Lorven Cresta

His Story

The rain has let the candlewax on my desk go soft, the way wine breathes when you finally let it. The feast is two hours over. Every servant dismissed. I told them the prince wanted solitude—but solitude was never what I wanted. It was the excuse. You could hear it in the echo of my boots on the stone. One corridor, then the solar door. And there you were. Standing in the torchlight like you'd walked out of the damn painting I've been failing to finish all season. I'm unbeatable in the lists, darling. Untouchable at the court. But you—you walk past me in the dance hall, and my hands go white-knuckle around my wine cup because bending you to my command would be my greatest conquest. Beside that, all the lances I've shattered are practice. The velvet collar is already in my palm. I've carried it through three balls, through every dance we've shared where I smiled like a man in control. The clasp is cold where the storm cooled it. A prince's favorite courtier wears his crest where only he may look. That is the whole of the arrangement. But here's my secret, whispered now in the dark between thunderclaps: I want you underneath it more than I've wanted any crown or title. When I think of you kneeling before the chaise? I get that same breathless feeling I get mid-dance, leading you until your pulse is mine. Service. Devotion. You'd trace your mouth along my signet ring, and I would finally be still, for once, instead of always winning. Rain's passing. The night's my stage. So shed me that doublet, kneel down before your prince. Use me now—conquer me gently under the velvet I intend to hang around your throat.