On The Throne Of Temptation

The morning sun poured through the stained-glass windows, casting crimson light across the stone floor—like blood had painted the world in silence.

Valen stood before the arched window of his private chamber, still cloaked in the smoke-scent of the night before. His crimson eyes surveyed the horizon where ruins once dared to call themselves a kingdom. Her kingdom. The one that dared to call her less.

A slow smile curled his lips.

Evander's crown lay shattered in the east tower. The walls that once echoed Seraphine's name with contempt were nothing but ash. Every piece of that world that dared to wound her… gone.

He had burned it all.

Not out of rage. But devotion.

They called her a weapon, a pawn…

They will now call her mine.

And yet, as the thrill of victory curled through his chest, a strange ache lingered just beneath the triumph. Because Seraphine didn't know.

She couldn't.

She had begun to open her heart to him. Not the king. Not the monster. But him—Valen. And if she ever discovered the blood-stained path he'd carved to protect her, to possess her… would she still let him touch her the way she did? Would she still breathe his name with that quiet, helpless need?

No, he told himself. She doesn't need to know. Not yet. Maybe never.

He turned from the window, the scent of her skin still trapped in his thoughts, and left the room.

—

By the time she woke, the halls were quieter than usual. The chaos of yesterday felt distant, like a fading nightmare.

Seraphine found him in the dining hall—relaxed, handsome in his robe, sipping from a crystal goblet as though nothing had happened.

"Sleep well?"he asked without looking at her, his voice warm, teasing.

She only nodded, walking to the table where breakfast steamed gently. Roasted meats, figs, sweet wine. She sat across from him, but his eyes had already found her.

He didn't eat much. Just watched her. Every bite she took seemed to please him more than the last.

Their silence wasn't awkward. It pulsed.

When she placed her goblet down, he stood.

"Come."

She obeyed without question.

She took his hand, letting him guide her wordlessly through the winding halls of the palace. Past guards who lowered their eyes. Past maids who held their breath.

Until they entered the throne room.

The air changed instantly—thicker, charged. The great obsidian throne sat at the center like a watching beast. Cold, ancient, and untouchable.

Valen turned to her, his gaze no longer soft. "Sit," he said, voice low, seductive.

Seraphine blinked. "On that?"

He didn't answer. Just waited.

With hesitant steps, she ascended and sat, the cool metal biting through the thin silk of her dress. Her breath caught as Valen stepped closer… only to kneel at her feet. Like worship.

His head lowered onto her lap, raven hair spilling across her thighs. For a moment, neither of them spoke. She carded her fingers through his hair, heart thudding.

"You shouldn't kneel," she whispered. "You're a king."

He looked up—not as a king, not as a vampire feared by kingdoms—but as a man. Bare, vulnerable, undone.

"Not now. I swore I'd never kneel,"he said, voice roughened by restraint. "But for you… I'd fall on my knees a thousand times."

Her hand trembled as it touched his face. She shouldn't have touched him—but gods, she couldn't stop. His lashes fluttered as she stroked his jaw. The silence between them stretched, thick with something too vast to name.

Valen leaned forward, resting his head gently on her lap. The gesture shattered her. Her fingers slid into his hair, instinctive, tender. The moment stretched—quiet, holy. The throne room held its breath.

"You've changed me," he said softly, not lifting his head. "And I don't know how to be anything else anymore."

Seraphine's heart thundered. Her hand moved of its own accord, brushing down the side of his face, her fingertips ghosting over his lips. They were warm—so warm for a man who had once been called cold-blooded.

He kissed her fingers. Once. Twice. Slowly.

And then he looked up, and there was fire in his eyes. Hunger. Longing. Worship.

He rose—slowly, deliberately, every inch of his body brushing hers until he hovered above her. Her back met the throne, her breath hitched, and when he leaned in, his lips hovered just near hers—close enough to burn, far enough to torment.

"Tell me to stop,princess, "he whispered.

She didn't.

Instead, she leaned in, letting her lips brush his—light as a sigh, electric as a storm.

And that was all it took.

He captured her mouth in a kiss that was slow, consuming—like drowning in velvet and smoke. His hands traced her sides, each movement deliberate, worshipful. She arched into him, her mind a blur of heat and want and something far deeper.