“You wanted me to follow,” she said, her voice smooth and low, threaded with quiet invitation.

  “Here I am.”

  He didn’t seize her mouth. He didn’t rush. His hand rose instead to cradle her jaw, thumb tracing the delicate line of her cheekbone while his gaze held hers, steady and unyielding.

  “You don’t follow,” he told her, the words brushing warm across her lips.

  “You surrender.”

  Her mouth curved in a soft ugh, breath feathering hot against his skin.

  “Surrender? You think that word frightens me?”

  His other hand slid lower, settling firm at the curve of her hip, drawing her closer until the heat of his body pressed flush against hers.

  “No,” he answered, voice low and certain.

  “I think you’ve been waiting for someone who meant it.”

  Camille drew a sharp breath, the sound involuntary. She meant to smirk, to cut him with another clever retort, but her body moved first, leaning in, softening, yielding to the pull between them.

  He bent his head to her neck, lips not kissing but ciming, dragging slow and deliberate across the sensitive skin. The motion pulled a shiver from her spine, made her arch into him. She gripped his shoulder, nails pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself as warmth pooled low in her belly.

  “This is how dynasties fall,” she whispered, the words trembling yet edged with raw heat.

  “This is how they’re repced,” he murmured against her throat, his tone unshaken, vibrating through her.

  His hand traveled along her thigh, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her dress, lifting it just enough to bare a sliver of smooth skin. The touch sent sparks racing through her veins, a silent reminder of every boundary about to dissolve.

  She gasped, soft and broken, half defiance and half hunger. Then her head fell back, and that dark ughter rose again, richer now, ced with the sweet ache of surrender.

  “I should despise you,” she breathed, voice husky.

  “You don’t.”

  “I should stop this.”

  “You won’t.”

  The st wall between them shattered the moment his mouth finally took hers. The kiss was not gentle, not tentative. It was deep and commanding, inevitable as the tide. Her practiced smirk melted away against him. Her body pressed forward, eager and unguarded, every trace of regal poise giving way to urgent need.

  Camille, the queen who had once traded power with fwless grace, gave herself over completely. Not with reluctance, but with fire—surrender chosen, deliberate, and absolute.

  And he, steady as stone, received every inch of it as though it had always been destined.