Silk & Sabotage

The morning arrived in silk and silence.

The sun slipped through the drapes like it didn't dare wake the newly wedded wife. Everything in the marital suite looked untouched, divine. But on the edge of the bed, Lucas sat frozen—shirt unbuttoned, skin still flushed in places no dream could cause.

He glanced at Mia's back. She was facing the other way, still curled under the covers, breathing soft and even. But he didn't realize she was awake.

She had been.

For the last twenty minutes.

And she had seen it.

The mark just beneath his collarbone. A bruise, small and deliberate, blooming like a forgotten sin.

Not from her.

Never from her.

She didn't flinch. Didn't ask. Didn't breathe a word. But somewhere between her ribs, something slid sideways and died. Quietly.

She didn't confront him that morning.

Not when he offered her tea.

Not when he touched her shoulder with the same hands that had gripped someone else hours ago.

She smiled. Even joked. She wore grace like armor.

But in the mirror, as the maids pinned up her hair, Mia saw a stranger looking back. Not broken—not yet. Just beginning to crack.

By afternoon, the ache had settled.

Not rage. Not betrayal.

Something worse.

Doubt.

Of her own mind. Of her own worth. Of what they were even building together.

Maybe she was naive. Maybe she wanted too much. Maybe she was being replaced, piece by piece, in the arms of another man.

She smiled at the palace guests, nodded at the guards, gave no sign of the war in her chest. But she started building walls.

Wordless.

Impeccable.

Impenetrable.

That evening, he appeared.

Mino Kael. Back in the palace under the pretense of revised security details.

She hadn't seen him in days. And somehow, that felt more like punishment than absence.

He walked in like he owned the marble beneath his boots. Looked at her like he knew exactly where she hurt.

"You wear sorrow well," he said, voice velvet over rust. "Almost makes me forget you're the most dangerous thing in this place."

Mia's gaze didn't flinch. "Don't mistake silence for surrender."

He stepped closer—too close. The heat of him touched her before his fingers did.

"Oh, Mia," he murmured, head tilting. "Some of us were born surrendered."

Her breath caught, just for a second.

And then she moved.

Her hand fisted the front of his uniform, dragging him into the shadows of the nearest archway, her lips crashing into his like a match to dry wood. It wasn't a kiss—it was detonation. Her mouth demanded, consumed, punished.

He groaned low against her, all teasing gone. One hand slid into her hair, the other locked around her waist, tugging her hard against him. She felt the sharp press of his thigh between hers, deliberate and smug.

"Desperate , Your Highness?" he whispered against her throat, his breath hot as he kissed beneath her jaw, down to the curve of her neck.

She hissed between her teeth as his tongue grazed her collarbone, as if he knew exactly where to hurt, exactly where to soothe.

Her fingers clawed under his shirt, nails skimming the lean muscle of his back, dragging him closer.

"Shut up," she gasped, teeth grazing his lip as she kissed him again, deeper this time—like she wanted to erase something, maybe herself.

He chuckled into her mouth, dark and breathless. "Command me, then."

And she did.

She pushed him back until his spine hit the wall. Her palm flattened against his chest, right above his heartbeat. Fast. Ragged. Not so different from her own.

She leaned in, lips barely touching his, and whispered like a threat, "If you want to be used, Kael, be useful."

" I will show you how useful I am Mia," Mino stated.

Then he moved

Like ghosts slipping through the corridors, unnoticed beneath everyone's nose, the two of them vanished into Room 314.

His eyes lit like a struck fuse.

In a flash, her back was against the wall. His hands found her wrists, pinned them gently above her head as his mouth descended—no longer teasing, but hungry. Worshipful. Wild.

He kissed down her throat, tongue tracing the curve of her shoulder. One of his hands slid down her hip, fingers curling around her thigh as he pulled her leg up around his waist.

She gasped. His name almost slipped out—but she bit it back.

His teeth grazed the edge of her bodice. Not enough to undo it. Just enough to make her tremble.

"You started this," he whispered against her skin, breath hot and thick. "Let me show you how it ends."

Her reply was a groan, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt as he kissed her again. This time slow. This time cruel. This time with all the things she wasn't allowed to say out loud.

And then there were no more words.

Just breath.

Just skin.

Just two people coming undone in the silence between betrayal and fury.

She let him touch her like she belonged to no one.

He kissed her like she was a country he planned to burn.

In that hollow between rage and ruin, between wanting and vengeance, they folded into each other like collapse.

And when it was done—

There were no apologies.

No glances.

No promises.

Just the echo of her heartbeat in the silent room.

And his scent on her skin.

Alcohol was much needed in their system to calm the shit out of them.

Mino popped open a new century old wine bottle from his collection, and handed it over to Mia.

She slowly started relaxing.

Her nerves were easing up.

Suddenly a flash of memory hit her.

The wine glass in her hand trembled slightly — not from cold, but from clarity.

She wasn't stupid.

The mark on Lucas's neck was a map leading somewhere she didn't belong.

Somewhere soft. Somewhere dirty.

Somewhere she didn't own.

And it wasn't the betrayal that stung her most

it was the realization that she didn't even want to confront it.

She just wanted to feel something.

To be wanted without calculation.

To taste poison and pretend it was wine.

" I see you are still volatile," he murmured.

"Is there a problem" she asked.

He didn't smile. He stepped forward.

They didn't speak.

She threw herself on him.

Time for round two he whispered in her ear.

His hands were on her hips before she could breathe. Hers were in his hair, tugging, demanding. Her lips crashed into his like it was war, not want — teeth and tongue, heat and hate. He groaned low — not because she was soft, but because she bit.

"You're very angry," he growled against her mouth, dragging her flush against him, pinning her to the cold wall.

"I'm alive," she hissed, and arched her neck as his mouth found it — her pulse, her rage, the base of her throat where he left a trail of open-mouthed kisses, slow, lingering, filthy.

He bit her collarbone when she whispered, "He had a mark on his neck."

He knew.

He knew what she meant.

Lucas.

"So do you now," he muttered, and kissed the skin just beneath her jaw — not gently. Not sweetly. Like he was branding her.

She gasped, nails digging deeper. "This is wrong."

Mino looked at her like she was the last religion worth destroying.

"You still want me to stop?"

Her answer was a hand in his pants and her mouth on his again.

They didn't make love.

They made war with their mouths and peace with their hands.

It was chaotic, desperate, silent screaming.

The wall was cold. His body wasn't.

She came undone with her forehead against his, her fingers clenched in his shirt, his name falling from her lips not like a confession — but like a sin.

And when it was done, and her breath stilled against his shoulder, she whispered,

"Why do you feel like something I'm going to lose?"

He didn't answer.

He just pulled her closer — too close — and kissed her shoulder like he wouldn't survive the night.

For three hours, the world ceased to exist.

Time slipped between tangled sheets, half-whispered names, and the taste of something doomed.

By 11:00 p.m., she was back.

Mia slipped into her marital suite quietly — heels in hand, lips stained, perfume faded into something warmer.

Lucas looked up from the chair where he'd been pretending to read.

Their eyes met.

She smelled faintly of wine and smoke — and something else he couldn't name, but recognized anyway.

He didn't ask.

He didn't need to.

The bruise blooming on her collarbone said enough.

But guilt weighed heavier than jealousy.

Because he'd done his own vanishing act hours ago — into someone else's arms.

So he let her pass.

Let her crawl into bed beside him like nothing had happened.

And when the morning came —

Mino was gone.

No message. No name. No trace of the man who kissed her like a prayer.

Just the soreness between her thighs,

The echo of his breath still lingering on her neck,

And a silence that tasted like betrayal.