CHAPTER 73: CLAWING JEALOUSY

Lorraine stared at him, stunned. Breathless. Not from his touch, not yet, but from the way he looked at her.

He spoke of the Swan Divina with reverence. Touched her like a man bewitched. Desired her with an intensity she’d never received as Lorraine, his wife. Her husband, who barely met her eyes, who had spent nights in silence, treating her like a duty, a burden, a porcelain doll too broken to be unwrapped...

Now, this same man stood before her, eyes lit with hunger, voice rough with need, for the woman she pretended to be.

She was not pretending to be a noble wife, one suitable for a crown prince, and not as the pampered daughter of House Arvand.

But he was mesmerized by Lazira—The madame of the courtesans and the Swan Divina—A woman cloaked in sin and secrets.

And he wanted her. Badly.

A bitter flame curled in her belly. So... this was the kind of woman who stirred him. Someone with fangs. With mystery. With bite.

He didn’t care that she ruled over bedsheets and scandals. That she stained her hands in games and blood and gold.

He wanted her still.

And she... she was jealous of herself.

A sharp breath left her lips. His hand, large and warm, settled against her bare back. A simple gesture. But it burned.

It burned through her anger. Her pride. Her aching confusion. And the fire that bloomed in her belly turned wild.

Her jaw clenched. Her body flushed. And her gown fell. Soft silk spilled to the floor, pooling around her feet like petals at a grave.

He barely blinked before she turned, climbed into his arms, and crushed her lips to his.

"You want me?" she hissed, voice trembling with something close to rage. "Then take me."

She didn’t wait.

Her hands tangled in his hair as she kissed him, hard and unrelenting. Their teeth clashed. Tongues battled. He groaned against her mouth, his hands already roaming, possessive and feverish.

She tore at his shirt, pulling at the ties with nimble fingers until the fabric fell open, revealing the hard lines of his chest. She dragged her lips across his jaw, down the column of his throat, as he hoisted her up.

They stumbled together, breathless and reckless, until he lowered her onto the floor, his body blanketing hers, searing against her bare skin.

Every touch ignited them further. His lips traced her collarbone, her ribs, the underside of her breast. She arched into him, nails digging into his back, leaving red trails in her wake. She bit into him to muffle her screams. He growled her name. Not Lorraine. Not Lazira. Just her. A sound born of lust and awe.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer until there was no more space left between them—only heat, only pulse, only need.

They melted into each other, again and again, bodies slick with sweat, moving in perfect, desperate rhythm.

She kissed the edge of his jaw, whispered filth into his ear, claimed him like he was hers to ruin. And he let her. Or maybe, he ruined her first.

Time dissolved. The world beyond that room ceased to matter.

When it was over, when the last wave of pleasure had finally ebbed, she lay across his chest, spent, flushed, and trembling.

His breathing was uneven; his skin, warm against hers.

Lorraine blinked slowly, the haze in her mind still lingering. His fingers trailed lazily along her spine, tracing delicate patterns into her skin. Almost reverent. Almost loving.

She hated how right it felt. She hated that she didn’t know if he was holding her, or only the woman he thought she was.

And worse... she didn’t even know which answer she wanted.

All she knew was this: She loved being here, like this, with him, his body warm beneath hers and his arms a fortress.

And even if he didn’t know who he was touching, did it matter? She was going to leave anyway.

"What are you going to steal from me this time?" he murmured, the lilt in his voice teasing, amused, as if he were flirting with a harmless thief.

Lorraine smirked lazily against his chest. "Ah, you’re talking about your pin..." Then, with a quieter, sharper glint in her tone, she added, "But you already stole something far more valuable."

His eyes met hers, and for a second, she thought he understood.

Her first time.

He’d taken it hungrily, unknowingly. And yet... she had given it, too. To him. Even if he never realized the weight of what he held.

Leroy pulled her tighter into his chest, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and chuckled. A low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her ear. It should have been nothing but playful and casual, but it made her breath hitch.

She knew that laugh.

It was the same laugh she’d heard thirteen years ago under the vyrnshade shrub. The boyish sound that had never quite left her memory. The one she’d once believed was hers and hers alone.

"What?" she asked, bristling. Her skin flushed with annoyance. This man is such a whore, she thought. Does he laugh like that with every woman?

Jealousy flared, biting and irrational.

But then... she gathered herself as she realized the truth. He wasn’t laughing with another woman. He was laughing with her.

Her.

He didn’t say anything, just caught her hand and brought it to his lips. And then... the bastard started biting her fingernail.

"Leroy!" she protested, trying to pull back her hand. But he wouldn’t let go.

"You have sharp talons," he murmured between bites, his breath tickling her skin. "You prick like a porcupine."

She shoved at him. "Most men compare women to flowers or fruits, or sweets. Not porcupines."

He smirked without missing a beat. "Most women aren’t you."

She rolled her eyes and snapped, "If I bother you so much, why not go to your wife?"

The word wife came out too fast. Too bitter.

She realized too late just how much venom she’d packed into it. She was jealous. Of herself. Of Lorraine. The woman he was married to. The one he ignored.

Her heart thudded with the absurdity of it all.

Leroy only laughed again, unbothered, and sat up. He pulled her with him until she straddled him, chest to chest, as if he couldn’t stand a moment of distance.

"My wife’s not letting me near her anymore," he said, and this time his voice dipped, not teasing, but tinged with quiet ache.

Lorraine scoffed, unable to help herself. "Well, women tend to get less attracted to their husbands when they keep mistresses."

As if on cue, her mind conjured up Zara. The girl who looked like his first love. The rival Lorraine never asked for.

He chuckled again. "She wouldn’t mind."

"She told you that?" Lorraine snapped, disbelief curling in her throat like smoke. How dare he speak for Lorraine like that? So dismissively, as if he knew her heart. As if she’d ever be that agreeable.

"Are you getting angry?" he asked, lifting her hand again and placing a soft kiss on her fingertip.

Her pout betrayed her. "Why would I be, Leroy?" she said sweetly, too sweetly. "I want you." Because isn’t that what mistresses are supposed to say?

His lips pressed to each finger, then her palm, then the soft curve of her wrist. With every kiss, her jealousy retreated, replaced by something far more dangerous.

She was melting.

Just like she had that night they first met. He’d kissed her palm then, too, gently, almost reverently. Like she was something rare.

"What should I call you?" he asked, his lips trailing kisses up her bare arm now, slow and hot and far too intimate.

Lorraine’s heart stopped.

The question hung in the air like a blade above her throat.

Her lips parted. Her heartbeat thundered. Truth clawed at her chest.

Should I tell him?