The Ashborn Crown Chapter 6 | Smoke & Embers
One stolen moment behind a ballroom column nearly shatters every rule Tharion swore to obey. But the real danger isn’t being caught—it’s realizing Velara wants him just as badly.
The ballroom stretched ahead, lined with shadowed alcoves and hidden corners. Tharion’s mind was a riot. Two hours of dining, speeches, forced composure, and subtle, illicit touches under the table had left him spinning, especially after he had discovered Velara’s dress slit ran all the way up her thigh, and beneath it nothing but thigh-high silk stockings. His pulse thudded in his ears, the careful masks of etiquette, centuries of expectation, and rehearsed bows dissolving into heat and lust.
Velara led him to one of the deeper nooks with a well-placed column blocking its interior from the view of the ballroom. She turned to him, the regal composure she had maintained at the head of the table melting into something dangerous. Her fingers curled into the collar of his uniform. Her body pressed into his. Her low, molten voice brushed against his ear. “You did very well.”
Tharion exhaled sharply, barely aware of the words except for the way they coiled through him like fire.
“And now,” she whispered, lips brushing the line of his jaw, “I owe you a reward.”
His mind faltered, freezing, every nerve on edge. Her hand slid up his chest, and he caught her wrist instinctively. “Velara,” he breathed, “if you start something here, I’m not stopping.”
Her inhalation was sharp, trembling, startled—and yet her pupils widened in that dangerous, deliberate way that made his stomach drop. “Good,” she murmured, kissing him just below his ear.
His hands shot to her waist before thought could interfere. “Velara.”
“You drove me crazy at that table,” she whispered, molten and precise.
He blinked. “I… drove you?”
“Yes.” Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to claim him. “And you kept telling me to stop?”
“You were torturing me.”
Her slow, hungry smile almost undid him entirely. “Good.” She pressed her lips to his jaw, a teasing, claiming brush that sent a bolt of heat straight through him.
Every muscle locked. “Velara… your parents…”
“They’re occupied,” she murmured, breath hot against him, “and I need you.”
He swallowed hard, feeling the impossible tension of the moment. He had fantasized for months about every teasing brush of her hand, about kissing her. But this, living it, was an entirely different storm. Her leg hooked around his hip, the slit of her dress opening him to the silk and skin beneath. Her breath was hot along his cheek. Her hands clenched his uniform, trembling with desire.
“We cannot. Not here,” he gasped, trying to anchor himself to reason.
Her fingers tightened. “Then stop me,” she whispered.
He didn’t. He couldn’t. She kissed him. Not soft. Not restrained. This was claiming, consuming, a firestorm of hunger that left him raw. Tharion’s restraint shattered. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his hips with perfect ease. Her breath hitched, a quiet, beautiful sound that twisted his insides.
“Tharion.”
“Later,” he growled against her mouth, teeth brushing hers, “you said.”
Her pulse hammered against him, rapid, desperate. “Yes,” she whispered.
He forced himself, barely, to set her down. Every nerve screamed. Her pupils were wide. Her hands trembled on his chest, yet she did not move away. Tharion’s voice dropped, low and rough. “If we don’t stop, I’ll fuck you right here.”
They were seconds from losing all control when a soft, polite throat-clear echoed down the hall. They broke apart violently. Edric stood there, arms crossed, face unreadable, entirely unimpressed. The fire, the reckless, delicious tension, all vanished into sudden silence. Tharion’s chest heaved, hands still pressed against her waist, as Velara’s fingers lingered on his collar, trembling slightly, wide-eyed. Edric’s gaze swept over them, sharp, assessing, one brow raised. “Enjoying the dance?” His tone was clipped, formal, unamused.
Tharion froze, pulse hammering, every nerve on fire, realizing that for now, the moment was over—but it would linger, molten and vivid, in every corner of his mind.
Velara pressed a finger to his chest, brushing his uniform, whispering just enough for him alone to hear. “Control yourself.” Her voice was molten but careful, teasing him, testing him, and it drove him crazier than the last hour had.
Tharion inhaled sharply, trying to ground himself. Control… right. His hands slid reluctantly from her waist, but he kept them close, brushing along the curve of her hips without making her step back. Her leg, still lightly hooked around him, shifted as she set her foot onto the floor.
The alcove was small enough to feel intimate, large enough to hold the dangerous pull of what had almost happened. Tharion knew with a shiver that a single misstep would have sent them over the edge.
Velara tilted her head, eyes narrowing just enough to make him shiver. “You know,” she whispered, slow, deliberate, “we could finish this. Right here. No one would see.”
Tharion exhaled sharply, gaze flicking down the hall, then back at her, trapped between restraint and want. “I know,” he breathed, low and ragged, “and I… want to.”
Tharion followed Velara back into the ballroom, every step a battle against the pull of the alcove. The music swelled as the chatter of hundreds of dragons washed over them like a tide.
Velara moved beside him with effortless poise. Her composure had returned, the dangerous edge replaced with regal, practiced grace. Her gown flowed around her like liquid ember and obsidian, the slit teasingly high.
You’re doing fine, she had whispered earlier, and that thought chased him now, both comforting and maddening.
He caught himself, reminding himself that the world is watching. The Flight Lord was present, as was every court dignitary in the room. Velara’s fingers slid over the back of his hand, stroking his knuckles in subtle reassurance. Tharion exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stand straighter, to mask the chaos inside. Tharion’s pulse slowed slightly, though the fire in his veins remained.
The ballroom had begun to shift into a slower rhythm. The conversations became less rigid, and laughter flowed a little freer as time and wine and exhaustion wore down the edges of ceremony.
Tharion knew Velara had been awake since before dawn. She should have been falling asleep on her feet. Instead, she was gliding beside him like she had just stepped out of her chambers, although she was leaning on him a bit more as the minutes ticked by.
He glanced down at her. “You should be asleep,” he muttered under his breath.
Her eyes flicked up at him, amused. “I will be.”
They moved past another cluster of nobles, Velara offering the small, practiced nod she’d used all evening, the one that somehow managed to be distant and unmistakably royal at once. Tharion still wasn’t used to that. He didn’t think he ever would be. This morning he’d been one of hundreds standing in formation hoping the Flight Lord might notice him for three seconds. Now he was walking through a ballroom beside the Flight Lord’s daughter while one half the room pretended not to stare and the other half didn’t even bother to pretend.
His voice dropped. “You’re exhausted. You should go back to your rooms.”
Her head tilted slightly. “Do you want me to?”
The question went straight through him. He hesitated a fraction too long. She saw it. Of course she saw it. Velara turned fully toward him now, close enough that the warmth of her body hit him through the layers of his uniform.
“I’ve been awake since dawn,” she said softly. “Flew all day. Sat through two hours of speeches. And you still look at me like that.”
He exhaled slowly. “I’m trying very hard not to.”
Her eyes flicked down just enough to remind him of the alcove, the slit in the dress, the bare skin under his hand. When she looked back up, her voice was almost a whisper. “Then stop trying.”
His heart slammed once, hard enough he felt it in his throat. “Velara—”
“Or,” she added calmly, straightening again as another group passed, her royal composure snapping back into place, “we can keep pretending to behave until this reception ends.”
Then, without looking at him, she continued. “But if we keep pretending much longer, I may fall asleep on your shoulder in front of everyone.”
That image hit him so fast he almost laughed. Almost. Instead he leaned closer, just enough that only she could hear. “If you fall asleep on me, I’m carrying you out of here.”
Her lips curved slowly. “Or, we can just pop smoke.”