The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"I don't even know you," she managed, voice trembling.

He grinned, wicked and fond. "You will." Fingers brushed the hollow of her throat, mapping its fluttering rhythm, then drifted down the curve of her robe as if the fabric were smoke. "I will know every sigh you hide, every prayer you whisper."

Before she could reply, his lips returned, trailing along her jaw, her neck. At each feather-light kiss, her skin seemed to glow. When his teeth grazed the delicate tendon beneath her ear, a soft cry slipped free—a sound she had never made, could scarcely believe came from her.

Silver mist thickened around them, cocooning heat and shadow. His hands explored—skimming the slope of her shoulders, tracing the arch of her waist, spreading over her hips. Each touch was possessive yet reverent, like a craftsman appreciating sacred marble before sculpting it into something new.

Within the haze her robe loosened, cool air licking at suddenly sensitive skin. She felt the pull of gravity change; the world tipped, and she was reclining on unseen softness, the mysterious man half-hovering, half-claiming the space above her. He captured her wrist, guiding her palm to his chest. Under fine fabric his heartbeat pulsed sure and strong—a silent promise of protection and peril.

"You're mine," he breathed, and the words burrowed under her skin the way spring water seeps into dry soil—slow, unstoppable, life-changing.

His lips still brushed the corner of her mouth. His thumb traced a lazy line down her throat, pressing lightly at the flutter of her pulse as if tasting the rhythm. Every place he touched tingled, then burned, until sensation crowded out thought. Her lashes trembled; a breath she hadn't noticed holding slipped free as a soft sigh.

In the silver haze surrounding them she saw nothing but him: a tall outline rimmed in star-glow, hair like spilled moonlight, eyes bright with playful hunger. When he smiled she felt it everywhere—like the first spark that catches dry bark and promises a bonfire.

Her knees melted. She tried to whisper a prayer, any prayer, but the words tangled, torn apart by the steady pumping of her own heartbeat roaring in her ears.

He leaned closer, the tip of his nose brushing hers, and that smallest contact sent a shiver racing down her spine. "Let me hear you," he murmured, teasing, coaxing.

A sound—half plea, half answer—escaped her throat before she could swallow it. Warm laughter rumbled in his chest, and the vibration traveled through the hand he had splayed over her back. Her body curved toward that warmth; craving, needy, eager in a way she did not recognize yet could not deny.

Another kiss, deeper, wetter. His tongue slid against hers with shocking intimacy, tasting, learning, claiming. Her fingers clenched in the strange fabric of his coat—silk? leather? she couldn't tell; only that it crackled with latent power. He drew her bottom lip between his teeth, bit softly, and she gasped, fire blooming low in her belly.

His hands explored—one sweeping along the side of her waist to her hip, the other cupping the back of her head so gently it contrasted the boldness of his mouth. Wherever he touched, invisible runes of heat etched themselves into her skin. She felt branded, adored, consumed.

The Holy Tree's faint chorale of leaves swelled around them, as if the ancient spirit itself witnessed and approved. Each rustle sounded like a breathy hush, urging her to let go, to drown in sensation.

He eased her backward onto something soft—moss, cloud, she could not tell. Vision blurred; only touch remained. His weight pressed her down in the most delicious way, solid and heavy, a reminder that this was no phantom but a real, living force.

"You feel it too," he whispered against her ear, lips skimming the sensitive shell.

She could only nod, cheeks burning. Every delicate nerve in her body sang with agreement.

Fingers slid between the folds of her robe, pausing over the gentle slope of her breast. He waited, silent question hanging between heartbeats. She exhaled permission—a trembling "yes" breathed more than spoken.

The moment his palm cupped her, she arched, a low moan slipping free. Heat surged everywhere at once, pooling, pulsing. Her mind fled, leaving only instinct: clutching his shoulders, chasing his mouth, desperate for more.

Time thickened, slowed, vanished. There were only broken snatches of memory— his thumb teasing a hardened peak through silk; his teeth grazing her collarbone; her own voice whispering words she did not know she knew. She lost count of kisses, of breaths, of tiny earthquakes rippling through her limbs.

