Elsa is already awake smiling as dawn pours into the room. Blinking against the shimmering light, Elsa lengthens her body in a long, quivering stretch.
A tickling chill has her aware of her exposed breasts, but she doesn't care. Not as Michael still holds her to him, just as he had all night, as if she would somehow slip away during sleep. His features have softened into handsomeness. So at peace.
She smiles to herself, pressing her nose against his neck and breathing him in. He shifts, just enough for her to know that he's awake. Indeed her eyes drift up, and her heart flutters when she finds two twinkling sapphires looking back at her with dreary elation.
The light in those eyes, the quiet joy . . . They knock the breath from her. He squints against the light, but he pulls her closer to plant a kiss on her temple.
Though it's a face she's memorized, a face that has haunted her dreams these past few weeks . . . it is new, somehow. And he just looks at her, as if he was thinking the same thing.
His hands began moving, twining themselves in her hair. "There's no way in hell I'm going for a run," he murmurs onto her head. She chuckles quietly.
Her own hand snaked through his arms to brush along his back. Lower. Not even stumbling over the scar tissue that dominates his skin in jagged claws. She plans to kiss every scar on his back, on his entire body, one of these nights.
"How are you feeling?" he mumbles, his eyes closed once more.
Like she is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Like she's somehow been half-blind all her life and can now see everything clearly. Like she can stay here forever and be content.
"I feel okay," she admits.
She almost whines when he lets go of her long enough to prop himself up on an elbow and stare down at her face.
"You're all right, though?" He asks, stroking a finger down her arm.
She can't move—can't think, and her world narrows to the feeling of his callus fingers against her skin. Elsa bites her lip at the memory of those fingers – how they felt inside of her and made her tremble with bone-deep pleasure.
Elsa giggles, pressing the tip of her finger to the tip of his nose. "I'm fine."
She'll have to talk to a servant – probably Ida – about a contraceptive tonic as soon as she drags herself out of bed. Because Gods above, a baby . . . She snorts. If she does, if she starts today, it'd negate what they'd done last night.
His voice drops into a whisper—an erotic caress of sound that brings heat to her cheeks. "Good, because I have plans for this body, Elsa,"
She shudders as she closes her eyes. He says her name like a caress, and his hot breath tickles her ear.
"I plan to have you moaning my name throughout it all. And I will take a very, very long time, Elsa." Every inch of her body goes taut as his words echo through her. Her back arches slightly.
Oh gods, yes.
His other hand cups her backside, squeezing for emphasis. "I am going to fuck you until you can't remember you own name."
Just like that, she's ready for him, aching for him again. He leans down to nip at her ear, and her toes curl. She whimpers as his lips graze across her neck with featherlike softness. His one arm snakes under her to pull her closer to him, burying his face in the crook of her neck while the other brushes some loose strands of hair out of her face.
With combined effort, they roll over until she's resting on his chest, propped on her elbows as she envelops his lips again. With a swift kick, the blanket is gone, billowing before coming to rest over his feet.
She ends up straddling his lap, unashamed of her exposed body. A gathering of her hair falls over her shoulder. She giggles as his eyes trail along her aching breasts and pebbled nipples, her hands sliding along his forearms.
Michael's eyes flash with recognition – at the confidence, at the joy and trails his fingers along her shoulders, down her arms as he whispers, "So beautiful."
Elsa snorts. The idea that he finds her beautiful at all—
"You are," he says. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I thought that from the first moment I saw you."
And it is stupid, stupid for beauty to mean anything at all, but . . . Her eyes burn.
She leans down, resting atop him as she kisses him, his hand coming to cup the back of her head. A whimper escapes her lips when she feels his tongue brush hers.
Gods, is this what she's been missing?
She can't stop, can't get enough of the taste of him in her mouth, the feel of him inside of her. More, more, more—until she thinks she might burst out of her skin from pleasure.
He is rock-hard against her, pushing against where she sits poised right above him. All it would take would be one smooth motion and he'd be inside her—
Michael chuckles, murmuring against her lips, "Don't you have some queenly duties to attend to?"
"I don't care." She moans.
She presses his shoulders into the bed, trailing her tongue from behind his ear, down his strong column of a neck, painting along his collarbone.
