The corridors slept, but the house never did. Celeste moved as though she knew where to find her—because she did.

  The Mistress stood by the tall window, robe parted slightly at the throat, the night air curling damp hair against her shoulders. She felt the presence behind her, lips already curved. “You left her with Marisol,” the Mistress said, not turning. Her tone was cool, but the smirk betrayed her.

  “Camille isn’t mine to nurse,” Celeste replied evenly, stepping to her side. “And Marisol has a talent for comfort… when she chooses to use it.”

  The Mistress’s smile deepened. “So you delegate.”

  Celeste met her gaze, unflinching. “So I prioritize.”

  The silence hung charged, like it always did when they were alone. Rare, dangerous silence—not of neglect, but of recognition. Celeste tilted her head, eyes narrowing in pyful challenge.

  “Do you ever tire of being untouchable?”

  The Mistress’s smile was faint, deliberate.

  “Do you ever tire of pretending you aren’t?”

  They both ughed—low, throaty, genuine. It broke the tension just enough for them to move closer. When the Mistress’s hand slid along Celeste’s arm, it wasn’t a question. It was a cim.

  Celeste didn’t resist. She stepped in, robes brushing, bodies aligned, warmth of skin bleeding through fabric. The kiss came sharp, deliberate. The Mistress pressed hard, testing. Celeste returned it steady, unyielding, her lips parting just enough to prove she would not be overrun.

  The csh of tongues was not affection—it was recognition, at first. Two forces colliding, neither yielding, both indulging. The Mistress’s hands framed Celeste’s face; Celeste’s slid to anchor her waist. For a moment they moved as though they might devour one another.

  They lingered close, breath mingling, both knowing this could tip either way: walk away, or embrace it. They had both wanted it for ages, neither willing to admit it. Separated by roles and ritual, by the thrones they held in his shadow. They had always shared him—but they had not shared each other in years. That was what made it rare—and sacred.

  “You want someone equal tonight, don’t you?” The Mistress murmured between kisses, her hands tracing Celeste’s body.

  “Only you understand… what it’s like… to have so much control, and none at the same time…” Celeste breathed.

  “Not yours, my queen,” the Mistress said, still kissing her.

  “Not yours, my mistress,” Celeste echoed, unyielding.

  “Each others,” they said together.

  The Mistress’s lips trembled into a fierce smile. “One more night…”

  “One more night,” Celeste gasped.

  “Of the Crown…” the Mistress whispered.

  “…and the Fme,” Celeste answered.

  And with that, they turned toward the Mistress’s chambers.