood shadowed her face, green hair spilling down in delicate waves, hinting at the dangerous grace beneath.

He felt the cage unlock before words were exchanged.

They let her step inside, and then vanished as quietly as they had arrived, leaving only a fleeting wink and the faintest scent of jasmine in the air — a reminder that their interference was never fully absent, even in the most intimate moments.

For a heartbeat, Aiden was puzzled. Why was she here? Why now?

She moved closer, the soft rustle of her garments brushing against stone. Her hood fell away with deliberate slowness, revealing smooth, flawless skin, delicate undergarments of fragile green that spoke of both vulnerability and intent. And in that instant, Aiden understood. He didn't need words. He didn't need gestures.

She wanted her reward.

"You've come for… what?" he asked, voice calm, the scholar's mask still barely holding, though every nerve thrummed with anticipation.

"I've done all I can," she replied, voice low and steady, but trembling with a tremor of urgency. "All that's humanly possible. I can wait no longer. The victory… it's guaranteed."

She drew closer, breath mingling with his, and even in the dim torchlight, he saw the confession in her eyes — the maids had whispered everything, clouded her mind with tales of his prowess, words that had seared into her imagination. She had been consumed by them, intoxicated by the story before the deed itself.

The heat of her gaze pressed into him. Her words dripped like honey laced with fire. Even listening, Aiden realized, she had been made wet by the very idea of him, by the tales of unyielding desire whispered in the intimate chambers of the women who had observed his talents.

"You're… free," she murmured, almost as if tasting the word. Her voice shook. Her hands brushed against the air, tentative, testing boundaries, yet demanding release.

Aiden smiled, the slow, mischievous curve of lips that had broken many hearts, forged alliances, and shattered pride. "Not yet," he whispered. "I haven't even faced the court. Tomorrow will decide that. Today, I am still bound — but I am patient."

She shivered, stepping even closer. The scent of her — lilac, spice, and something faintly intoxicating, like forbidden wine — wrapped around him. Her hands found his shoulders, tracing the lines of armor and muscle, seeking the shape beneath. Her intent was clear. Her desire — pure and unshakable — radiated in every movement.

"I've done my best," she said, voice almost a plea. "And I cannot wait. You've conquered more than the court, more than your chains. You've conquered me."

Her hands moved along the contours of his chest, across the gauntlets, lingering at the edges of restraint and temptation.

Aiden leaned in, feeling the heat of her skin, the subtle tremor that betrayed her control. He let her taste victory, but only in the small, measured ways that heightened her anticipation.

"I've seen everything," he murmured, his lips barely brushing the side of her neck. "I know what you've endured. I know what you've witnessed. And you've earned… something far greater."

She gasped, letting her body press closer. Her green undergarments whispered against his armor, a tantalizing friction that spoke of both innocence and the raw hunger she had contained for days.

Her eyes, luminous and desperate, locked on his golden gaze, searching for affirmation.

Aiden's hands traced her form — not a gentle caress, but a deliberate, commanding claim. Fingers lingered on her curves, memorizing, mapping, asserting presence. "You will have me," he said softly, yet every syllable dripped with promise, with control, with an invitation she could not refuse.

Her lips parted, breath uneven. "Now," she whispered. Not maybe, not later — now.

Her lips parted on that single word—"Now"—and it was as if the dungeon's shadows themselves lunged forward, ravenous for the carnage of their surrender.

Aiden's golden eyes blazed like forge-fire, a feral gleam scorching the torchlit gloom, as he seized her throat—not choking, but claiming—with one iron hand, the chains on his wrist rattling like a death knell.

He yanked her into him, their bodies colliding with bruising violence, and devoured her mouth in a kiss that was pure savagery: nasty, feral, a storm of teeth and tongues clashing in a torrent of saliva and blood-tinged heat.

He bit her lip until copper bloomed on his tongue, sucking the wound with a wet, slurping growl that made her buck against him, her moan ripping from her depths like a scream swallowed whole—"Ahhhnngh!"—as drool cascaded down her chin, soaking the fragile green lace of her undergarments.

His tongue raped her mouth, thrusting deep and relentless, mimicking the plunder to come, while she clawed at his face, nails drawing red welts across his cheeks in her frenzy to taste more, to 'hurt' as much as she 'healed'.

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