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They said Dellamortes did not kneel.
But Lucanis was already on his knees before her, head bowed into the shadow of her dress, as if the truth of that old adage had never meant him.
He did not feel the stone floor under his knees, nor the ache already building there—only the raw, consuming awareness that he had chosen this posture, that he would hold it gladly for eternity. His hands slid up, deliberate, beneath the weight of her gown. Silk whispered across his calloused palms, catching on the curve of her hips, the warmth of her thighs. His fingers found the edge of her stockings, caught against the band, and dragged them down with aching care. The fabric resisted, clinging, before baring her freckled skin to the candlelight.
The room was dim, soft shadows dancing across the walls, stirred by the quiet tremble of flame. Wax and flowers perfumed the air, a sweetness that blurred against the sharper, undeniable scent of her. He breathed it in like prayer. He had fought through war beside her, carried desire like a blade tucked too long against the ribs—it felt an eternity since he had wanted her openly. Now she stood as his wife, and the claim struck through him like lightning: his.
Her hands sank into his hair, pulling him closer, opal catching on the dark strands. When the ring snagged, sharp and sudden, a shock ran down his spine, uncoiling in his chest where Spite purred with animal contentment. The demon’s low thrum pressed at the back of his skull, urging him forward, feeding the hunger already clawing through him.
Lucanis looked up, not to seek permission but to see her. The light caught in her eyes, turned them gold, set fire to the constellation of freckles scattered along her thighs where his hands lingered. His breath caught, his mouth suddenly dry. He had killed for less beauty than this. He had killed for nothing at all. But for her, he would kneel, gladly, endlessly, aching knees be damned.
The stockings gave way one by one, surrendering to his hands. Lucanis dragged the first down the slope of her calf, his knuckles grazing the delicate arch of her ankle before he freed her foot. The second clung stubbornly, a fragile barrier he dismantled with exquisite care, until the silk pooled useless at her feet like shed skin. His mouth followed the trail of bare flesh revealed, reverent and hungry in equal measure—up her shin, over the curve of her knee, higher still.
Her breath hitched when his beard rasped against her skin, the faint scrape of it pulling a sound from her that made his gut twist. He knew she liked it—had memorized that sharp intake of air, the way her fingers tightened in his hair, as if to anchor him there. He wanted to give her that again and again, until her voice was the only thing he heard above the crackle of wax and Spite’s low, vibrating purr in his chest.
He looked as he touched, unable not to. The play of candlelight against her pale skin, each freckle marked as though the night sky had scattered itself across her. The shimmer of her dress above him, the veil of fabric framing her like something holy. The gleam of the opal ring in her hand when she tugged his hair again, and the way it hurt in the sweetest, sharpest way.
Inside him, something ached that had nothing to do with his knees. It was the ache of time lost—the nights in the Lighthouse where he turned away from her bed, the days of battle where desire had been forced down beneath duty, the years of his life where intimacy had been a thing for others, never for him. It felt like eternity had conspired to keep him from this, from her. And now he could only press his mouth to her thigh, tasting skin that burned hotter than any flame, knowing she was his at last.
Her thigh trembled beneath his mouth, the sharp little gasp she gave curling down his spine, when she surprised him—pulling, tugging until he found her lowering with him. Rook slid down onto the floor, silk pooling around them both, her skirts folding and wrinkling without care. She pressed close, her gold eyes gleaming molten in the half-light.
“Lucanis,” she breathed, voice roughened by more than want. His name was a prayer, an invocation. Her hands were at his chest now, quick and impatient, working the buttons of his wedding coat. The neat black fabric had been chosen with ceremony in mind, not for what followed, and her fingers slipped against the fine weave as if it too resisted being undone. He watched her with an intensity that made his pulse stumble, the opal on her finger flashing each time she tugged free another button.
His own hands rose, fumbling at the fastenings of her gown. Beads and lace caught under his calloused fingertips, delicate things he feared he might break, though her body leaned into his and begged he abandon caution. “This—” His voice scraped low, words uneven as he worked at the intricate closures. “—was made to keep me from you.”
