My enemy my lover my king

Chapter six

The silence in the bathing chamber was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic drip of water hitting marble. Seraphina stared at the bottle of deep crimson wine Magnus held. She knew her sister’s reputation for "special blends"—it wouldn't be a poison of the body, but a poison of the inhibitions.

"We don't have to drink it," Seraphina whispered, though the steam was making her lightheaded. "We can just sit here. Wait them out."

Magnus looked at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. He poured a single glass, the liquid looking like liquid rubies in the candlelight. "It’s cold in these mountains, Seraphina. And I suspect my brother didn't just lock the door; he likely shut off the vents to keep the heat in. We’ll be sweltering in an hour." He took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving hers. "Besides, I’ve spent the day bleeding for you. I think I’ve earned a drink."

He held the glass out to her. Seraphina hesitated, then reached out. As her fingers brushed his, a spark of pure heat surged through her—hotter than the steam, sharper than the anger. She took a long swallow.

The wine was sweet, tasting of honey, crushed berries, and something dark and spicy that made her tongue tingle. Almost immediately, a flush began to spread from her chest to her cheeks. The tension in her shoulders, which she had carried like armor for years, began to melt.

"It’s... potent," she murmured, leaning against the cold marble wall for support.

Magnus set the glass down. He took a step toward her, and this time, Seraphina didn't retreat. The "special blend" was doing its work, amplifying the physical pull that had been simmering between them since the cathedral. The hatred was still there, but it was being transformed into a desperate, frantic hunger.

"You look different without your crown," Magnus rasped. He was standing so close now that his wet chest brushed against the silk of her chemise. "Less like a queen of ice, and more like a woman who wants to be touched."

"And you," Seraphina countered, her voice breathy as she reached up to trace the jagged scar on his shoulder, "look less like a barbarian and more like a man who is tired of fighting alone."

Magnus growled, a low, primal sound that vibrated against her skin. He grabbed her waist, his large hands spanning nearly the entire width of her torso, and lifted her onto the marble vanity. Seraphina gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, pulling him flush against her.

The contact was electric. The damp silk of her chemise was no barrier against his burning skin.

"I should hate you," she whispered, her hands tangling in his damp hair, pulling his face toward hers. "I should want to kill you for what your family did."

"Then do it," Magnus breathed against her lips, his hands sliding up her thighs. "Kill me with your touch, Seraphina. Because I’d rather die in this room with you than live another day pretending I don't want to tear the world apart just to have you look at me like this."

He didn't wait for an answer. He crashed his lips against hers, and the kiss was a battle in itself—fierce, demanding, and filled with a decade’s worth of repressed desire. It tasted of wine, fire, and a sudden, violent realization that they had been lying to themselves for years.

The wine had stripped away the politics. It had stripped away the war. In the heart of the steam, there was only the King and the Queen, two enemies finally surrendering to the only thing they couldn't defeat: each other.

Magnus’s hands found the hem of her chemise, pulling it upward as his kisses moved to the sensitive skin of her neck. Seraphina arched her back, a soft moan escaping her lips that echoed off the marble walls. The world outside—the Iron-Hold, the burning villages, the treacherous siblings—ceased to exist.

There was only the heat, the wine, and the man she was supposed to loathe, who was currently making her feel more alive than she ever had in her cold, lonely palace.