CHAPTER 48: YOU ARE DESSERT

The wedding may have ended with phoenix feathers and choir harmonies, but the reception?

The reception was pure chaos—and not the controlled kind.

The grand ceremonial hall had been swiftly transformed into a feast fit for immortals. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead. Long banquet tables groaned under the weight of enchanted delicacies. Wine flowed like waterfalls. Nobles danced, gossiped, and suspiciously avoided standing near magical fountains that spat glitter every twenty seconds.

In the corner, Marcel was nursing his fifth glass of wine.

Correction: He was weeping into his fifth glass of wine.

"I just..." he hiccupped, holding the goblet like a fragile dream, "I just can’t believe our Lord is married now. Like... married married."

And then—without missing a beat—he drank his own teary wine.

Callen made a face like he was witnessing a spiritual breakdown in real-time. "That’s...that’s your fifth cup, isn’t it?"

"I’m hydrated in heartbreak," Marcel whispered, eyes glossy. "Respect it."

Not far from him, Elize slowly set down her own glass, watching Marcel with something between pity and second-hand embarrassment.

"I should never get married," she muttered, standing abruptly.

Callen blinked. "Wait—what?"

"That’s it. It’s settled. Knight motto now: No marriages. Only swords."

Callen frowned, nearly panicked. "You can’t just—what kind of motto—"

But Elize was already walking away, her boots clicking with grim resolve as she disappeared between noblewomen in pastel gowns and a tray of floating tarts.

"I don’t want anyone to cry into fermented grape juice like that idiot ever again," she called over her shoulder, one hand resting dramatically on her sword.

Meanwhile, across the hall, laser beams were being exchanged.

No—really.

The Empress and Seraphina were engaged in a silent, high-stakes, utterly nonverbal war of Eye Contact Destruction.

One narrowed gaze.

The other arched brow.

Back. And forth.

Back. And forth.

The air around them sizzled. A nearby decorative fern caught fire.

The Emperor, caught between his wife and Lucien’s sister, was nervously trying to wave down a waiter with holy water. "My dearest, please—your lashes are sharp enough without divine judgment."

"I’m not doing anything," the Empress snapped, eyes glowing faintly.

"Then blink at least once—before you combust," he whispered, frantically fanning her.

And in the center of it all—amid the swirling music, the flying appetizers, the weeping swordsman, and the glaring royalty—our newly married couple sat side-by-side on the ornate lovers’ dais.

Lucien was chewing.

No, stuffing.

An entire pastry the size of a small animal had disappeared into his mouth, cheeks puffed like a winter squirrel.

"Mhmphh?" he asked no one in particular, eyes sparkling as he looked over the chaos in front of him with delighted amusement.

He elbowed Silas. "Look. Look at Marcel crying into his wine like it owes him emotional support. This is the best wedding I’ve ever been to. Total Entertainment."

Silas didn’t answer.

Silas wasn’t even looking at the chaos.

Silas was staring at Lucien.

Hard.

Unblinking.

Predatory.

Romantic.

Possibly already married in five parallel timelines where he hadn’t wasted time with appetizers.

His gaze drifted from Lucien’s eyes to his mouth, then to the puffed cheeks, the flour-dusted lips, the soft curve of his jaw, and the delicate way he chewed with reckless abandon and zero grace.

He reached out, touching Lucien’s wrist gently. "Are you done?"

Lucien paused mid-chew. "Huh?"

Silas leaned in. Closer. His voice dropped like molten velvet. "I can’t wait anymore."

Lucien blinked.

Still chewing.

Then he froze.

Swallowed like it took supernatural effort.

"Wait... wait. What are you—what do you mean by can’t wait?"

Silas’s eyes darkened with the kind of seriousness that made generals tremble and Lucien drop cutlery.

"I mean," Silas murmured, "we should go back to our chamber."

Lucien turned red. Glowed red. It looked like a tomato stuffed with wedding cake.

"I—uh—you mean—right now? But we still have dessert..."

"You are dessert," Silas said flatly.

Lucien nearly choked.

And then—

Silas picked up Lucien’s hand.

Lifted it.

And instead of kissing it like a civilized nobleman...

He licked it.

Lucien yelped. "WHAT WAS THAT?!"

Silas was unrepentant. "A preview."

Lucien stared at him like he’d just grown wings and started singing opera. "You licked me!"

"You taste like custard."

"You’re unwell!"

"You married me."

Lucien groaned into both palms, cheeks the color of scandal. "Gods. If the goddess up there sees this, she’ll curse me to marry a brick wall

in the next life."

Silas chuckled low, utterly unbothered. He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of Lucien’s ear. "Let’s sneak away, my love. Before someone tries to toast again. Or before Marcel starts proposing to the wine bottle."

Lucien peeked through his fingers.

Lucien hesitated. Looked at the crowd. The dancing nobles. The weeping guards. The glaring empress. The melting cake.

Lucien sighed. "This wedding is a fever dream."

Silas extended his hand toward him—open, steady, ridiculously romantic.

Lucien looked at it.

Then up at him.

And blinked.

Because Silas’s eyes weren’t on the crowd. Or the chaos. Or even the Empress attempting to strangle someone with a napkin.