Her mouth curved into a smile, sharp as it was tender. “Then tear it,” she whispered, daring him.
Her words lit something reckless in him. For a breath, Lucanis nearly obeyed, nearly let the fabric give way beneath his hands. The thought of shredding lace and beadwork just to reach the heat of her was temptation itself. Spite purred his approval in the back of his skull, a low urging growl: Yes. Take.
But he clenched his jaw, swallowed hard against the hunger pressing at him. He forced his fingers slower, careful—each bead undone like a counted prayer. His hands shook with the effort of restraint, but the shiver of fabric loosening from her shoulders was reward enough.
Rook laughed under her breath, a sound caught between impatience and affection. “Always so precise,” she teased, though the husk in her voice betrayed how much she felt his control. Her hands had already freed the last of his coat, sliding it off his shoulders until it pooled with her dress on the floor. Her palms were on him now, warm against scars and muscle, and he shivered as though she had stripped him bare.
“Not always,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his lips brushed her temple, his breath hot against her skin.
Her fingers slid down his wrist and caught his hand, and for a moment Lucanis thought she meant to lace their hands together—an intimacy in itself. But instead, she brought his hand to her mouth and pressed her lips to the silver band he wore there. The kiss was feather-light, but it sent heat rushing up his arm, pooling low in his gut. Something in his chest went tight, a knot he hadn’t realized was waiting to be pulled undone.
Then she rose. The dress slipped from her shoulders and she shuffled free of it, silk pooling around her ankles. Lucanis froze, breath trapped in his throat. The candlelight revealed her bare legs, freckles glowing like constellations, lace cutting high at her hips. The thin scraps of fabric left little to imagination—the sheer tease of her breasts, nipples outlined beneath delicate lace that should have seemed demure, but instead made his mouth dry.
She smiled at him—small, sheepish, almost shy. A look so unlike the sharp-tongued mage who had mocked gods and death with equal ferocity, who had faced archdemons. It stole the air from his lungs, sent desire thrumming through him in a fresh, brutal wave. His eyes roved her greedily, unable to stop, drinking in every inch of her. His body betrayed him, heat coiling tight, a sharp ache building against the confines of his trousers until it was suddenly, painfully uncomfortable.
When she extended her hand toward him, he took it without hesitation. Her grip pulled him to his feet, and before he could speak she was kissing him—harder, hungrier. Her teeth nipped at his lip, her tongue coaxed his mouth open, and he groaned into her as the kiss deepened, hot and relentless. His arms wrapped around her, dragging her close until there was no space left between them, only the press of flesh and heat and the thundering awareness of her body against his.
Her hands roamed, sweeping over the scars on his chest, down the lines of muscle, to the belt that cinched him far too tightly. He could feel her fingers toy with it, the scrape of metal, and the sound that rumbled out of him was half growl, half plea.
Rook’s steps were small but insistent, tugging him backward until the bed pressed against the backs of her knees. She sat first, silk and lace shifting as she settled, and the candles behind her cast her in molten silhouette. Then her legs parted.
The sight punched the air from his lungs. Pale thighs freckled like a map only he could read, the sheer lace cutting higher, her arousal already darkening the delicate fabric between her legs. His cock strained against his trousers, painfully tight, and he had to bite down on a groan, the sound clawing up his throat.
Her eyes glittered in the flickering light as she tilted her head, that sharp little smile curving her mouth. “Lucanis,” she teased, voice low and laced with something far softer than mockery, “undress for me.”
His breath came out ragged, his body trembling with restraint. The belt gave way under her earlier tug, and he shoved it loose with fumbling haste, followed by the last of his trousers. The fabric slid down his hips and pooled at his ankles, and then there was nothing between them but the charged air and her gaze raking over him. He stood bared before her, heat flushing his skin, cock hard and heavy, aching for her.
Kneeling at her feet had been devotion. Standing before her now, undone and bared, was worship of another kind.
They had seen each other naked before—fucked desperately after weeks apart, clung to each other slow and languid when the world outside had felt like it was ending. He knew her body like scripture, knew the sounds she made when he pushed her to breaking. And yet this moment still undid him—the way she sat there, legs spread, gaze searing into him as if he were the one laid bare, the one about to be devoured.
