She cried out again—loud, broken, wanton.
Yen didn't even look at her.
His hand clamped harder over her mouth, cutting off the next moan before it could echo through the chamber's stone walls. His fingers splayed across her cheek, wet with her sweat, her breath—muffling her cries as she trembled beneath him.
He didn't soften. Didn't falter.
His silver eyes were dull. Cold. Unfeeling.
The only heat in him was in his hips—slamming into her again, and again, and again. The desk beneath her shook. Maps wrinkled under her bare stomach, her skin sticking to parchment soaked with sweat. Scrolls rolled off the edge and hit the floor with dull, papery thuds, crushed beneath the rhythm of his thrusts.
Her legs buckled from the force, from the sheer relentlessness of it. Her nails scraped across old vellum, tearing through symbols of peace and conquest alike as her body bowed and broke beneath his rhythm.
"Mmmn—ahh! Hhh—!!" she tried to cry out, the sound raw and trapped behind his palm, her voice reduced to nothing more than shattered whimpers. Her back arched, spine pulled taut like a bowstring. Her arms were wrenched behind her, wrists pinned in one of his fists, useless and trembling.
Wet, obscene noises filled the room—squelch, slap, slap, squelch—the kind of noise that made shame crawl under the skin. Her cunt was soaked, drenched, taking him over and over again like it was made for this—made to be pounded, filled, ruined.
Her thighs were slick with it, sticky and glistening, trembling from overstimulation. With every brutal thrust, more of her slick squelched out around him, dripping down her legs and staining the scattered maps below.
He was quiet. Detached. Like he wasn't there for the sounds she made or the way she gasped when he hit just right.
No.
He was there to remind her what it meant to belong to him.
Every thrust was a claim. Not of affection. Not even of lust. It was ownership—cold, brutal, absolute.
She writhed under him, her body making all the noise he didn't. The slapping of skin. The frantic creak of wood. Her broken, stuttering cries, stifled behind his hand. The desk legs groaned beneath them, like it too was being forced to bear his cruelty.
Her voice cracked. "Hnnph—! Mmmhh—ah!"
He didn't stop.
Didn't even blink.
His hips slammed forward with machine precision, the wet, rhythmic slap of each thrust echoing in the room like applause for her ruin.
Her eyes rolled back. Her walls clenched tight around him, spasming. She was close—too close. The pressure in her belly curled tight like a snare trap.
When she came, she nearly screamed.
He didn't let her.
Her climax ripped through her like a lightning strike—violent, overwhelming. Her thighs quaked. Her body seized. Her cunt fluttered wildly around him, soaking him in fresh, hot slick. Her knees gave out.
But he held her up, easy, like she weighed nothing at all. Like he knew she'd fall.
His fist twisted harder around her wrists.
Only when her climax faded—only when the tremors passed and she sagged limp—did he pause.
Just for a breath.
She was panting under his hand now, her mouth gaping, her tongue wet against his palm. Eyes glassy. Tears lining her lashes. Her body jolted with each aftershock, legs too weak to hold her.
"Moan quietly," he muttered, finally—his voice like snow crushed under boot.
She made a sound—part moan, part sob.
Then he pulled out. Slowly. Cruelly. Her body tried to follow, fluttering open for him, sticky and ruined.
And then he slammed back in—hard.
The wet slap was filthy. Loud. Her head jerked forward, a strangled scream bursting from behind his hand.
The desk nearly tipped.
She gasped. Choked. Cried out—"Nnnnhaa—!"—only for it to be swallowed whole by his palm again. Her whole body rocked under him, arms straining against his grip, spine arched like she was trying to escape—but her cunt just pulled him in deeper.
His grip on her wrists loosened slightly, letting her slump forward onto shaking elbows. But he didn't release her mouth.
The desk was chaos beneath her—treaties soaked with sweat and smeared ink, pages sticking to her belly and thighs. Her breath hitched as more of her slick dripped down her legs, pooling onto a border map already torn in half.
The world outside could've been burning. She wouldn't have noticed.
There was only him.
And he—
He wasn't looking at her.
He was watching her reflection.
In the mirror across the war room—her reflection was clear: bent over, red with the slap of skin, marked by his hands. Her body was gleaming. Slick. Her hair stuck to her face. Her expression twisted in bliss, shame, agony.
Her mouth was open in a silent scream. Her body shook with every thrust. Her ass bounced with each impact, jiggling from the force of him slamming in.
She didn't even know he was watching.
She didn't need to.
He knew her body better than she did. Knew every twitch, every flutter, every sweet little clench that told him she was close again.
His hand finally dropped from her mouth. Not out of mercy.
He needed it to choke her.
Fingers wrapped around her throat—tight, practiced. Pulling her up as his hips kept their rhythm. Harder now. Deeper. She gasped. Moaned freely. Her voice was hoarse, cracked, wrecked from screaming into his palm.
"Yen—!" she sobbed.
Her voice gave out halfway through his name.
Her hands scrabbled on the desk. Her nails left grooves. Her cunt clenched wildly around him again, wet and noisy, begging for more even as her body gave out.
He didn't slow. If anything, he fucked her harder—more erratic. More brutal. His chest flush against her back now, his breath hot on her ear, forehead pressed to her shoulder blade.
"Shut up," he growled, voice low, mean. He drove into her again—deep, deep—until she whimpered.
She sobbed out a laugh. "I—I c-can't—!"
"You will." His hand around her throat pulsed, never quite cutting off her air. Just reminding her.
She came again. Harder than the last time. It tore through her like glass. Her entire body shook. She couldn't stop it. Couldn't help it.
The sound it made—the way her wet cunt sucked him in, fluttering, messy, clenching wildly—was pure filth.
He groaned.
His breath hitched.
And then he broke.
He pulled her tighter against him and rutted deep, brutal, reckless. His hand fell from her throat just long enough to grab her hips, slamming her back into him as his thrusts lost rhythm—sloppy, desperate.
His body locked up.
Then he came.
A guttural grunt ripped from his chest. He bit into her shoulder, muffling himself against her skin as he spilled inside her—pulse after pulse of heat. She gasped at the fullness. At the raw, hot ache of him buried to the hilt, twitching inside her.
Her body milked him. Greedy.
When it ended, they stayed there—tangled, slick, drenched in sweat and cum and the stink of it all. The war room had never been quieter.
Yen pulled out, slow and wet, watching the mess leak from between her legs and drip onto the map of the northern territories.
He let her fall forward over the desk. Her arms limp. Her body shuddering. Her thighs still twitching.
She didn't move. Couldn't.
Just lay there. Offered. Marked. His.
He stared. At the bruises forming. At her ruined reflection still glowing in the mirror. At the tremble in her breath.
Then he bent low, brushing his lips against her ear.
"Lily," he murmured, voice smooth with cruel amusement. "Next time... I'll have you gagged."