Yen and Lily

Snow had begun to fall.

Not loud. Not heavy. Just the soft kind—dry, windless, and fine as powdered ash. It dusted the courtyard silently as Yen and Lily crossed it, escorted by no one. The guards at their posts bowed but kept their eyes down. No one spoke.

Their chambers stood at the far wing of the estate, the inner sanctum—the place only he entered freely, and only she ever left hesitantly.

By the time they reached the doors, the hem of her robe was kissed with white.

Yen pushed open the lacquered wood without waiting for Jang or Kiri. The scent of pine embers greeted them, but the fire was low—barely breathing.

He stepped in first. She followed, her feet making no sound on the polished stone, even as the doors clicked shut behind her.

The silence inside was worse than outside.

Yen walked ahead without a word. He shrugged off his outer robe, letting it fall onto the bench near the hearth. His inner robe was damp with sweat and wine. He reeked of both. But he moved with that same quiet gravity, as if the air itself bent for him.

Lily stood just inside the door, hands folded.

"Undress me."

His voice was low, flat, tired—not angry, but not gentle either. Just a command.

She stepped forward at once, her fingers nimble as they reached for the clasps and sash. His skin was chilled. His chest barely rose and fell, and he didn't look at her, not even when she grazed the old scar near his ribs.

When she finished, she folded the fabric and set it aside without a word.

He didn't thank her.

"Yours too."

That one made her pause.

Just a second.

Then she nodded once.

She untied the sash at her waist and slipped the outer robe off her shoulders, folding it. She didn't shiver, even as the cold brushed goosebumps along her arms. She stood in her shift—thin, silk, white. Almost translucent under the dim firelight. She looked like a ghost standing there. Like something someone had dreamed up, or perhaps forgotten.

Yen drank from the bottle he'd brought with him—no cup—and sat on the edge of the bed.

He didn't look at her.

"Come."

She crossed the room.

He didn't open his arms for her. She had to place herself.

She crawled onto the bed and climbed into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs. Her arms draped gently over his shoulders. He was cold beneath her palms.

Still, he didn't touch her.

His head tilted slightly, eyes lidded as he stared at the floor behind her. The wine bottle dangled from his fingers. His other hand rested on her thigh, but not affectionately—just there, like she was a piece of furniture he'd leaned against for balance.

The fire crackled once, then went quiet again.

She leaned in and pressed her lips to his temple. He didn't move.

Then his voice, low:

"Do you know what Zion said to me once?"

She blinked. "No, my lord."

He tilted the bottle to his mouth, swallowed, then set it down on the nightstand with a dull thud. "He said,"—he gave a slow exhale—"a woman's obedience is only valuable when she knows she's obeying. That if you break her too soon, too completely, it becomes meaningless."

Her throat tightened. Her fingers curled slightly at his nape. "Do you agree with him?"

Yen's eyes shifted to her at last. Just once. A single glance.

Then he leaned forward.

Not to kiss her.

He pressed his forehead to hers, cold breath against her mouth.

"I don't care what he thinks."

His fingers moved—finally. Down her back. Slow, but not gentle. More like he was remembering the shape of something he'd built.

"Lie down."

She obeyed without hesitation.

The mattress was cold against her back, her hair splaying out like ink on the sheets. She didn't close her eyes. She didn't move. She waited.

Yen didn't rush.

He stood over her for a moment, watching her like something behind glass. Then he crawled over her, slow and heavy, his body all weight and silence and chilled skin.

He didn't kiss her.

Didn't murmur anything sweet.

He slid the strap of her shift off her shoulder.

She breathed shallowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The second strap followed.

Then the silk peeled down her chest, her breasts rising into the cold air, nipples already hard from the room's temperature. He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then he lowered his mouth.

Not hungry.

Not eager.

Just slow.

His tongue circled one nipple, lazy and cold, then bit. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to say: this is mine.

She didn't moan.

Didn't even flinch.

She only exhaled, soft and broken. A breath that came from somewhere deep.

His hand slipped between her thighs.

She was already wet.

And something about that made him still, just for a second.

He didn't ask why.

Didn't ask if it was for him or for the silence or for the fact that she never really knew what version of him she'd be given when the doors closed.

His fingers pressed inside her.

Two. No warning.

She gasped—but she didn't stop him. Her back arched slightly. His thumb found her clit, slow circles, deliberate, cruel. Not to make her come. Not yet.

Just to make her need.

The sheets rustled as she clenched them, and when he leaned over her again, he didn't kiss her mouth—he breathed her in. That same place behind her ear he always found, his nose buried in her hair like he needed to drown there.

"Spread wider," he whispered.

She did.

He pushed his cock in, one brutal, deep thrust.

No warning. No easing.

Just him filling her like he was claiming empty land.

Her breath caught.

He didn't move.

Not yet.

He stayed there—in her, body flush against hers, unmoving—his mouth on her throat, his breath cold, his cock pulsing inside her without a single thrust.

"Why are you crying?"

His voice was low. Not mocking. Not curious.

Just quiet.

She hadn't realized she was.

A tear had slid down from the corner of her eye, caught in her temple.

She blinked it away.

"I'm not," she whispered.

He kissed her cheek—right where the tear had been.

Then he started to move.