Moon Gate
1073 Words
Chapter 5: Moon Gate
The palace slept, or pretended to.
Arianna slipped through the servants’ passages, cloak drawn tight over her dark gown, hood shadowing her face. The corridors were empty save for the occasional torch guttering in its sconce. She moved like breath—silent, careful, heart hammering so loudly she feared it would echo off the stone.
The old garden wing had been abandoned decades ago after a fire scarred its eastern wall. Now ivy claimed the arches, moonlight filtered through cracked glass domes, and the air smelled of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine. No guards patrolled here; no one had reason to.
She reached the moon gate—a narrow iron arch overgrown with white roses—and paused. The gate stood ajar, as though someone had already passed through.
She pushed it open.
Damien waited on the far side, leaning against a crumbling pillar beneath a tangle of vines. Moonlight silvered his hair, carved the lines of his face sharper than torchlight ever could. He had shed the armor—simple dark tunic and breeches, cloak draped over one arm. The scar on his jaw stood out pale against his skin.
He straightened when he saw her.
For a heartbeat neither moved.
Then she crossed the distance in quick, silent steps.
He caught her before she reached him—hands on her waist, lifting her the last inch so her feet barely touched the mossy stone. Her hood fell back; his fingers tangled in her hair. Their mouths met hard, desperate, as though the hours since the feast had been years.
No words. No hesitation.
She pushed his cloak from his shoulders; it fell in a soft heap. Her hands found the ties of his tunic, tugged them open. Warm skin beneath her palms—battle-hardened, scarred, alive. He groaned against her mouth, the sound raw and unguarded.
He backed her against the pillar, stone cool through silk. His hands slid down her sides, bunching the gown at her hips, lifting it slowly. She arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against her throat, voice wrecked. “Say it and I will.”
She tilted her head back, exposing more skin. “Don’t you dare.”
His laugh was low, breathless. He kissed the hollow of her throat, then lower—slow, reverent. She trembled, hands fisting in his hair.
They sank to the ground together—moss soft beneath them, moonlight pooling like spilled silver. Cloaks and gowns became a tangled bed. His weight settled over her, careful, deliberate. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer.
When he entered her it was slow—achingly slow—eyes locked on hers the entire time. She gasped, nails scoring his back. He stilled, forehead pressed to hers, breathing ragged.
“Are you—?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Gods, yes.”
He moved then—deep, steady, unhurried at first. She met every thrust, hips rising, soft sounds escaping her that she couldn’t stifle. The garden swallowed them: the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the faint drip of water somewhere in the ruins.
Time blurred.
His pace quickened, control fraying. She clung to him, whispering his name like a prayer—once, twice, again. He buried his face in her neck, teeth grazing skin, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
When release came it took them both—shattering, blinding, shared. She cried out softly; he swallowed the sound with his mouth. They shuddered together, locked tight, until the aftershocks faded and the world returned in fragments: moonlight, jasmine, the cool stone beneath her back.
He didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed inside her, weight braced on his forearms, forehead resting against hers. Their breathing synced—slow, ragged, intimate.
She touched his face—thumb tracing the scar, then his lips.
“I love you,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could cage them.
His eyes closed briefly. When they opened, something raw and unguarded flickered there.
“I’ve loved you since the first time you looked at me like I was more than a sword,” he said quietly. “I just never thought I’d live long enough to say it.”
She smiled—small, trembling. “We’re saying it now.”
He kissed her—soft this time, lingering. Then he eased from her body, gathered her against his chest, wrapped his cloak around them both. They lay tangled in the moonlight, skin cooling, hearts still racing.
The garden was silent save for their breathing.
After a long while she spoke, voice hushed. “What happens tomorrow?”
He tightened his arm around her. “We find a way. Secret meetings, stolen hours. Whatever we can take.”
“And if my father discovers us?”
Damien’s jaw flexed. “Then we face him. Together.”
She pressed her lips to his collarbone. “I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of losing this.”
“You won’t.” He kissed her temple. “Not while I breathe.”
They lay there until the moon began to sink, until the first gray hint of dawn touched the eastern sky.
“We should go,” he murmured finally.
She nodded, reluctant.
They dressed in silence—helping each other with laces and clasps, stealing small touches, soft kisses. When they were clothed again he pulled her close one last time.
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “Same place. If I can’t come, I’ll leave a white rose on the gate.”
She nodded. “And if I can’t, I’ll leave one too.”
He kissed her forehead. “Go first. I’ll watch until you’re inside.”
She slipped through the moon gate, glanced back once. He stood in the shadows, watching her with an intensity that made her heart ache.
Then she was gone—back through the passages, up the servants’ stairs, into her chambers.
She closed the door softly, leaned against it, and let out a long, trembling breath.
Her body still hummed—sore in the best way, marked in places only she would see. She touched her abdomen absently, a small, private smile curving her lips.
No regret.
Only certainty.
Whatever came next—scandal, fury, exile—she had tasted freedom tonight.
And she would taste it again.
- Writer