And then, just as another wave of pleasure threatened to pull her under, the vision fractured. The silver haze tore like cloth caught on thorns, pulling him away, dimming the glow, cooling the fire in cruel, sudden gusts.

"No—" The plea ripped from her throat before she could stop it. Her hands grasped empty air, fingers closing on nothing but mist. The man's smirk softened, almost fond, as he faded. Only his promise remained, echoing like a vow in her head: You're mine.

The Sacred Grove crashed back into focus. She sat upright with a jerk, lungs heaving. Cool morning air rushed into her mouth, tasted of mint and dew—not at all like the warm spice that had clung to him. Her heart pounded so hard her vision dotted with sparks.

Sunlight broke through the canopy, throwing silver coins onto the moss. She stared at those circles, trying to ground herself, but the memory of his touch shimmered over them like heat-mirage. Trembling, she pressed fingers to her lips. They still tingled as if kissed raw.

"W-what was that?" Her own voice sounded foreign—breathless, husky. She swallowed, but the lump of longing lodged in her throat refused to move.

She forced herself to her feet. The robe she wore now felt too light, too thin, as though every breeze might expose the heat still simmering beneath her skin.

A sparrow forged of pure light settled on a nearby branch, tilting its glowing head. Its bright trill should have soothed her; instead it reminded her of his laughter. Heat flooded her cheeks anew.

Stop this. You are the Saintess. Composure first, questions later. Steeling shaky legs, she headed down the path toward the open glade where morning prayers awaited.

_____

The gathered priestesses rose as she arrived, their white-and-silver habits fluttering in respectful bows. Paladins in gleaming mail stood like silent statues along the clearing's edge. She raised the chalice of moon-blessed water; at once every head bowed, waiting for the invocation.

"Blessed be the waters that spring from life," she began, voice softer than usual. The holy words fluttered, fragile birds fighting a storm of memory. Images of that man's mouth on her throat surged. She nearly dropped the chalice; water sloshed but did not spill. Gasps rippled through the rows.

"Lady Saintess, are you unwell?" Sister Ilyana whispered, worry shadowing her doe-brown eyes.

"I…it is nothing," she answered, forcing a smile that felt too bright. Her hands tightened on the silver cup until her knuckles ached. She finished the blessing, each line trailing a heartbeat late, every syllable weighed with secret fire. When it was done the priestesses dispersed, reluctant but obedient.

She remained standing a moment longer, breathing in through her nose, out through parted lips. Calm. Serenity. You have recited these prayers since childhood. But never with such tremors beneath your skin, never with desire pooling low like molten gold.

Duties followed one another—blessing a newborn presented by tearful parents, healing a traveler's sprained ankle, checking crystal wards along the perimeter—yet she floated through them as if half-dreaming. Each cool compress on the traveler's skin reminded her of warm palms exploring hers. When she leaned over the cradle the baby's sweet milky scent blurred into the memory of his musk. Her face kept flaming; acolytes traded puzzled glances.

She retreated to a small mirror set in ivy. The reflection that stared back shocked her. Gold eyes glassy, lashes trembling, cheeks fever-pink. Lips—were they…swollen? She fingered them and felt tingles again.

"Oh Light," she whispered, embarrassed by her own image. She turned away quickly, only to hear the Holy Tree's leaves rustle—a teasing hush, as though sharing in her secret.

The afternoon sun crossed high zenith. Shadows grew long. Still the dream clung, relentless. She tried copying scripture lines to steady her hand; the quill shook. She tried chanting in the quiet meditation hall; her voice cracked on every third note. Finally she fled to her private crystal chamber.

The door closed with a quiet click. Cool violet light spilled from faceted walls, usually calming. Today even the air seemed thick with memory. She pressed her back to the smooth surface, drew a deep breath, and let her head tilt until platinum hair fanned over crystal like spilled mercury.

"It's only a dream,"