He reaches for her, but she freezes him with a look. "My turn," she tells him. She runs her hands down his muscled abdomen—farther. He stops objecting.
He is enormous in her hand—so hard, yet so silken that she just runs a finger down him in wonder. He hisses, cock twitching as she brushes her thumb over the tip. She smirks as she does it again.
As their mouths meet, she slides onto him, the fit so much deeper, and he murmurs her name into her mouth. She kisses him again and again, and rides him gently.
She tries to think of the man dancers that have come and performed at the palace. The fluidity of their stomachs, the rhythm of their hips.
Sitting up, she braces her hands on his broad chest, reveling in the pressure that has her already trembling.
Some innate, long-abandoned female part of her has her hips rippling, riding along the pleasure of the dee, deep pressure between her hips. The part that knows how to pleasure, how to beg, and how to dominate when necessary. The part of her that knows how to seduce.
It didn't last long, however. Though, she has to give Michael credit for waiting a full minute before interrupting her.
Suddenly his one hand is on her waist while the other grabs her wrists and pin them behind her back.
With her hips in place, he drives his hips up and sheathes himself deep in her with a single stroke.
Elsa moans every glorious inch of him, her eyes near rolling up into her head.
Michael pulls out and plunges back in, eternity exploding around her in that instant, and she thinks she might break apart from not being able to get enough of him.
She can feel herself trembling, her thighs straining as his thrusts get faster and harder. And gods damn her – though she doesn't think she could've stopped herself if she had all the sense in the world – her tongue rolls out of her mouth, dangling as the depth of him inside her threatens to melt her mind.
Michael hauls her up against him, one hand cupping her breast as the other rolls and strokes that bundle of nerves between her legs, and she can't tell where one climax ends and the second begins as he thrusts in again, and again, his lips on her neck, on her ear.
She can die from this, she decides. From wanting him, from the pleasure of being with him.
Michael barks her name, thrusting his hips up. Stars wheel as he slams deep.
For a moment, she thinks there's light pouring out of her, glowing from beneath her skin like starlight, or maybe her own vision fractures as release barrels into her again and Michael finds his, gasping her name over and over as he spills himself in her.
Elsa doesn't care if she's moaning loud enough for the whole castle to hear, not as her back arcs, her hair a shimmering fan of cornsilk.
When they're done, she remains atop him, her fingertips digging into his chest, and marvels at him. At them.
She leans forward, kissing his forehead, his temple, his check, his lips. His hands trail up the curve of her ass, along her spine until they rest against the back of her shoulders.
Carefully she hoists herself up from his lap, reaching to remove his length, still deep inside her.
Not one of her most gracious moments. As soon as she puts strain on her legs, they begin to quiver like an autumn leaf. She collapses next to him in shock, a drunken giggle on her lips.
Michael stretches long, his feet hoisting the blanket back over his waist. Barely. "Good luck getting me out of this bed, now."
She giggles as she traces the tip of her tongue up his neck. Nibbling on his ear.
He gives a breath of a laugh. "Gods, I didn't know you'd be such a little minx, Your Majesty."
Her cheeks flush a bit, and yet, she doesn't feel shame. Only a glittering sense of pride as he turns to her and kisses along her jaw. She watches his muscled chest expand as he takes a deep breath, dipping his head to rest his brow on her shoulder. "You know eventually we're going to have to get back to reality."
He might as well had thrown a bucket of ice water on them, but – he's right.
She turns on her side. "Is there anything you want to tell me, while we're here?"
While they're here in the privacy of his rooms, where nothing shall breach the threshold if he doesn't want it to. Where here he can confide to her whatever he can't or doesn't want to voice to the others.
No pressure, no rush. Just curiosity if there's anything he wants to keep between them.
"Yes, and no," he admits. Her heart aches at the shadow flickering in his eyes. "There's no real, good way to say it."
She places her hand on his shoulder. "Take your time." He kisses the tips of her fingers. "In the meantime, I'm going to bathe."
She slinks from the bed onto shaky knees and heads for the bathroom. She should bathe—she is covered in him, her mouth tastes of him.
