Her body still trembled from the high he had given her—legs parted on his throne, skin damp with sweat, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. But Valen wasn’t done.
No.
He stood before her now, towering and wild, as if some ancient beast had been unleashed from its cage. His dark shirt clung to his sculpted frame, and his mouth—still damp from her—was parted just enough to show a flash of fang.
Seraphine’s fingers were still buried in his hair, her other hand gripping the carved armrest like a lifeline.
Valen’s gaze devoured her.
"You don’t understand," he murmured, pulling off his shirt in one fluid motion. "What you do to me, Seraphine. I ache. Everywhere. And only you can soothe it."
His voice was low, velvet over steel. But it wasn’t just lust—it was deeper, darker.
