Next week?

  Pure fucking bliss.

  Chamomile tea. Warm scones. Debauchery.

  And absolutely, shamelessly, unapologetically corrupting Princess Loma with every whorish, gutter-learned, Seebulba-certified skill I’ve ever honed between sweaty sheets and velvet couches.

  Because here’s the thing:

  There was only one bed.

  One giant, rune-carved, princess-sized slab of luxury with too many pillows, too many blankets, and exactly enough room for two scandalously entwined bodies. The rug? Bear. Fluffy. Noble. But still a rug.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And royalty, as I reminded Loma every single night, should not sleep on the floor like peasants.

  Also — I deserved the bed.

  I survived lesbian cannibal witches. I climbed a tower wall in a fucking snowstorm. I earned my duvet.

  So Loma joined me. At first, all stiff limbs and fluttering lashes, clutching her nightgown like it was a shield against sin. Gods, she was adorable. Like a nun trapped in a brothel. She gasped when I slipped a thigh over hers, yelped when I bit her ear, blushed so red I thought she’d ignite when I whispered what else mouths were good for besides reciting royal decrees.

  By day, she poured tea like a proper lady.

  By night, she screamed into pillows like a very improper one.

  I called it a winter survival tactic.

  She called it… eventually… sacred sisterhood warmth rituals.

  Bless her.

  Anyway. The bed’s ours now.

  The warlord can have the rug.