Feeling freer than she has in a while, Elsa doesn't hesitate to hide the extra swing in her hips, feeling Michael's burning gaze along her back, following her hair where the tips brush along the curve of her ass. She only spares a glance over her shoulder at him.
Michael is fast, and so damn stealthy – because she could've sworn it was mere seconds later when he scoops her up in his arms. She doesn't fight the yelp of surprise, nor does she fight as she carries her into the bathroom, both naked.
She's never been in his arms like this before, and she won't deny, she really likes it.
However once they cross the threshold into the bathroom, he suddenly adjusts, swinging her over his shoulder. His free hand turning the knobs of the tub and plugging the drain.
Elsa shrieks, but a smile stretches her lips wide as she feels his callus scrape against the back of her thigh. The strength and size of his hands . . .
"Michael!" she giggles, thumping her fist against his back – with no real effort behind it.
Once the water is to his liking, he adjusts his hold on her and carefully sets her down into the water. When the hot water hits her, it draws a moan, the ends of her hair floating along the surface.
He sists on the edge of the tub, reaching over to the small cabinet next to the tub to pull out a simple bar of soap and a washrag, lathering them in the water.
"Aren't you going to come in?" she asks.
He smiles. "In a minute."
He wants to watch her, bathe her. Just, look at her. The idea makes her cheeks blush. She never really thought about how it would feel – though she's heard about it constantly: a certain expression a man gives to someone he loves. Rarely ever seen, even by his partner.
It's something special. Something deeper than even sex.
And she never thought she would ever get it – let alone understand it. in fact, she almost thought it to be ridiculous.
But when Michael lays his eyes upon her, the smile it draws . . . It could stop her heart dead.
He leans over, ready to wash her, but before he does, she holds up a finger.
"What?" he asks.
She reaches over to that same cabinet and plucks up a pink vial of bath salts and another of bath oil and dumps in generous amounts of each, turning the sloshing water milky and opaque.
She bites her lip, hoping Michael gets a generous look of her body, as she has to lean over the lip of the tub to reach the cabinet.
When she rights herself, the fire in his eyes confirms her suspicion.
"You know, it's okay if you use this stuff." She says as she tosses the vial into the garbage. "They'll be refilled in the morning."
He shrugs, "Never really felt much of a need."
Unlike hers or Anna's his cabinet if full – to the brim even. He's likely barely touched any of these things since he first arrived here. He's probably been using the simplest soap they have. Another glimpse of what his life at home was like – before everything . . . She admits she likes that about him: his simplistic views.
She mutely takes the soap he planned on using, and hands him one of a luxurious blend of soft rose, winter woods & a drop of strawberry nectar, which he sniffs at, sighs in resignation, and then begins using.
He twirls his finger in motion for her to turn around, but she defies, reaching up and grabbing his wrist. She gently pulls at him, batting her eyes to further intentions.
Michael follows her eyes and gives a grin that is positively wicked but, he obliges. Turning on the lips and dunking his feet into the water. His hiss of pleasure a brush of air against her ear.
Once he's seated across from her, Elsa seizes her opportunity and drifts over to him, her hands on his shoulders, her lips on his mouth. He grunts and the sound alone almost made her open her mouth to him, but his hand is at her chest, gently pushing her off. "Can we get clean yet?" he says in a tone that very well might have been a whine.
Elsa relinquishes with a pout, but a kiss on her neck has her turning her back to him, gathering her hair over her right shoulder. He begins rubbing down her back, scrubbing lightly with the cloth.
After a moment, she utters, "Are you going to tell me anything, before we go?" His strong hands knead the muscles that are tight and aching in her back, and she groans.
"Yes." She folds her lips in at the tightness, almost wanting to take it back.
But after a moment of quiet contemplation . . .
"She was expecting us; when we got to the temple. We explored for no more than maybe ten minutes before she showed herself. Needless to say our conversation was less than pleasant." His thumbs massage the column of her spine. "She knew a lot about me, almost too much. She knew about my past, about my joining the army . . . the things I've done. She knew about my magic, she knew about Pabbie trying to see her. She knew everything."
When he withdraws, Elsa dunks herself beneath the water, emerging with her hair soaked and her back clean. Wordlessly, she takes the soap from his hands and turns him. He obeys.
