Eventually, they had to peel themselves away from the wall.
The air between them still vibrated with the remnants of their feral union, and their breathing came slower now, the animal frenzy of the spar behind them, leaving in its place a strange sense of reverence. Merrick adjusted his clothing with minimal effort, but Caralee could still feel the echo of his body against hers, as though he'd pressed something far deeper than just flesh to hers—something that still hummed beneath her skin.
Merrick, ever composed, glanced around the ravaged training hall. Scuff marks streaked the floorboards, weapons still clattered in far corners from the force of their collision, and several racks hung slightly askew.
"We should go," he murmured, tone quieter now, almost reverent. "This space should belong to those who need it for its purpose."
Caralee nodded, lips parted in silent agreement. The hall had served its function—for now.
Without another word, he escorted her through the torch lit corridors, neither speaking, simply walking side by side through corridors steeped in shadow. When they reached the wing of her chambers, he slowed, glancing down at her.
"Are they to your liking?" he asked softly.
She smiled, though still catching her breath. "They're lovely. Thank you."
He opened the door for her. She stepped through—and he followed.
The room was aglow in soft candlelight, a warm amber that made the cream and rose tapestry-lined walls gleam like the inside of a seashell. Attendants bustled about—brushing linens, arranging hair combs, laying out fresh nightgowns with practiced grace. The adjoining chamber echoed with faint giggles and whispered gossip.
Then the door clicked shut.
And stillness fell.
The rustle of cloth, the gentle clink of silver stopped. A bowl slipped from an attendant's trembling fingers, clattering across the polished floor. Gasps, barely contained. All eyes turned—not to Caralee.
But to him.
Merrick.
The king in their den of modesty.
Lydia, the eldest of her maids, was the first to find her voice. "Good evening, Your Majesty," she said, bowing low with such speed her head nearly touched her knees.
The others echoed in trembling unison, "Good evening, Your Majesty."
Merrick inclined his head, regal and impassive. "Lydia. Ladies."
They held still until Lydia, the ever-loyal, rose.
"You are dismissed," he intoned, tone calm, firm. "You may resume your charge just before dawn."
They hesitated for only a heartbeat. A single breath.
Then obedience overtook curiosity.
One by one, they bowed and departed, the rustle of skirts and clicking of boots vanishing like a retreating tide. Lydia lingered a moment longer. Her eyes, calm and sharp, flicked to Caralee. She bowed once more—deeply this time, reverently—and closed the door behind her.
The lock whispered into place.
Then the world tipped.
Merrick crossed the room like a storm contained, his presence too large, too overwhelming for the space. The moment the latch clicked shut, his lips were on hers—desperate, hungry, wild. She melted into him again, her knees weak, hands fumbling at his shoulders.
He was already loosening the laces of her gown, fingers confident, skilled. The garments fell from her one by one like petals stripped from a flower. The corset, the shift, the final slip of fabric—the silk whispered to the floor, pooling at her feet.
He stepped back.
And stared.
Not as a man devours a woman with his eyes—but as a sovereign takes in the sight of a rising star. A symbol. A destiny.
She blushed, deeply—vulnerability clashing with the memory of their intimacy. She resisted the urge to cover herself, reminding herself she was no servant girl now. She was something else. Something more.
He circled her slowly.
Then she heard it—his voice.
But not aloud.
In her mind.
"Caralee, look at me, my sweet."
Her eyes snapped open.
It had been him— that night. When her whole world had turned upside down and she first awoke, changed. It had been his voice inside her mind. He had spoken to her—not with lips, but with will.
She turned to face him—and then her jaw slackened.
She had touched him before, yes—but she had never seen him. Not like this. Not stripped of his armor, of silk and grandeur. Not without shadows and urgent hands. Now, standing in the candlelight, he was— breathtaking.
His skin gleamed bronze beneath the glow, taut over sinewed muscle and perfect, unblemished flesh. His form was carved, not built—a Greco-Roman god sculpted by divine hand.
He waited patiently for her to take in all of his features, as he did the same to her. She started at his shining hair that had been pulled back at dinner, now hung loosely, free. Some over his shoulder, some swept back. The dark locks of hair perfectly framed his face. His masculine jaw and strong chin. His large green eyes, wore an expression unlike anything she had ever seen, on his face, or any other man.
He looked, vulnerable. She understood now, what was happening. He was laying himself bare before her. He was having them both bare themselves to one another. No fancy clothes, no hiding, no lovemaking clouding their view.
Just a man and a woman, standing across from one another. Drinking in each other's appearance, memorizing features, sensing the way their bodies react to the sight of one another.
She could smell him, he had the scent of the forest, just like she was always told, that same scent that clung to her. There was the light scent of leather and ink as well. Mixing in the air with the natural musk of masculine pharamones, and notes of sandalwood, bergamot, and cedar. He smelled Devine. She felt heat rise in her veins. The scent stirred something molten inside her, something not lust, but belonging.
His presence was strong and almost tangible. It was heavy but not oppressive. A clear aura of strength and regal might. She remembered when they were hunting, she heard him mention something. At least— she thought she heard him. Maybe she had read it from his mind— She wasn't sure.
Will. Sovereign will. The will power of a sovereign ruler would need to be vast reaching in order to encompass their entire domain. It had to be strong, vampires value strength. She would have to have the strongest will of them all in order to take the throne. How does one even enforce their will on others, or on the very world around them?
While she was thinking about this, she could feel the heat of his eyes carefully tracing every curve of her figure. She traced the flow of his muscles along his body, when her eyes finally reached one feature in particular, then her eyes went wide and if she hadn't been completely bothered before, she had to clench her fist to remind herself to stay strong.
She might have been staring a bit too long because she felt his gaze on her, when her eyes rose to meet it, he merely lifted a single eyebrow. An unmistakable smirk curling up at the edge of his lips. Embarrassed by being caught eyeing his member, her entire face blushed a deep shade of crimson. He let out a soft chuckle, the sound low and rumbly almost like a purr.
She wanted him so badly she was trembling. She needed him. She wished that she already had her sovereign will, so she could will him to simply walk over to her and swoop her up in his arms.
She contemplated for a second, what it would be like. Imagined it. She saw him walk over and wrap his arms around her, their bodies pressed tightly together.
As she was visualizing, she did something that takes years to learn how to do. She believed it. She believed the visualization was reality, that he was going to close the distance between them, and he would wrap his arms around her. More importantly, she not only believed it would happen, but she believed that it was something she could will to happen.
Merrick's eyes narrowed slightly. He turned his head to the side with a questioning expression.
Beyond visualization, the next step towards manifesting one's reality, wielding their will, the individual must believe in the power they possess. They have to will it into existence. You have to believe it is reality, then have a will as strong as it takes to shape, or mold reality, to that will.
As she believed, the strangest thing happened.
Caralee felt a strange sensation. Like strings pulling at her in all directions. She focused on these invisible strings, she could control them somewhat, and she realized they weren't pulling at her they were pulling out from her.
She felt it again. A pressure. A pull.
Like threads, or tendrils—radiating out from her chest and mind. Thick cords of invisible power, extending outward, brushing over Merrick like vines tracing familiar stone. She gasped softly, and he straightened.
Caralee focused. These weren't just sensations. They were extensions. Of her will.