Chapter 55: Fated and Flesh

Hours later, the hallway outside their suite was quiet, except for the steady rhythm of bootsteps from guards patrolling the manor.

The safehouse was a two-story private hotel nestled deep in the neutral territory of the old capital, and Seamus had paid handsomely to ensure their protection and privacy. Guards were posted at every floor, at every stairwell. No names were used. No one dared ask.

Inside the room, a hush hung heavy in the air, broken only by the low hum of the fireplace and the rustle of discarded clothing.

Elena sat at the edge of the bed, undoing the buckles on her boots, her fingers sluggish. Her spine ached. Her limbs trembled. She said nothing.

Seamus moved beside her, helping unfasten the clasps of her jacket before shrugging off his own. Their movements were quiet, uncoordinated in their exhaustion, yet familiar. Almost tender.

The weight of the day pressed down on them—one revelation after another, culminating in a truth neither of them had expected.

They helped each other undress until they were both down to their undergarments: Elena in a camisole with delicate straps and soft, loose drawers that clung to her thighs. Seamus wore only a linen shirt and briefs, damp with sweat at the collar. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

The bed welcomed them with a creak, the mattress sagging beneath shared fatigue. The duvets were pulled over their bodies, but neither the feathered warmth nor the fire roaring nearby eased the cold that clung to their bones.

It wasn't just the chill of nightfall.

It was the weight of knowing.

Elena curled into Seamus' side, her head resting in the curve of his neck. His arms instinctively wrapped around her, anchoring her like a ship to a harbor.

She was the one to break the silence.

Her voice was quiet, tired, but alert. "We planned everything so carefully today. Every speech. Every word."

She paused, her breath shallow against his collarbone.

"But that last development…" She trailed off, her fingers curling slightly against his chest. "That wasn't part of the plan."

Her voice dropped even lower. "It doesn't explain your visions, does it? Why you've been feeling what I feel, seeing what I see?"

She shook her head. "Maybe I'm just overthinking it…"

Seamus leaned down and kissed her forehead, softly, reverently.

His hand found her curls and combed through them carefully, mindful not to tangle them.

"You are overthinking it," he said, half-smiling. "But that's to be expected."

A short, tired chuckle escaped him. "I'm right there with you."

Elena let out a laugh, small and warm.

"Crazy it's only been a year since we met in that tavern by the docks, hm?"

Seamus turned his head, gazing at her with a look that shimmered with memory and something deeper.

"Not for me," he murmured. "Since that night, I've known."

His hand traced down her cheek.

"Forget this prophecy. Forget legacy. I just… knew. You were it."

Their eyes locked.

The storm of fate swirled outside. But in that room, it was quiet.

Elena kissed him.

First, slow. Then, hungrier.

Seamus melted into it, arms tightening around her. He pulled her closer, as if trying to erase the space between them completely.

The garments they'd left on slipped to the floor, one by one, as they gave in.

Elena tried to keep quiet, biting her lip.

Seamus pressed a hand gently over her mouth as he moved above her, every thrust slow and deep. Her body arched beneath him, trembling. Her eyes rolled back, fingers clawing into his back. Soft gasps escaped her, muffled beneath his palm.

It was not just passion.

It was something more.

It was thunderous.

It was divine.

And it was fated.

They stayed joined like that for a long while, neither ready to pull away. Her body stretched around him, molded to him, filled in the most sacred place. Her eyes fluttered open, breath catching in her throat.

"I love you, Seamus," she whispered.

It wasn't a declaration. It wasn't even a confession.

It was simple. And it was true.

He kissed her—sweaty, breathless, wrecked.

"I love you, Elena."

But she wasn't done.

A grin tugged at her lips.

In one fluid motion, she flipped him onto his back, straddling him. Her hands pinned his wrists down into the mattress.

She kissed him again, harder this time.

And he let her.

The fire flickered. The windows steamed with condensation. Outside, the world watched and waited for their next move.

But inside, time folded.

They made love again. And again.

Until their bodies could no longer keep up.

Until sleep crept in and took them still tangled together, her breath warm on his neck, his arm slung over her waist protectively.

Their hearts beat as one.

Descendants of saints and revolutionaries.

But in that moment, they were only two souls.

Lovers. Survivors.

Entwined in fate.