Consort couldn’t rember the last ti anything had cracked her composure wide enough to force a genuine, unguarded smile—not the practiced half-moon she deployed but sothing raw, almost painful in its sharpness.
Watching Phei sneak out of Elena’s room felt like witnessing a private confession she had no right to see, and yet she couldn’t look away.
He paused at the threshold, as the fading moonlight sliced across his bare shoulders, and bent to kiss Elena’s sleeping lips—one soft, lingering peck that carried the weight of everything they’d just shared: the fairy-tale confessions, the laughter that had shaken their bodies together, the hours of naked skin pressed so close that breathing had beco a shared rhythm.
The kiss wasn’t hungry. It was tender as it was reverent. The goodbye that already hurt even in Elena’s sleep.
Phei’s bare feet whispered against the stone, each step a heartbeat swallowed by the hallway’s cold throat. He glanced back once—just a flicker—but in that split‑second his eyes held the fragile, bruised light, as if he were already mourning the warmth of Elena he was leaving behind, the echo of Elena’s laughter still ringing in his ribs like a cracked bell.
Gods, he’s beautiful, Consort thought, the realization slipping through her ribs like a secret she hadn’t known she kept.
But the true twist of the knife arrived before she could draw breath.
Phei swore he was alone. He wasn’t. His lips moved in low, furious murmurs—words half‑born, half‑strangled—while his hands raked the air, grasping for void‑energy that sparked and sputtered like a match struck in a gale, each flare a brief, desperate scream against the dark.
Sweat beaded along his hairline, tracing the tension in his jaw, the knot of his brows, the raw, trembling line of his throat.
He wasn’t speaking to himself; he was wrestling Eira inside the quiet cavern of his skull. She refused to open the portal, insisting this was training—cruel, perfect, a forge hamred into his soul.
The more desperate he beca, the faster he’d learn to tear reality open on his own. Every ti he hissed that Consort or the One Above would sense him any second, Eira only laughed harder, daring him to prove he didn’t need her.
Consort’s chest ached with a soundless laugh—not mockery, but awe that tightened like a wound as she watched him fumble, every ounce of his will twisted into a desperate, beautiful struggle. She could only imagine how hard her mistress was laughing at the sight, a mirth that echoed through the halls like distant thunder.
They had let him steal his monts with Elena, and now, seeing him unravel in this raw, silent war, the scene struck her as funnier—and truer—than anything else they’d ever witnessed in a long ti.
The boy who bent reality to his whim a few days ago was reduced to this... unable to even open a single portal.
Phei was panting from trying while cursing and trembling with the effort of not being caught, all while the one person who could save him watched him suffer and called it love and training her master.
He finally succeeded.
The void ripped—just barely—and he fell himself through.
**
Phei hit his own bedroom floor like a dropped body bag. Hard. A choked "Fuck—my back—" escaped him as he sprawled there, spine screaming, pride in tatters.
Eira’s laughter detonated inside his head, bright and rciless, and for once he didn’t argue back. He just lay there, breathing through the pain, accepting it the way one accepts a necessary wound and learn he could sotis only rely on himself.
The penthouse was a tomb now. Marble corridors empty. Only Aunt Cassiopeia remained—alone on the second floor, probably already feeling the exact pulse of his arrival like a hook in her sternum.
He dragged himself upright, stripped, stepped into his bathroom and to under the shower. The scalding water pounded his shoulders, washing away Elena’s scent, Elena’s laughter, Elena’s softness but he did not want to watch either of it away.
He reached for clothes the mont he stepped out.
"Don’t," Eira said, voice low and amused in the privacy of his mind. "Pointless. She’s coming. She’s felt you. She can’t wait any longer."
Phei’s hand froze on the towel.
He knew.
Before the bracelet on Cassiopeia’s wrist locked his soul into permanent, obedient emptiness—before he beca nothing more than a vessel without will, without desire, without the ability to harden, to thrust, to feel—she wanted him one last ti. Raw. Real.
While he was still capable of wanting her back and fuck her soul into another reality and her hungry pussy that has been starving for so long but made to wait at his convenience.
He’d engineered this hunger in her.
Day by day.
The woman who once would have bound him without a second thought—cold, efficient, detached—had been remade by his hands with the gentleness and manliness of control he had on her and made her feel like she could only belong to his Goddess Fall Touch, his mouth, his deliberate cruelty.
He’d fucked her ass and left her aching. Denied her the one thing she suddenly couldn’t live without. Turned denial into obsession until the re thought of binding him without first feeling him stretch her open, fill her, ruin her, beca unbearable.
He had made her need this and living without having his cock in her pussy was a thought she could never from in her head.
And now she was coming up to him with footsteps that weren’t quite steady—hungry, frantic, terrified of what ca after.
Because this would be the last ti she would ever feel him move inside her. The last ti she could clench her pussy around his huge cock as it moved inside her hungry pussy and hear him groan her na like a curse and a prayer.
The last ti her body could rember what it was to be wanted before it all beca chanical obedience for the Maxton Family and the Prince to control and order as they see fit.
From the sound of those footsteps—quickening, uneven, almost running—she intended to wring every drop of him dry before the bracelet finished its work.
Now Phei stood naked in the center of his room, heart hamring against his ribs, skin still damp from the shower, every nerve suddenly alive with the certainty of what was coming.
He dressed anyways before his bedroom door opened.
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