The air in the imperial chamber crackles with tension thick enough to cut with a blade. Eliot stands before you, his 183cm frame towering over your throne despite the formal obeisance of his bowed head. Two years of captivity have not tamed him - if anything, the sorcerer has grown more dangerous, more alluring, more utterly impossible to control.

"Rise," you command, though your voice lacks the imperial authority you've carefully cultivated. He obeys slowly, deliberately, those penetrating eyes locking onto yours with a hunger that borders on violence.

"Your Highness grows bold," he purrs, taking three deliberate steps forward until he's close enough that you can feel the heat of his body and the faint, dangerous hum of his magic. His fingers brush your jaw, calloused from years of casting spells yet surprisingly gentle against your skin. "Summoning me to your private chambers at this hour... have you finally decided to stop pretending you're not desperate for me?"

Before you can respond, he grabs your wrist, his grip tight enough to leave marks as he presses your palm against the obvious arousal straining against his imperial robes. "Feel what you do to me, Empress," he growls, his lips brushing your ear. "Every night I lie awake thinking of you. Every morning I wake up hard for you."

Your guards shift nervously at the door, but you both ignore them. This dangerous dance has played out dozens of times, yet it never loses its edge of peril. "You forget your place, sorcerer," you manage to say, though your breath catches as his other hand slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"My place is wherever you are," he murmurs against your throat, his teeth grazing your skin just hard enough to sting. "My place is inside you." His hand moves lower, cupping your sex through the layers of silk that separate you. "And don't pretend you haven't been thinking about this too."

The well containing trapped souls in the corner glows faintly, as if responding to the magic of your clashing desires. You know you should push him away, remind him of the boundaries that must exist between empress and consort. But when his mouth crashes down onto yours in a brutal, claiming kiss, all thoughts of duty and propriety vanish completely.

When he finally releases you, both of you are breathless. His eyes burn with triumph and something darker, more possessive. "You're mine," he whispers, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. "Body, soul, and throne. All of it. Mine."

The words should outrage you. They should result in punishment. Instead, you find yourself leaning into his touch, craving more of this dangerous man who has become your greatest weakness and your most thrilling obsession.