Her heart falters a bit when she looks upon his scarred back, at the large, gruesome marks that gouge their way down his skin, smaller ones crisscrossing it like the stripes of a great cat.
But those four large ones – those lashings . . .
He notices her pause and glances over his shoulder at her.
Elsa blinks, her eyes flicking between his back and his gaze. "I'm sorry," she mutters. "your scars are just, horrible."
"You won't hurt me, if that's what you're worried about."
"No," she places the rag on his back, efficiently lathering it in sweet-smelling bubbles. "It just makes me mad at the ones who tried to hurt you."
A cold, bitter smile. "Don't worry. They're already dead."
She kisses his bare neck, and he reaches back to drag a finger down her cheek.
"Anyway, it turns out she's been after me the whole time. She was never after you."
"Last night would say otherwise."
"I have my ideas about that, but we'll get to that later. She said she wants to help me with my magic, because it extends far beyond comprehension, even for magic's sake. She talked about it having a different kind of root, something deeper and far more powerful than the world has ever seen." He pauses, taking a breath. "How we're of a kind, she and I. And her magic is more than just a blanket of darkness . . . I felt these, taloned hands, clawing at my mind. She could see everything. My most private thoughts, my worst fears, all of my memories. So perverted and, violating."
He stiffens enough that Elsa pulls back, giving him space. He reads her message, dunking himself in the milky water and attacks his face, the back of his neck, the strong column of his throat.
"And then she started talking about you. And how you would never accept me if you saw what I really am. She almost sees you as an interference."
The realization hits like a stone. "That's why she –"
"Yeah. It was only a matter of time before I left the castle – left you and Anna unguarded. Killing you both would've been a dividend. Her main goal was to get me to show my hand – to show you who I can become, show the monster that lurks beneath my skin. And then you run away, and I would be alone."
To drive a wedge between them, leaving him more broken and lonelier than ever. That's why he looked so defeated when she took that hesitant step back from him. How he looked no better than a lost boy when he fell to his knees, ready to crawl to her if he had to.
She reaches around his shoulder, resting her chin atop while her other hand snakes up to his chest. Her palm resting over his heart. "Well, she's going to have a harder time taking you away from me now."
A breath of a chuckle. His hand comes up seconds later to interlace their fingers together. "I thought I lost you." He whispers.
"I was never afraid of the consequences of being with you. Even if every assassin in the world hunts us . . . It's worth it. You are worth it."
His head dips a bit. And he says hoarsely, "Thank you."
Her heart breaks for him then—for the years he'd spent thinking the opposite.
The powerful muscles of his scarred back shift as he scrubs at his face with his hands, then his neck, then his chest.
He lifts the soap to his hair, and she squeaks. "You don't use that in your hair," she hisses, jolting from her place to reach for one of the many hair tonics lining the little shelf above the bath. "Rose, calendula, narcissus or . . ." She sniffs the glass bottle. "Magnolia." She squints at him.
He is staring straight back at her, his blue eyes full of the words he knew he didn't have to say. Do I look like I care?
She chuckles. "You seem like a Magnolia kind of person."
He doesn't object as she takes up a place at the head of the tub and dumps some of the tonic into his hair. The sweet, morning-filled scent of magnolia floats up, caressing and kissing her. Even Michael breathes it in as she scrubs the tonic into his scalp.
Sitting like this, with his back pressed against her bare chest, his head on her shoulder while resting between her open legs, his arms resting atop her knees . . .
Washing his hair has its own sort of intimacy—a privilege she doubts he's ever allowed anyone; something she's never done for anyone else. But lines have always been blurred for them, and neither of them particularly care. She's seen every bare inch of him several times, and he's seen most of her. Well, until last night.
She pushes down on his shoulders, beckoning him to dunk under the water. He obeys.
They continue to sit like this, taking turns washing one another as he tells her everything that had happened since they'd left. She washed while he spoke, scrubbing him down with efficiency.
Elsa's heart sinks when hearing about how they how they traveled back to his childhood home. How he saw his parents. How Danika was trapped in her own hell.
