The World Cannot Know

Chapter 74 - special chapter

King Sebastian

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting soft orange light over the high stone walls and silk-draped canopy of our bed. The festivities had long since faded into memory, replaced by the quiet hum of night, and the gentle sound of Matthew's laughter echoing between the stone and velvet of the royal chambers.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, shirt untucked, wine-glass forgotten beside him. His cheeks were flushed from the heat, and his hair—never quite as orderly as he liked—was falling in soft waves across his brow.

I leaned against the doorframe, watching him. My heart did that quiet, aching thing it always did when he wasn't paying attention—when he forgot he was a lord or a scandal or a symbol. When he was just Matthew.

"You're staring," he said, glancing up with a lazy smile.

"You're pretty," I said, shrugging, pushing off the frame. "King's allowed to admire his consort, isn't he?"

He snorted at that, but I saw the way his mouth twitched at the word consort. He hated it. So formal. So cold. He was never that to me.

I walked to the edge of the bed, slowly, deliberately, letting my fingers brush his knee through the soft linen of his trousers. "You're more than that, though."

"I hope so," he murmured, hand settling gently over mine.

I moved closer, kneeling on the mattress, my hands bracketing his thighs. "You're the reason I sleep at night. The voice I hear in every room, even when you're not in it."

"You're being poetic again," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

I kissed the inside of his wrist, watching the flutter of his pulse. "You make me a poet."

He pulled me in by the collar then, lips brushing mine with a mix of amusement and heat. "You're impossible."

"Insatiable," I corrected, sliding my hands beneath his shirt, up the curve of his ribs. "You knew that when you fell in love with me."

He laughed into my mouth—Gods, that laugh—and kissed me properly then, slow and deep, tasting of wine and warmth and years of wanting and finally having.

I let my weight settle over him, feeling the way his breath caught, how his hands gripped my back, fingers curling in the fabric like he was anchoring himself.

"I love you," I whispered into his skin, pressing kisses down the side of his throat. "And I love this—us—when there's no politics. No meetings. Just this room and your heart and the way you look at me like I'm not just a crown."

"You're not," he breathed, dragging his fingers into my hair. "You're just Sebastian."

I smiled against his neck, playful. "Well, that Sebastian's going to kiss every inch of you now, if you don't object."

He didn't.

His skin was so warm beneath my hands—his breath catching, his fingers knotted in my hair. Every kiss was a promise; every touch a memory rewritten into something softer, something ours.

I had him beneath me, his shirt open and wrinkled between us, the curve of his throat exposed to my lips. His legs were tangled with mine, and I could feel the thrum of his heart—fast, eager, alive. He arched into me when I whispered his name, his sigh more confession than sound.

"Sebastian," he murmured, barely louder than the crackling fire.

"Hmm?" I kissed a line down his chest, purposely licking over his nipple, lingering where I knew it made him catch his breath. "Say that again."