Please skip the chapter if you are seventeen or below. You have been warned.
****
Cersei's heels stabbed the marble floor, each step a wound she couldn't bleed out. The palace hummed with secrets—silk curtains whispering, shadows curling like lovers in the dim light. She'd come for Atlas, only Atlas, dodging the queen's summons like a blade to the throat. Power was her wine, her meat, her marrow, but it tasted sour without him. The king—her cousin, that sneering fool—had mocked Atlas once, called her a shadow of Lara. Now he'd handed his ring to Atlas, a boy turned enigma, and his world tilted, taking her with him as well.
She'd read his letter, ink bleeding with a voice she didn't know—sharp, steady, a man's growl in a boy's scrawl. Meeting him cracked her open. He wasn't the desperate wraith clinging to Lara's hem anymore. Six foot of mystery, strength coiled in his frame, smarts glinting in his eyes like a blade catching firelight.
And after so many weeks of discussion, bargain of lands and talk about ruling philosophy. She saw it.
'I see a man in that boy,' she thought, biting her lip until it stung. 'A very… very desirable man.' Her smile was a slash of hunger. 'Wait till his hair grows. Till he's ripe.' Her thighs brushed together, a spark begging to blaze.
"Ah! Ahh!"
The sounds hit her like a slap, freezing her steps near his door. Her breath caught, jagged. 'Sansa?' The name clawed her mind. Slow now, silent, she crept closer, curiosity a noose tightening. A noble like her—power carved into her bones—hiding like a thief. Pathetic. Irresistible.
"Ahhh! Your Highnesssss!" Sansa's cry pierced the air, raw and shameless. Cersei's hand hovered, then pushed the door a crack. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a beast clawing free.
"Oh God," she gasped, the words slipping out, sharp as shattered glass. Atlas loomed over Sansa, his body a storm—muscle taut, hips driving, relentless. Sansa sprawled on her back, bare ass perched on the sofa's edge, legs trembling as he plunged into her. The slap of skin echoed, wet and brutal, a rhythm that drowned Cersei's pulse. 'That's not a boy's size...' she thought, eyes locked on him, her face aflame, cheeks burning crimson.
'Were they always this close?' The question gnawed, slow, cold, lethal. She pressed a hand to her chest, nails digging into silk, as if she could claw the ache out. She wanted to scream, to storm in and rip Sansa away, to shove Atlas against the wall and claim him—bite his neck, taste his sweat, make him 'hers' But her feet stayed rooted.
"Fuck," she hissed, barely a whisper, her voice cracking like a confession. Atlas shifted, a growl rumbling from his throat, and Sansa's moan spiked—high, broken, a sound that stabbed Cersei's gut. Her hands shook, wax from an unlit candle she'd grabbed somewhere dripping onto her skin. It burned. She didn't care. She watched, trapped, as his pace quickened, Sansa's fingers clawing the sofa, her pleas a litany of "Please, please, oh God, Atlas—"
'How long?' The question clawed at her throat. 'How many fucking years since someone touched me like that? Shoved me like that?" Her husband—that hollow, puppet husk—never dared, and she'd sooner gut him than let him try. Her title, her power, they'd been her chains, her shield. Now they were ash, crumbling under the weight of a hunger she couldn't name.
She slammed against the wall, marble cold against her burning skin, her hand clawing at her stomach as if she could rip the need out. 'I'm a Marquise' she snarled to herself, 'not some slut begging for scraps.' But her body laughed—wet, trembling, screaming for Sansa's place beneath Atlas, for his hands to break her open, for his voice to roar her name.
"Ohhhh!!! So BiG!!! I'm cuminh!! Cuming!!" Sansa's cries had been a lash, flaying Cersei's pride to ribbons. She'd stood there, a ghost at the door, watching through the crack—Atlas's back rippling, sweat-slick, his hips crashing into Sansa with a fury that shook the frame. Sansa, that lowly maid, sprawled and screaming, her voice a blade that carved Cersei hollow.
She'd bolted, dignity a shredded rag, her mind a howling storm of lust and hate. 'He's young,' she'd hissed, trying to stitch logic over the wound. 'Let him fuck his way through the night.' But the lie choked her. She didn't want him spilling himself into 'her'. She wanted to be the one unraveling, her screams tearing the palace apart.
Now, alone, she pressed her forehead to the stone, breath ragged, tearing from her lungs. "I swear, Atlas," she spat, voice a venomous tremble, "if you don't satisfy me till I can't breathe—" She saw it—his hands bruising her hips, his mouth devouring her, a storm of flesh and fire. "—I'll burn our pact to the ground."
But it was bullshit, and she knew it. She was already drowning, tangled in a net of want and despair. She shoved off the wall, stumbling forward, legs unsteady as a drunk's. 'Rose-scented candles' she thought, a laugh cracking her lips—bitter, jagged. ' I need some rose-scented candles and a Rosy book tonight.'
Behind her, the sounds crashed louder—
Plat! Plat! Plat! skin on skin, a taunt that sank claws into her spine. She kept walking, fast, before she turned back and tore the door down with her bare hands.
"I'm not done yet!" Atlas's voice echoed.
Plat! Plat! Plat! Plat!
"Ohhh! Ahhh! YESS! YYESS!" Sansa's moan getting louder and louder.
.
.
.
Morning clawed through the curtains, gold slicing the dark. Atlas woke slow, body heavy with the wreckage of lust. Sansa was there, her pale skin a soft glow, pressed against him like she'd been forged to fit. He dragged her closer, arm locking around her waist, her heat sinking into him. For once, the world could wait—queens, courts, the whole damn royalty could rot. Here, it was just her.
"Your… highness…" she mumbled, voice thick with sleep, a sound that hooked his chest and pulled. He kissed her cheek—salty, raw, a map of their night—and let himself sink into her. 'Fuck the day,' he thought.
Her hair smelled of roses and sweat, a tether to the chaos they'd made. He buried his face in it, breathing her in, letting the scent drown the noise outside. Sansa shifted, her hand finding his, fingers threading tight. "You're awake," she rasped, voice a low burn.
"Barely," he growled, thumb scraping her skin. "Sleep."
She pressed closer, lips grazing his neck. "You're mine."
He laughed, rough and deep. "Damn right." But it wasn't just words—it was a vow, a blade he'd wield to keep her. Sansa wasn't a prize or a pawn; she was the one who saw him—stripped, scarred, human—and didn't flinch.
She kissed him, hard, teeth grazing his lip, tasting the edge of him. "I'd bleed for you," she muttered, voice a snarl against her mouth.
he pulled back, eyes blazing. "You already have." His hand slid down her chest, nails digging in, marking her soft bossoms. They crashed together again, a tangle of limbs and hunger. Hunger for more touch, hunger for more love, hunger for more pleasure.