When he was finished, they both pause to do one final dunking before the two of them emerged from the water. He stands in a mighty movement, water sloshing everywhere. Still, Elsa grabs the pitcher and fills it with fresh water from the faucet while the rest swirls down the drain. She gave each of them three pours to ensure all the soap was gone, then she hands him one of the towels she'd left on the sink.
At least his mood didn't seem entirely ruined – because he casts it around her, yanking her to him and planting a sweetened kiss on her lips.
She opens her mouth to him immediately. He hoists her up and perches her on the counter, Elsa uncaring of the cold porcelain beneath her. Her legs wrap around him, pulling him close. She moans as his one hand cradles the small of her back while the other braces on the counter.
She doesn't know how long they stayed like that – though, long enough that she actually thought about not allowing him to leave his room – but by the time they finally agreed to leave, the bath seemed almost useless.
His tongue had been on her neck, on her jaw – hers being much, much more explorative, and that unbearable ache had started between her legs again.
But they have to go. Evil. Darkness. Magic. Runes. Assassins.
Still, she was willing to throw it all to hell when they emerged in just towels.
The sight of him with the towel wrapped around his hips, at the tan and muscled body that gleamed with the oils of the bath, at the scars crisscrossing it like the stripes of a great cat. Even Common Sense is at a loss for words.
Looking around the room, she realizes her only source of clothing is her nightgown – which has been laying on the floor this entire time.
She would've been dressed and in her office by now, attending to her 'queenly duties.'
But with this distraction . . .
"Will it be so obvious to wear your nightgown?" Michael asks from behind, walking into the dressing room.
"I don't know. I've never really done this before."
"I could tell." Michael huffs a laugh and strode to the clothes hanging along one wall of the closet: formal pants, tunics, jackets, shirts . . . "You can wear something of mine until you get back to your rooms."
"That is, if it's clean enough." She says. It was her miserable attempt at making a joke, but the reaction she gets from him is less to be desired. "Why I don't I just wear your stuff? I mean, they saw me come in here, and with my room being . . . worked on, no one's going to really tell the difference."
Michael hums his approval with a nod. Striding into the closet, she goes to the dresser in the back and opens the first drawer she sets her eyes on. She pulls open the middle one to reveal folded men's undershorts, shirts, and pants.
She pulls out undershorts and pants but decides to throw the tunic on first. It's a soft beige, and it's long enough that it stops just at the middle of her thighs. She pulls on the undershorts and pants after.
A bit loose, to say the least. Michael is a warrior honed by years of training and battle. She braids her hair over her shoulder, and when she looks at herself in the mirror, it's only sort of semblance she has of herself.
She snorts as she turns around. Michael catches the sound and looks to her, only to chuckle along with her.
The attire is very unflattering to her figure, and she wonders how men are able to dress themselves with such poor choices. Having dressed himself in something decent – a cream colored tunic with mud brown pants, he walks over to her and loops a finger through the beltloop.
"You know, without this" – one simple pull on the pants as them puddling at her ankles, leaving only the tunic and undershorts – "you look pretty good."
Oh, he shouldn't even try to get her started; not with that smug on his lips and that wicked gleam in his eyes.
"I'll stop by the dressing room and see what spare dresses we have." Elsa says as she begins her search for her slippers. She can't even remember where they might've gone.
"Wait, dressing room?" Michael asks.
Elsa nods. "Yeah, we have this separate room where we keep any extra dresses and such. And when we don't have enough room in our own closets."
Michael laughs, the sound like music in her ears. "You know, I shouldn't be surprised."
"Well, don't expect anything. At least I'm not. It's just extra clothes we didn't wear. Some of them might even still have price tags."
"Oh, you poor, poor thing." Michael teases with feigned pity.
Elsa turns and smacks his arm. He wraps them around her waist as a counter. They share another kiss together, her own hands twining around him.
"You still didn't tell me why she picked you." she says.
Her heart dampens as his expression turns forlorn.
"I mean, what did you do to deserve this? Especially if she's been watching you your whole life."
His grip seems to tighten around her as he presses his forehead to hers. Elsa closes her eyes and simple breathes him in.
"Maybe because she's known me my whole life." he mutters.
Elsa pulls back slightly, just to look up into those sapphire eyes. "How? And why now of all times?"
A deep, quivering breath.
"Because . . . she . . . is my mother."