🔞🔞🔞🔞The guest wing of the Asch palace was a place of suffocating luxury. Ava Feywin paced the length of her chamber, the soft soles of her white slippers making no sound on the thick rugs. Every few seconds, her eyes darted to the heavy oak door.
Her heart hammered a nervous rhythm against her ribs. Alistair had been gone far too long. He had told her to remain the "serene Saintess" while he scouted the political terrain, but Ava knew him too well. She had seen the way he looked at Princess Callista—with the hunger of a man who had found a mirror for his own darkness.
The jealousy was a physical ache in her chest, a bitter contrast to the "purity" she projected to the world. She needed him to return. She needed him to mark her, to remind her that despite the impending marriage, she was the only one who truly held his soul.
Then, she heard it—the sharp, distinct click of the door handle.
Ava’s face transformed. The anxiety vanished, replaced by a radiant, blooming heat. She whirled around, a soft, breathless gasp escaping her lips. "Alistair, you took so long—"
The words died in her throat. Her expression didn't just fade; it dropped with a heavy, visible thud of boredom and irritation. Standing in the doorway was not the towering, dark silhouette of the Prince. Instead, it was a woman dressed in the sharp, travel-worn silks of the Calligo Kingdom: Princess Lydia.
"Oh," Ava said, her voice flattening into a tone of cold dismissal. She turned back toward her vanity, picking up a silver hairbrush as if the Princess of Calligo were merely a stray cat that had wandered in. "It's you."
Lydia stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a deliberate slowness. She surveyed the room—the discarded white robes, the scent of Nevalian incense, and the raw, desperate hunger still hanging in Ava’s eyes.
"You look disappointed, Saintess," Lydia remarked, her voice smooth and laced with a mocking edge. "Were you expecting the Prince who is currently busy negotiating the price of his new bride?"
Ava stiffened. "Prince Alistair is a busy man. And you are a woman far from home. Shouldn't you be tending to your betrothed, Prince Emrys? I hear he is... difficult to pin down."
Lydia let out a short, dry laugh, walking closer until she could see Ava’s reflection in the mirror. "Emrys is a ghost in his own palace. But I didn't come here to talk about ghosts. I came to see the woman who shares the Crowley bed. Don't look so bored, Ava. You want Alistair, and I want a throne that isn't shared by a sister. It seems we have a common enemy in Callista."
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The Unholy Alliance
Ava turned fully now, her boredom sharpening into a keen, predatory interest. She set the brush down with a rhythmic clink. The Saintess and the Princess stood inches apart—two women sidelined by the obsessive, blood-bound fixations of the men they loved.
"A common enemy," Ava repeated, her voice a low purr.
Lydia’s eyes flashed with a dark, calculated heat. "If Alistair is occupied with you, and Emrys is forced to fulfill his duties to me, Callista becomes nothing but a beautiful statue in the hallway. But you’re frustrated, aren't you? You can smell the 'Cruel Princess' on him."
The air in the room grew heavy with a deviant tension. Lydia surged forward, her mouth crashing against Ava’s. It was a desperate, shared understanding of being "second best." Ava gasped into the kiss, her hands finding Lydia’s waist.
"Let’s make a pact, Saintess," Lydia whispered against her lips, her hands moving to the ribbons of Ava’s bodice. "We keep them apart. By any means necessary."
Lydia pushed Ava back onto the bed. She efficiently discarded her own layers until she was bare, her body lithe and scarred by the rigors of her cold kingdom. She climbed over Ava, pinning her wrists to the pillows. "Do you want to forget him for an hour?"
Ava’s response was a fractured moan. Lydia moved down, her tongue finding the hollow of Ava’s throat before moving to her breasts. Lydia captured a taut nipple, suckling with a deep, rhythmic hunger that made Ava’s back arch violently. Ava’s "saintly" composure shattered as Lydia’s hand slid between her thighs, finding the damp folds already weeping for attention.
Lydia was methodical, her fingers sliding deep with a punishing pace that mirrored their shared frustration. "Is this what you want?" Lydia hissed. "To be taken by someone who actually knows your worth?"
Ava sobbed as Lydia’s thumb circled the pulsing center of her pleasure while two fingers worked inside her slick heat. The friction was white-hot. Ava’s legs locked around Lydia’s waist, drawing her closer as the tension wound tighter. Finally, a violent orgasm ripped through the Saintess, her internal muscles clenching around Lydia’s hand in frantic, desperate pulses.
As the tremors subsided, Lydia didn't let her rest. She moved Ava’s legs over her shoulders. "My turn, Ava," she commanded.
Ava, fueled by a new, vengeful energy, leaned down. She mirrored Lydia’s intensity, her tongue and fingers exploring the Princess of Calligo with a desperate hunger. She teased Lydia’s breasts with her teeth before moving lower to taste her betrayal. Lydia’s reactions were sharp—short intakes of breath and a bruising grip on Ava’s shoulders. When Lydia finally broke, her climax was a quiet, shaking surrender.
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The Morning Afterthoughts
As they lay tangled in a messy knot of ruined silk, Lydia propped herself up on one elbow.
"The marriage contract between Alistair and Callista is just paper," Lydia whispered, tracing Ava’s jaw with a predatory smile. "But this... this is blood. When the dinner bell rings, we walk in as allies. I take Emrys’s attention, you take Alistair’s. We leave Callista with nothing but her own shadows."
Ava nodded, her eyes hardening with lethal clarity. "And if she tries to fight back?"
Lydia’s smile was a promise of war. "Then we show her that a Saintess and a Serpent are far more dangerous than a Princess and her brother."
Novel: I Love My Brother: Callista and Emrys
