Courtship ❧

The study was warm with the glow of firelight, but a quiet chill lingered in the air between them. Caralee perched on the edge of one of the velvet-backed chairs, watching Merrick from beneath lowered lashes. He stood opposite her, tall and austere, the flicker of flame casting long shadows across his face. His tone, when it came, was gentle—almost too gentle.

"I did tell you," he said, watching her with a careful stillness, "about our contract. About your betrothal to me."

Caralee blinked slowly, forcing herself not to flinch. "Yes," she said softly. "Yes, I know. I remember."

"But?"

She looked up at him then, her gaze uneasy. "Just… with everything else that's happened… it slipped my mind."

That confession—casual as it was—landed between them like a stone. She saw it ripple across his expression: the quiet tension returning to the line of his jaw, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the edge of the chair he grasped.

"Does it upset you?" Merrick asked, voice low. "To be reminded? Does such a thing displease you?"

Caralee's heart skipped. She hesitated, unsure what part of her wanted to recoil and what part wanted to reach for him. Her silence seemed to draw something dark out of him.

"You had no complaints," he added, his voice firmer now, tinged with something rawer. "Not when you lay in my bed. Not when you called yourself mine."

Her brows knit, cheeks flaring. "I never said I was upset," she said quickly. "I never said it displeased me. You're putting words in my mouth."

Merrick's posture eased, the tension melting from his shoulders like thawed frost. Something shifted in his gaze. He looked at her—not as the queen she was meant to become, nor the prophecy-bound heir of a dead bloodline—but as a young woman. Barely past girlhood. Frightened. Alone. His own agelessness weighed heavily on him then. Centuries of experience and loss, set against her youth like the moon beside a flame.

A sigh escaped him. "You are just a child," he murmured, almost to himself. "And I fear… had it been your choice, you might never have chosen me at all."

His gaze met hers again, softer this time. "Does it please you?" he asked.

Caralee's breath caught. He studied her face, his eyes searching hers for something—hope, maybe. A thread of feeling to anchor himself in.

She couldn't speak. Her face answered for her, crimson blooming over her cheeks, her lips parting in stunned silence.

His expression lit with cautious delight.

His fingers reached forward, stroking delicately across her cheek, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through her. She tried to turn away, but he caught her chin and turned her back toward him, holding her there with an exquisite gentleness.

"Caralee," he whispered, "does this please you?"

A nod. Small. Embarrassed. But unambiguous.

She was blushing still, and he found it utterly disarming. The crimson that stained her cheeks made her seem like something fragile and luminous, some precious creature unfit for the bleakness of the world they now occupied.

She turned her face away again, flustered by the intensity of his gaze.

"I suppose," she said finally, voice barely above a whisper, "I only seemed surprised because… well, I always imagined being betrothed would feel more… official. More ceremonial. I don't know. Just… more."

She offered a smile then, but it faltered before it reached her eyes.

Merrick's expression softened with regret. He reached forward and placed a chaste kiss upon her forehead, lingering there as though trying to draw warmth from her very soul.

"You are right," he admitted. "You are owed ceremony. And courtship. I've done you a disservice. A high-born lady, a future queen—your introduction to this life should have been adorned with customs, celebration, and respect. Not rushed, not… claimed. Our situation is unusual, but that's no excuse. The wooing, if nothing else, should match what you deserve."

She looked at him, uncertain.

"I shall think on it," he added, more to himself than to her. "Some things may need to change."

But now Caralee tensed. Courtship? Tradition? Lengthy process?Her eyes flitted to his, and he caught the sudden shift in her demeanor.

Merrick tilted his head. "You wear concern across your brow, though I would have thought my words were a comfort. It puzzles me."

He stepped closer, studying her. "But then… I look again, and I see something else. The fear does not reach your eyes. No, there's heat there. Longing. Desire."

She blushed furiously, caught in the snare of his gaze.

"W-when you speak of tradition," she stammered, "you don't mean— I mean, that we— that we must—"

Words failed her. The sentence collapsed beneath the weight of embarrassment. Her face bloomed a deeper shade of scarlet and she turned her head away again.

Merrick chuckled, a warm and knowing sound. "Ah," he said, closing the space between them. "So that's what this is."

She raised her hands to hide her face.

He pulled her gently into his arms, pressing her close. She melted into him despite herself, and he kissed her—deep and slow, a claim written in fire and breath. She whimpered softly, her knees weakening beneath her.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, his voice velvet and smoke. "If you are worried, my bashful vixen, that I mean to withhold my desire from you for the sake of tradition—fear not. I will not deny us what nature demands."

Before she could reply, he spun her in his arms and pressed a kiss to her neck, eliciting a gasp that trembled into a moan.

Then he bent her forward, her palms meeting the cold surface of the grand oak desk.

"Merrick—" she started, breathless.

He leaned over her, his breath hot against her ear as his hand gathered her skirts. "No, my sweet," he whispered, his voice like dark honey. "I will not be so cruel. If it calms your mind, if it reminds you where you belong—I shall claim you. Here. Now."

His hand slid beneath the folds of fabric, fingers finding the slick warmth between her thighs. She moaned again, trembling, as he teased and entered her with aching precision.

"I'll take you every day if I must," he said against her throat, "to soothe your fears. To anchor you."

She was already shaking when she heard the soft clink of his belt, the rustle of cloth.

Then his warmth—his body—pressing behind her. The thick press of him against her.

"If this is what you desire," he murmured, lips against her skin, "if this is what will remind you who you belong to…"

And then—he was inside her.

One deep, consuming thrust that stole her breath and replaced it with pleasure so sharp it verged on pain. She cried out, but his mouth found hers again, catching every sound, every moan.

Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, in a language older than words. Her moans rose and fell with his pace, his breath rough against her hair as he lost himself in her. When the end came, it came like a storm—his roar echoing into the rafters, her body clenching around him in a tidal wave of release.

After, he gathered her gently, lifting her into his lap as he sat in the leather-bound chair behind the desk. He kissed her temple, her brow, her lips—soft now, reverent.

Wrapped in his arms, her head resting against his chest, Caralee finally allowed herself to breathe.

And for a fleeting, glowing moment… she felt at peace.