The kiss deepened until nguage itself dissolved. Camille’s practiced smirk fractured, her famous composure slipping away beneath the steady heat of his mouth. Her fingers twisted into the front of his shirt, clinging as if the fabric alone could keep her grounded while her body confessed the raw hunger she had buried for years.

  His hands moved with slow, deliberate intent. One traced the sharp line of her jaw, thumb brushing the rapid flutter of her pulse. The other settled firm at her hip, guiding her closer without rush or demand. When he shifted his weight, she followed before her mind could catch up, drawn by something deeper than choice.

  Her back met the cool paneling of the chamber wall, the polished wood pressing through the thin silk of her dress. She gasped at the sudden contrast, the chill biting against flushed skin, and her nails dragged down the hard pne of his chest—steadying herself, marking him in the same breath.

  “You think you own this moment,” she whispered, voice husky and uneven, still ced with that stubborn edge. “I’ve broken men with less than a smile.”

  He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear, breath warm and steady.

  “That’s exactly why you’re here,” he murmured. “Because none of it touches me.”

  The quiet certainty in his tone unraveled her more than any bold advance ever could. There was no contest in him, no hunger to dominate, no performance to match hers. He simply stood there—solid, unmoved, utterly himself—and she had no script for this.

  His palm slid along the curve of her thigh, slow and inevitable, gathering the fabric higher until cool air kissed heated skin. She drew in a sharp breath, one hand fttening against his shoulder as if to push him away, yet her fingers curled tighter, pulling him flush against her.

  “Say it,” he murmured, voice low against her throat.

  Her pulse stumbled hard. “Say what?”

  “That you came here because you wanted to.”

  Pride fred bright in her eyes. For a heartbeat the queen resurfaced, hunting for a clever deflection, a negotiation, anything to recim the upper hand. But the room held only the two of them—no audience, no leverage, no escape routes left.

  And beneath the weight of that truth, exhaustion finally won.

  “I wanted this,” she said, the words soft and stripped bare.

  Not defeat. Release.

  He lifted her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his waist before thought could intervene, instinct taking the lead as her body molded to his. She kissed him again—deep, open, no longer calcuted, just pure and immediate need.

  Each step toward the bed felt like shedding armor rather than surrender. When he id her down, the world outside the chamber ceased to exist. No boardrooms. No calcuted moves. No masks she had worn for so long they had become skin.

  Here, in the hush of silk sheets and shadowed light, Camille let strength fall away.