His eyes were only on Lucien.

Warm. Patient. Stupidly in love.

Lucien’s breath hitched.

"...Let’s go," he whispered, lips twitching into a half-smile, half-smirk.

And that was how the newly married couple—Grand Duke and Chaos Baron—bolted from their own wedding reception like jewel thieves.

Through a side door.

Past two waiters and a confused choirboy.

Out into the hall they went—robes flying, hair flailing, chaos trailing. Lucien shouted, "Wait! I left my dessert fork!"

Silas didn’t even slow down. "I’ll buy you a golden one!"

Then, without warning, he scooped Lucien into his arms like a man escaping both war and temptation and dashed down the corridor like a runaway fairytale.

Behind them?

The nobles raised their glasses for yet another toast. The Empress scowled into her champagne. And Marcel sobbed into his sleeve, "They’re already running into the future without me!"

It was chaotic. Undignified. Dramatic.

And absolutely perfect.

For two idiots in love.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Grand Duke’s Private Chamber, Later]

The palace corridors were quiet—eerily so.

A stark contrast to the wild, glitter-drenched chaos of the reception they’d just escaped. Moonlight streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, turning the velvet drapes into rivers of blue and silver. Their footsteps echoed softly against marble, but Silas didn’t slow down.

He was a man on a mission.

And that mission? Lucien.

The double doors to the royal chamber opened with a low, enchanted hum—responding only to the Grand Duke’s presence. Silas walked straight in, not pausing until they were inside, then gently set Lucien down like the most precious, dramatic cargo in the empire.

Lucien blinked, wobbled on his feet like a sleepy kitten, and gave a long, luxurious stretch—arms over his head, robe slipping slightly off his shoulder.

"Gosh," he yawned, "I didn’t even walk down the whole aisle, but I feel like I ran a marathon."

Then, in true Lucien fashion, he plopped unceremoniously onto the bed like a deflating diva, burying his face in the pillows. "I claim this bed in the name of naps and noodles," he mumbled.

Silas chuckled under his breath.

Then—quietly, calmly—he slid off his robe.

Lucien, half-asleep and half-curious, cracked one eye open... and then immediately flushed when he saw what Silas was not wearing beneath it.

"Wait. Are you—are you seriously going to sleep naked?" he asked, voice rising like a soprano with stage fright.

Silas smirked. Sat beside him. And took Lucien’s hand in his, pressing a warm kiss against his knuckles like it was sacred. His voice dropped low—warm honey poured over thunder.

"I promised you," Silas whispered, "that one day... I would make sure you remember the night you forgot."

Lucien blinked. Then turned a brighter shade of pink than royal protocol allowed. "Th-that was a metaphor, right?"

Silas leaned in, eyes glowing with that familiar stormy intensity. "It’s going to be a memory. In 3... 2..."

Lucien squeaked and yanked a pillow over his face. "Silas! Don’t forget our Wobblebean is listening!"

Silas laughed softly and kissed Lucien’s temple through the pillow.

"He’s sleeping," he said, pulling Lucien gently closer. "And if he dreams half as sweet as you... then he’s dreaming just fine."

Lucien peeked out from under the pillow, cheeks still aflame, but smiling.

"I swear," he muttered, "you’re impossible."

Silas’s eyes softened. His smirk curved into something gentler. "I know," he said quietly, "and I really... can’t control myself anymore."

His voice was low—like velvet drawn over embers. His hand found Lucien’s cheek, thumb brushing over soft skin, reverent. Lucien didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

Silas leaned in, slow and certain.

He pressed a kiss to Lucien’s forehead first—long and still, as if sealing a silent promise.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at him.

Really look.

Their eyes met—storm to starlight.

Lucien’s breath caught.

And Silas’s gaze dropped to his lips.

"May I?" he asked, his voice barely more than a breath.

Lucien nodded, almost imperceptibly. His fingers gripped the front of Silas’s robe, just enough to say don’t go far.

And then Silas kissed him.

Gently.

Tenderly.

Like Lucien was the first thing he’d ever loved and the last thing he ever would.

It wasn’t rushed—it wasn’t about heat. It was about feeling. About memorizing the shape of him. About finally having permission to pour every vow, every unspoken word, every aching heartbeat into something real.

Lucien melted into it.

And then....

Silas kissed like a man starved, like he’d been waiting lifetimes to taste him again. Lucien gasped against his mouth—and Silas took full advantage. Tongue slipping past parted lips, deepening the kiss until Lucien whimpered, fingers twisting in the collar of his robe.

Silas groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating between them as his hand slid to Lucien’s waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left. Just heat. Just need. Just the way Lucien’s body arched into his like instinct, like flame drawn to oxygen.

Lucien’s hands roamed upward, curling into Silas’s hair, tugging gently—earning another delicious growl.

The kiss turned messier. Deeper.

Their breaths came faster now, mingling as Silas guided Lucien back into the pillows, their mouths still locked, still devouring. Silas broke away for only a second, eyes wild and voice wrecked.

"You’re driving me insane."

Lucien’s smile was soft, wicked, and warm all at once.

And the night hadn’t even truly begun.