Chapter 256: Heat Dome 🌶️

He crashed his mouth against mine.

The kiss held zero hesitation. It tasted of the freezing mountain air and raw, unchained relief. He bit my bottom lip. He dragged his teeth over the sensitive skin, pulling a sharp gasp from my throat.

He pressed his heavy frame against my body, trapping me between his chest and the jagged black rock.

I pushed my hands under his thick wolf-fur hood. I grabbed his dark hair. I pulled his face closer.

"The actress is dead," Orson growled against my mouth.

"I buried her," I answered.

"Good," he said. "I hated her."

He kissed me again. The chaotic energy in his mortal veins demanded a release. He survived the war. He survived the climb. He watched me seal the door to my old life. The finality of the choice fueled his fire.

The mountain wind whipped around us. The temperature sat well below freezing. A mortal man and a woman in a thin tunic should die on this peak in minutes.

I refused to let the cold end the celebration.

I reached into the center of my chest. I grabbed the chaotic fire of the demon spark. I pushed the magic outward. I did not shoot a flame. I expanded the heat into a massive, invisible dome around our bodies.

The snow falling within ten feet of us turned to steam. The ice coating the black rock melted, pooling into warm puddles around our boots. The freezing wind hit the edge of the dome and shattered, unable to pierce the infernal heat.

Orson felt the shift. The biting chill left his pale peach skin. The color returned to his cheeks.

He let out a ragged breath. He stepped back. He reached for the thick leather straps holding his heavy pelts together.

"Take them off," I demanded.

He smirked. The crooked, arrogant grin belonged to the Demon Prince. He unfastened the straps. He shrugged off the heavy furs. The thick pelts dropped onto the wet stone. He wore a simple dark tunic underneath. He grabbed the hem and pulled it over his head.

He stood bare-chested in the center of the heat dome. His skin lacked the ash-gray color, but the scars from the war remained.

I reached out. I ran my glowing hands down his chest. My touch radiated pure heat. He closed his gray eyes, savoring the warmth.

"You wear my fire well, Queen," Orson whispered.

He reached for the hem of my ruined gray tunic. He pulled the fabric up and over my head. He tossed it onto the pile of discarded furs.

The Black Crown rested on my dark hair. He did not touch the iron. He respected the metal.

He grabbed the buckles of my leather trousers. He unfastened the straps. He shoved the heavy material down my legs. I kicked my boots and the trousers aside. I stood bare against the black stone.

The heat dome kept my skin flushed and warm.

Orson unfastened his own trousers. He kicked them away. He stood before me, fully aroused and demanding.

He closed the distance. He grabbed my hips. He lifted me off the wet stone.

I wrapped my legs around his waist. I locked my ankles behind his back. I braced my shoulders against the jagged black rock. This was the exact spot where the dimensional tear existed minutes ago. The rock still hummed with the residual energy of the closed door.

Orson did not offer a slow, gentle entrance.

He drove his hips forward. He buried his length deep inside my core in one relentless, driving strike.

"Putain," I cried out. My head fell back against the stone.

The stretch forced the breath from my lungs. The friction ignited a massive spark in my lower stomach.

"You are free," Orson said. He pulled back and drove forward again. The heavy impact shook my spine.

"I am free," I gasped.

He set a chaotic, frantic pace. He did not possess the calculated precision of the tactician. He did not possess the steady, heavy endurance of the wolf. He possessed pure, unfiltered chaos. He moved with a wild, desperate need. He wanted to consume the moment. He wanted to erase every lingering trace of Paris from my skin.

I dug my short nails into his bare shoulders. I anchored myself to his mortal frame.

The heat dome pulsed around us, reacting to the rising tension in my blood. The steam thickened.

He kissed my jaw. He kissed my neck. He sucked a hard mark into the skin over my collarbone, branding me.

"You belong to the dirt," Orson rasped. He struck the deepest part of my body. "You belong to the smoke."

"I belong to the crown," I challenged.

Orson let out a harsh laugh. "The crown belongs to me."