He wanted to fall again. To drop to his knees, bury his face between her thighs, drink her until her voice was shredded and raw with his name. The hunger clawed at him, Spite’s low purr urging him forward. But he waited. Lucanis was good at waiting. Waiting let him savor her, let him feel the pull of her power, the way she commanded him without raising her voice.
Her legs shifted, spreading wider, and he swore softly under his breath, cock twitching with the sight. His hands curled at his sides, nails digging into his palms, because if he touched her now, if he gave in to the temptation of silk and heat, he might never come up for air.
Rook’s fingers toyed lazily with the lace at her hips, her touch deliberate, taunting. Her gaze never left him as she dragged one fingertip along the edge, tugging the delicate scrap lower only to let it snap back against her skin. “Come closer,” she murmured, as if she’d plucked the thought straight from his skull.
Lucanis moved before he could think better of it, a low sound escaping his throat. His hands caught hers, pushing them gently aside, because if she kept teasing like that, he’d break. His fingers hooked into the lace and drew it down, slow and unrelenting, baring the heat of her inch by inch. The fabric clung, reluctant, then surrendered, sliding over her thighs until he tugged it free. He dropped it to the floor without looking, already leaning into her, already pressing her farther onto the bed.
Her legs bent at his urging, opening wider under his hands. He kissed her thigh first, just above the knee. Then higher, his beard scraping over freckled skin, his mouth leaving heat in its wake. She shivered, a soft hitch in her breath that made his cock ache, made his pulse thunder. He shouldered her thighs apart, spreading her open for him, and the sight alone nearly undid him.
He groaned low, a raw sound, before lowering his mouth to her. The first taste of her hit his tongue—salt-sweet, heady—and he swore he could feel Spite purr louder in the back of his skull, a rumble that matched the hunger clawing through him. He dragged his tongue through her folds, slow, deliberate, savoring her as if he had all the time in the world, though every nerve in his body screamed for more.
Her fingers found his hair again, tugging when his tongue circled her clit, when his lips closed over it and he sucked softly, just enough to make her hips jerk against his mouth. He moaned into her, the vibration sending a shock through both of them. He wanted to drown here, in her heat, in the way she said his name like it broke her, like it made her whole.
Lucanis buried his face deeper, tongue pressing, stroking, his beard rasping where she was tender until she gasped sharp and desperate. He devoured her like a man starved, like all those years of restraint had been leading to this moment—his mouth between her thighs, his hands gripping her hips, holding her steady as she writhed.
His tongue worked her slowly, deliberately, until her hips arched helplessly against his mouth. He knew her rhythms by now, the precise ways she came undone, and when her voice broke on his name, he slid one hand lower, fingers gliding slick with her arousal. He teased first—just the tip of a finger circling, pressing shallow, retreating—until she whimpered in frustration and tugged his hair harder. He groaned at the sting, rewarded her with more: two fingers sliding deep, curling inside her the way he knew she craved, his mouth never leaving her clit.
Her thighs clamped around his shoulders, tremors starting to ripple through her, and Lucanis held her steady, dragging his fingers in and out with agonizing precision, tongue flicking harder now, relentless. Her breath turned ragged, choked-off sounds spilling into the candlelit air—sweet, broken music that drove him higher than any contract, any kill, ever had. He murmured against her, incoherent praise muffled into her heat, until her body seized tight around his fingers.
She came undone with a shudder, voice tearing his name from her throat. He didn’t stop, not immediately—he lapped gently, coaxing her through every tremor, until she finally sagged back against the sheets, chest heaving. Only then did he ease his mouth away, kissing the inside of her thigh reverently, tasting sweat and salt on his lips.
Before he could draw another breath, she was on him. Her hands tangled in his hair again, dragging him up with surprising strength, claiming his mouth in a kiss that was fierce, messy, tasting of herself on his tongue. He let her devour him, let her press hot and demanding against his lips, while his body shook with the ache of wanting her.
