The Night Before the Coronation
The palace was too still.
Outside, nobles toasted with poisoned smiles and polished words. Advisors whispered behind closed doors. Seamstresses stitched last-minute alterations to ceremonial robes.
But in the East Wing?
There was only silence.
And a door half-cracked open to Serena's chamber, where the fire burned low and shadows painted gold across the sheets.
Damián stood by the hearth, stripped of armor and rank.
No crown.
No guards.
Just a man staring into flame, hands clenched loosely behind his back.
Serena entered without announcing herself.
She didn't need to.
He felt her before she spoke.
"I thought you didn't believe in ceremony," she said softly.
"I don't."
"Then why are you letting them crown you tomorrow?"
He turned to face her.
"Because if I don't," he said, "they'll try to crown someone who wants the throne more than they want peace."
"And you?"
He stepped closer.
"I want you."
She inhaled sharply.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.
Not a ring.
Not a crown.
A key.
Small. Heavy. Silver.
He held it out to her.
"This is the key to the West Wing tower."
She raised a brow. "The locked wing? The one with the rose windows and all the rumors?"
"Yes."
"What's inside?"
He stepped closer.
"A place no one enters without my permission. A place no one would ever think to look."
She hesitated. "Look for what?"
He placed the key in her palm.
"You."
For a long moment, she didn't speak.
She stared at the metal.
Warm from his skin.
Heavy with implication.
"You're giving me a place to run," she whispered.
He nodded. "A place to hide. If they ever come for you. If I fail to protect you."
"You think you'll fail?"
"I think I would rather die than see you dragged through what they're planning."
She met his gaze.
He was calm.
But beneath that stillness, she saw the storm.
The man who had killed with a signature. Who had ruled with silence. Who had loved with a kind of fury that rewrote who she was.
And now he was handing her a way out.
Serena stepped forward, pressed the key to his chest.
"I don't want a tower," she said. "I want your throne."
His eyes flared.
"And if I fall?" he asked. "If this ends in war?"
She lifted her chin.
"Then I'll wear your name into the fire."
He pulled her to him.
Not roughly.
Not sweetly.
Just completely.
His lips crushed against hers—hot, hungry, home.
They undressed each other in silence, fingers tangled in linen and promise.
No power games.
No punishment.
Just hands.
Breath.
Desperation wrapped in devotion.
He laid her down and kissed every inch of her like a man preparing to die.
And when she moaned his name against his mouth, he whispered back,
"Tomorrow they'll crown me."
Her legs wrapped around his hips.
"And tonight?" she gasped.
He pushed inside her slowly, reverently.
"Tonight, I belong to you."