War of Hearts || Reign || REWRITE

Chapter 14

Warning: Spicy Chapter!
July 7th, 1562, Château de Fontainebleau, France

In the weeks that followed, I remained faithfully by Mary's side. As always, my days began in prayer and ended with supper in her company.

But my nights belonged to Francis.

We had found our ways to be together once the palace had fallen asleep. I often dismissed Claudine early, claiming exhaustion. Where another maid would usually sleep on the floor beside my bed, I now spent every night entirely alone.

That gave Francis the perfect chance to slip through the hidden passageways that led to my wing—or for me to find my way to his chambers.

We spent our nights talking, laughing, kissing. Each evening, our restraint weakened further. We had stopped ourselves more than once, always lingering at the edge of something we both knew could never be undone.

As much as I longed to give myself to him completely, I could not risk it.

I would not bring an innocent child into this world the way I had been brought into it—marked by shame before ever taking a breath.

Tonight, I lay on Francis' bed with my head resting on his chest, still dressed in my satin chemise that brushed softly against my ankles. My long brown hair was braided loosely, the end of it spilling over his arm.

He lay beside me, his linen shirt undone, his skin warm against mine. One of his hands moved slowly along my back, tracing invisible shapes that made me shiver. Each soft stroke sent a quiet ache through my body, building until I could hardly think.

"Francis," I murmured.

He hummed in response, content and lazy, his fingers still trailing along my spine.

A thought had taken root in my mind and refused to let go. I lifted my head and looked up at him. His blue eyes caught the candlelight and softened.

"How many women have you been with?"

He blinked, surprised. "What?"

I sat up, crossing my arms over my knees. "You heard me. How many women have shared your bed?"

Francis pushed himself upright, leaning back against the carved headboard. A faint, amused smile tugged at his lips. "Why would you ask me that?"

"Because I want to know," I said plainly.

It wasn't as if his past was a mystery. He was a man—and a prince. Women threw themselves at his feet just to have a moment alone with him.

But lying here, with his arm still warm from holding me, the thought of other women touching him filled me with something sharp and hot and uncomfortable.

He smirked, sensing the jealousy beneath my question. "Would it make you jealous?"

"I asked for a number, not a confession," I snapped.

He laughed softly—that low, teasing laugh that always managed to disarm me. "A few. Maybe ten. Enough to know none of them mattered."

I raised a brow. "None?"

"None," he said, more serious now. His hand reached for mine, brushing my knuckles with his fingers. "None of them had your beauty. Your wit. They weren't you, and they never could be. I want only you. No one else."

My breath caught. "And if I still refuse to share your bed?"

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against my hairline. "Then I'll wait. I would wait a lifetime, if that's what you needed."