Chapter 261 Silver Dagger 🌶️

Chapter 261 Silver Dagger 🌶️
He unfastened his dark trousers. He kicked his boots aside and shoved the fabric down his legs. He pulled his black tunic over his head and tossed it onto the mahogany desk, right next to the Black Crown.

He stood bare in the firelight. He possessed a lean, sculpted frame. The deep scars on his back from the God’s silver cage stood stark against his pale skin. He was a mortal man, but he carried the undeniable presence of an apex predator.

He stepped flush against me.

The contrast of his hot skin against the freezing glass sent a massive jolt through my nervous system. He gripped my hips. He lifted me off the floor.

I wrapped my legs around his waist. I braced my hands against the cold windowpane behind me.

"Look down," Ignatius ordered.

I turned my head. I looked down through the glass. A squad of werewolf guards marched across the courtyard, their halberds glinting in the torchlight. They were right below us. If they looked up, they would see the shadows of two bodies tangled in the window.

"They think you are made of stone," Ignatius rasped against my ear.

He drove his hips forward.

He entered me in one smooth, relentless strike. The stretch was deep and perfect. A sharp, breathless cry tore from my throat. The sound fogged the cold glass in front of my face.

Ignatius clamped his hand over my mouth.

"Quiet, Queen," he commanded. The velvet threat in his voice sent a wave of pure heat straight to my core. "We want them to guess. We do not want to give them the answer."

I nodded against his palm. The restriction only fueled the fire.

He set a slow, punishing pace. He pulled back, almost leaving my body entirely, before driving forward with a heavy, solid impact. The friction was agonizingly perfect. I arched my spine, taking him deeper with every thrust. My nails dug into the cold glass, searching for an anchor.

He removed his hand from my mouth. He grabbed my jaw, turning my face toward his.

He kissed me. He swallowed my ragged gasps. He bit my lower lip, offering a sharp pinch of pain that melted instantly into blinding pleasure.

"You submit to the shadows," Ignatius declared. He increased the speed. The slow, deliberate rhythm shifted into a demanding, rhythmic pound.

"I submit," I whimpered.

The voyeuristic thrill of the open window mixed with the heavy, undeniable dominance of the tactician. The sensory overload threatened to snap my mind. The cold glass on my back. The hot skin of his chest. The smell of burning wood from the hearth. The faint sound of marching boots from the courtyard below.

He knew exactly how to break me. He possessed centuries of experience, and he focused every ounce of his skill on my fragile human nervous system.

He shifted his grip. He grabbed the back of my thighs, pulling me tighter against his narrow waist. He hit the deepest part of my body, striking a nerve that sent a shockwave of golden heat through my blood.

The four sparks in my chest flared. I fought to keep the magic contained. I did not want to burn him. I did not want to freeze him. I wanted to feel the raw, mortal connection.

"Let the magic sleep, Victoria," Ignatius ordered. He felt the shift in my temperature. "Be a woman. Be mine."

"Yours," I gasped.

The tension in my lower stomach coiled tight. The pressure built to a massive, agonizing peak.

He drove harder. The impacts shook my frame against the glass.

"Ignatius," I pleaded. The words shattered in the quiet room.

"Take it," he commanded.

The climax ripped through my core.

A silent scream left my mouth. My inner muscles clamped down hard, milking the rigid length inside me. A blinding wave of pure, unfiltered pleasure washed over my brain, erasing the political maps, the treaties, and the threat of war. I was nothing but nerve endings and heat.

Ignatius hit his peak. He let out a harsh, tearing groan. He arched his back, driving his hips forward with a brutal, final surge. He released his hot seed deep inside my body.

His chest heaved. He collapsed against me, burying his face in the crook of my neck. I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders. I held him tight. His mortal heart pounded a frantic, heavy rhythm against my ribs.

We stayed tangled together against the glass. The condensation from our breath clouded the window, hiding us from the courtyard below.

Ignatius lifted his head. He looked into my eyes. The dark, calculating tactician was gone. The man staring back at me offered a quiet, fierce devotion.

"The court is secure," Ignatius whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead.

"You are a terrible Master of Spies," I teased, my voice breathless. "You left the Queen vulnerable."

"The Queen is exactly where she belongs," he countered.

He stepped back. He lowered my legs. My bare feet touched the plush rug. The cold air of the study raised goosebumps on my skin.

Ignatius reached for the side table. He grabbed a thick, dark velvet blanket and wrapped it around my bare shoulders. He pulled the edges tight, shielding me from the chill.

He turned to the mahogany desk to retrieve his trousers.

A sharp, metallic thud echoed from the heavy timber door.

I flinched. The sound was wrong. It was not a knock. It was the sound of heavy iron striking thick wood.

Ignatius froze. His rust-red eyes narrowed. He dropped his trousers. He moved across the room with terrifying, silent speed. He grabbed a silver dagger from his belt on the chair.

Another thud hit the door.

"Victoria," Ignatius warned in a low voice. "Stay behind the desk."

I did not hide. I reached out. The Black Crown jumped from the desk into my hand. I placed the iron ring on my head. The four sparks ignited in my chest. The golden stamina flooded my muscles. The exhaustion vanished.

I stepped up beside the tactician.

"Open it," I commanded.

Ignatius grabbed the heavy iron latch. He pulled the door open.

The stone corridor was dark. The torches were extinguished.

A body fell through the doorway.

The corpse hit the plush rug with a sickening crunch. It was a werewolf guard. His throat was slashed deep, spilling dark blood onto the floor.

I stared at the dead wolf. My stomach turned.

A shadow moved in the dark corridor.

A figure stepped into the light of the study. He wore tattered gray rags. His skin was pale and stretched tight over his bones. His eyes were solid, milky white. He carried a jagged, rusted sword.

He did not possess a heartbeat. He did not breathe.

"The dead," Ignatius stated. He gripped his silver dagger tight.

The creature raised the rusted sword. It pointed the jagged tip at my chest.

"The deep earth claims the surface," the corpse spoke. Its jaw moved, but the voice did not belong to the dead man. The voice was smooth, sharp, and feminine. It was the voice of Nymeria Duskbane.

The creature lunged.