Her hand slipped lower, sliding over his chest, down his stomach, until she found him hard and straining. Her thumb swept over the bead of wet at his tip, smearing it slow and deliberate, and he moaned into her mouth, hips jerking forward helplessly. The kiss deepened, wet and hungry, as her hand worked him with the same precision he had just given her—an exchange, a claiming.
His breath tore ragged from him, every nerve alight beneath her touch. He broke the kiss only long enough to rasp against her mouth, voice wrecked and low, “Please—Rook—” The word scraped out of him like it had been buried under years of silence, raw with need.
They shifted further onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and rumpled silk, candlelight bending around them, shadows stretching long. Her body pressed into his, her hand still stroking him slow, teasing, until he thought he might lose what little control he had left. When she shifted to guide him into her, he caught her wrist—not rough, but firm, his restraint trembling at the edges.
“Wait.” His chest heaved, his cock straining against her grip. He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes dark and desperate, searching hers like a man at confession. “I want you above me. I want to see you.”
It wasn’t command but plea, reverence hidden in the hoarse grit of his tone. He eased her hand away only to frame her hips instead, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, urging her up. The sight of her, flushed and freckled, hair spilling wild, lace still clinging to her shoulders—it hollowed him out, filled him all at once.
She hesitated only a heartbeat before straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips, heat pressing down against his cock. The press of her, wet and ready, dragged a guttural groan from his throat. His hands roamed up her sides, splaying wide at her ribs, as if to anchor himself in the reality that she was his wife now, not a dream, not something he would wake from in cold sweat.
“Mierda, Rook…” he whispered, awe breaking through the hunger. His eyes devoured her—every freckle, every tremble, every flicker of flame that gilded her skin. He wanted this image carved into him forever: her above him, radiant in shadow and firelight, the woman who had undone the First Talon until all that was left was a man in love.
She shifted her hips, steady, unhurried, and then he felt it—her heat parting around the head of his cock, the first unbearable slide as she sank down onto him. Lucanis’ head fell back against the pillows, a low groan tearing from his chest, raw and helpless.
The sensation was overwhelming: the clench of her body, hot and slick, drawing him in deeper with every inch, until he was buried to the hilt and utterly undone. He gripped her hips tight, fingers digging crescent marks into her skin, not to guide but to steady himself, because he swore the world narrowed to this—her weight, her warmth, the dizzying pressure of being inside her.
His eyes snapped open, desperate not to miss the sight of her. Candlelight painted her skin in molten gold, sweat already gathering at her collarbone, the lace slipping off one shoulder. Her head was tilted back, lips parted, hair tumbling wild down her back as she adjusted to him, and the sight hollowed him out, left him aching with something more than desire. She looked like she belonged to no one and nothing but herself—and yet, impossibly, she was his.
Spite purred low in the back of his mind, a dark, satisfied thrum: Ours. But Lucanis barely heard it. His own heartbeat was too loud, hammering as he felt her tighten around him, felt the rhythm of her breath, the slight tremor in her thighs as she began to move.
Every shift of her hips sent lightning up his spine, heat blooming deep in his belly. His chest ached, his throat worked around words he couldn’t speak. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful, that he’d never seen anything so holy, that he would die content if this was the last thing he ever knew. But the words tangled with his breath, broken into groans and gasps each time she took him deeper, each time her body clenched tight around him.
Her hips rolled slow at first, grinding down against him, pulling sharp little groans from his throat with every deliberate drag. Lucanis clutched her tighter, nails biting into her skin, barely holding himself together as she set the pace. The friction was exquisite, every shift of her body wringing fire through his nerves, building him higher, tighter.
She leaned forward, hair tumbling over her shoulders like a curtain, and captured his mouth in a kiss that was messy, hot, stealing the air from his lungs. Her lips moved against his with the same rhythm as her hips, a syncopated hunger, until she pulled back just enough to whisper into his mouth, breathless, raw:
“My husband.”
The word hit him harder than any blade, cutting through marrow, tearing through restraint. Possessiveness, sharp and tender all at once, lit her voice, and it set him alight. His cock throbbed inside her, hips jerking up involuntarily, chasing the sound of it. Spite shivered in his skull, purring louder, deeper—yes, yes, ours—until Lucanis almost thought the demon moaned with him.
