Chapter 268 Yellowed Scroll 🌶️

Chapter 268 Yellowed Scroll 🌶️
The thick timber door muffled the warning.

Orson slept in the tangled red silk on the massive bed. The demon’s chest rose and fell in a steady, mortal rhythm. I did not wake him. I left the mattress. I pulled a long, black velvet robe over my bare shoulders. I tied the sash at my waist.

I stepped into the cold stone corridor.

Tomorrow, I faced the High Priests. Tomorrow, I claimed the true throne of Aetherion. The emotional weight of the coronation crushed my lungs. The priests demanded the Consort’s Rite. They demanded a blood-trial to test the men I chose. If my kings failed, the ancient laws demanded their execution.

I could not sleep. I needed the shadows.

I walked down the winding spiral staircase. I bypassed the guarded gates and the royal chambers. I descended into the deep archives of the Citadel.

The archives felt like a gothic cathedral. Tall, narrow windows let the moonlight slice through the dark. Hundreds of thick wax candles burned in iron sconces along the walls, casting long, flickering shadows across the stone floor. Endless rows of ancient, leather-bound books filled the shelves.

Ignatius stood at the end of the central aisle.

He wore a loose black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. He leaned over a massive mahogany reading table. He read a crumbling, yellowed scroll. The candlelight caught the sharp, aristocratic lines of his pale face.

He did not look up. He felt my presence in his veins.

"The priests bring the old laws," Ignatius stated. His voice was a dark, smooth hum in the quiet room. "They bring the true crown."

I walked toward him. My bare feet made zero sound on the cold stone.

"Theron warned me," I answered. I stopped beside the table. I looked at the ancient text. "They demand the trial tomorrow night. They want to test your flesh."

Ignatius rolled the scroll. He tossed it aside. He turned to face me. His rust-red eyes studied the tension tight in my jaw.

"Let them test us," the tactician dismissed the threat. "I survived the God's silver cage. I survived a thousand years of war. A ritual designed by dusty clerics holds zero fear for me."

"I hold the fear," I admitted. My voice cracked. "You lack your immortal healing. If the trial demands a sacrifice, you bleed."

Ignatius reached out. He traced the line of my cheek with a cool, calloused finger.

"You forget who I am," he murmured.

He stepped into my space. He wrapped his arm around my waist and lifted me off the floor. He set me on the edge of the mahogany reading table. He stood between my knees.

He pushed the velvet robe off my shoulders. The black fabric pooled around my waist. I sat bare in the candlelight.

Ignatius looked at my chest. He tracked the faint, pulsing glow of the four sparks hiding under my pale skin.

"I called you a fragile human once," Ignatius said. He pressed his palm flat against my sternum. The heat of his mortal hand grounded the magic. "I treated you like a piece of glass. I thought the weight of the continent would shatter your bones."

He leaned down. He kissed the skin over my racing heart.

"You proved me wrong," he continued. His lips moved against my flesh. "You broke a drake. You sealed the sky. You held the fire and the light."

He unfastened his dark trousers. He stripped the black shirt from his shoulders. He stood bare in the gothic shadows. The thick silver scars on his back told the story of his devotion.

"You are not mortal anymore, Victoria," Ignatius declared. His rust-red eyes burned with a deep, consuming reverence. "You are eternal. You are my equal."

"Your equal," I repeated. The words settled deep in my bones, chasing the fear away.

He captured my mouth. The kiss was a dark, sweeping romance. He offered zero calculated dominance. He offered pure, unyielding devotion. He swept his tongue past my teeth, tasting the heat of my breath. I tangled my fingers in his dark hair, pulling him flush against my body.

He shifted his grip. He grabbed the back of my thighs. He pulled me to the edge of the mahogany table.

He entered me with a slow, agonizing glide.

The stretch forced a ragged gasp from my throat. The connection felt infinite. He filled every inch of my core.

He did not move. He let our heartbeats sync in the quiet archive. The flickering candlelight danced across his pale shoulders.

"Je suis à toi," I whispered.

He set the rhythm. He pulled back and drove forward. The strike was heavy and deliberate. He worshiped my body with flawless, elegant precision. The friction built a blinding coil of heat in my lower stomach.

I wrapped my legs around his narrow waist. I arched my spine, taking him deeper with every thrust. The heavy mahogany table creaked under our combined weight.

He trailed his mouth down my neck. He kissed my collarbone. He laved the sensitive peaks of my breasts with his hot tongue, sending a massive jolt of pleasure straight to my core.

"My Queen," Ignatius rasped. He increased the pace.

The slow romance shifted into a demanding, rhythmic pound. He chased the climax with the hunger of a starving man. He made me feel every inch of his devotion. The sensory overload consumed my mind. The smell of old paper and melting wax. The cold stone air. The hot friction of his strikes.

"Ignatius," I pleaded. I dug my nails into his scarred back.

He hit the deepest part of my body. The tension snapped.

A wave of pure, blinding heat crashed through my veins. I cried out. My inner muscles clamped down hard, milking the rigid length inside me. The pleasure wiped the fear from my brain.

Ignatius hit his peak. He let out a harsh, tearing groan. He drove his hips forward with a final, crushing surge. He released his hot seed deep inside me.

His chest heaved. He collapsed against me, resting his forehead on my shoulder. I held him tight.

We rested in the candlelight.

Ignatius lifted his head. He pressed a gentle kiss to my jaw.

"The priests will fail," he promised. "We will not bleed. We will conquer."