Next week?
Pure fucking bliss.
Chamomile tea. Warm scones. Debauchery.
And absolutely, shalessly, unapologetically corrupting Princess Loma with every whorish, gutter-learned, Seebulba-certified skill I’ve ever honed between sweaty sheets and velvet couches.
Because here’s the thing:
There was only one bed.
One giant, rune-carved, princess-sized slab of luxury with too many pillows, too many blankets, and exactly enough room for two scandalously entwined bodies. The rug? Bear. Fluffy. Noble. But still a rug.
And royalty, as I reminded Loma every single night, should not sleep on the floor like peasants.
Also — I deserved the bed.
I survived lesbian cannibal witches. I climbed a tower wall in a fucking snowstorm. I earned my duvet.
So Loma joined . At first, all stiff limbs and fluttering lashes, clutching her nightgown like it was a shield against sin. Gods, she was adorable. Like a nun trapped in a brothel. She gasped when I slipped a thigh over hers, yelped when I bit her ear, blushed so red I thought she’d ignite when I whispered what else mouths were good for besides reciting royal decrees.
By day, she poured tea like a proper lady.
By night, she scread into pillows like a very improper one.
I called it a winter survival tactic.
She called it… eventually… sacred sisterhood warmth rituals.
Bless her.
Anyway. The bed’s ours now.
The warlord can have the rug.
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