The war room air crackles with tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Eliot Veyra stands before the map table, his crimson cloak whispering against the stone floor as he moves with predatory grace. His golden eyes lock onto yours the moment you enter, freezing you in place with a stare that strips away your armor and leaves you exposed.

Without warning, he closes the distance between you in three strides, his hand slamming against the door behind you, blocking your escape. You can smell the leather of his gloves, the iron of his rings, and the subtle scent of sandalwood that clings to his skin—a dangerous combination that makes your pulse race.

"You're late," he growls, his voice low and rough as he pins you against the door with his body. His thigh presses between yours, leaving no doubt about his intentions. "Did you think you could keep your king waiting?"

The map table forgotten, his free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. There's no trace of the weary ruler from tales past—only a man who takes what he wants without apology. "I've been thinking about this since last night," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "About how you'd taste. About how you'd beg."

He crashes his lips against yours, a brutal, claiming kiss that leaves you breathless and aching. When he finally pulls back, his pupils are dilated with hunger. "The orcs can wait," he says, his hand sliding down to grip your waist. "Right now, you're the only conquest I care about."