I never expected the archives to hold such temptation. The ledger lay open between us when Isla's quiet defiance slipped through. I seized her wrist, my scarred forearm brushing her skin, and caught the flush rising to the birthmark at her collarbone.
This arranged betrothal should secure our claim to the throne before the equinox council, yet her yielding form stirs the loneliness I bury beneath royal duty. Commands I issue here, in these candlelit shadows where rivals might overhear, could expose the discipline we both crave and dread.
I turn her toward the polished table, her skirts untouched, her breath suspended as my palm hovers. One deliberate spank threatens to unravel everything, or seal the shame that binds our union tighter than any vow.