Rook’s eyes flicked over his face, and something in her gaze softened, as if she saw not just him but the war inside him too. She pressed her lips to his temple, a kiss so gentle it cut through the burn of his desire, grounding him even as it unraveled him. His breath stuttered, chest rising hard against hers, and for a moment he thought he might break apart just from that.
Then her hips snapped faster, the grind becoming a rhythm, sharper, needier. Her breath turned ragged, hot against his cheek, her body trembling above him as she moved. He gasped, clutched her tighter, every thrust pulling him closer to the edge of something too big to contain.
She pushed herself upright, breaking the kiss, her hair clinging damp to her temples as she sat back onto him. The shift drove him deeper, so deep he swore the air was punched clean out of his lungs. Her palms spread wide across his chest, fingers curling into the wiry hair there before sliding down, following the line of muscle and scar to his stomach. The trail of her touch was molten, a brand burned into his skin.
Then she set her pace. A rhythm meant to ruin. Hips lifting, slamming back down, rolling just enough to make him see stars. Each drag of her body around him was tighter, wetter, harder, until his head fell back against the pillow and a ragged cry tore from his throat. He clutched at her thighs, sliding his hands higher, thumbs pressing into the slick heat where they were joined, stroking her clit with the same ruthless precision she gave him.
Rook gasped, broke on his name, her body clenching around him like a vice. She drove herself harder against him, chasing it, and he groaned in answer, every muscle straining to hold the moment back just a little longer. The sound of her, the sight of her—freckled skin glowing in candlelight, breasts straining against the scraps of lace, hair wild as she rode him—it was almost more than he could bear.
She came first, shuddering, voice torn from her chest in a broken cry. Her body spasmed around him, clenching tight, pulling him to the edge. He bit down on his own moan, teeth gritted, but when she collapsed forward and he felt the hot rush of her breath against his throat, he couldn’t hold back any longer.
Lucanis grabbed her hips, hard, dragging her flush against him, burying himself as deep as he could go. He held her there, locked tight to him, and came with a guttural groan that rattled from his chest. The release ripped through him like fire, like absolution, every thrust of his heart matched by the pulsing clench of her body around him.
Her weight settled against him, her skin hot and damp, her breaths still broken against his throat. Lucanis kept his arms locked around her, as though letting go might shatter the fragile perfection of the moment. The sweat cooling on his chest, the throb of his release still echoing low in his body—it was all secondary to the feel of her heartbeat against his. Steady, alive, his.
Slowly, her fingers traced lazy shapes across his ribs, as if she couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop proving he was real. He tilted his head, pressing his lips to her hairline, tasting salt and silk. The candle flames guttered in their pools of wax, the scent of flowers cloying but softened now by the sharper, sweeter perfume of her skin.
Rook stirred first, pulling back enough to look at him. Her cheeks were flushed, freckles standing out vivid, hair tangled and wild. She smiled, small and tired and beautiful, and something in his chest gave way entirely.
“You’re staring,” she whispered, teasing, though her voice was wrecked.
“I should never stop,” he answered hoarsely, and it was the simplest truth he’d ever spoken.
Her smile deepened, softened, and she shifted just enough to curl beside him, pressing her body into his. He followed her without thought, tugging the sheets over them both. The silk and finery of their garments lay forgotten on the floor, the candles burned low, and Spite purred faintly in the back of his skull—content, quiet, for once.
Lucanis smoothed a hand over her hip, feeling the curve of her against him, memorizing. He breathed her in, the warmth of her hair against his jaw, the rhythm of her breath syncing to his. The ache in his knees, the scars across his body, the weight of every life he had taken—all of it dimmed to nothing in the hush of that room.
He thought of the words he’d been told since childhood—that Dellamortes don’t kneel. But as his eyes drifted shut, her body tucked safely in his arms, he knew the truth was simpler: he would kneel for her again and again. Not in defeat. Never in shame. But in devotion.
And as sleep pulled him under, the last thought that struck him, sharp and sweet, was that he would spend every day of their eternity proving it.