The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 535 - 535: The Royal Morning (2)

With reluctant grace he eased back, but kept the intimate connection, choosing to simply hold her. They lay still, breathing together, hearts synchronized.

Her fingers toyed with the edge of the sheet, eyes tracing the morning stripes sliding slowly along the ceiling. "I love waking up like this," she said again, voice quieter, more vulnerable.

"I heard." He pressed a kiss above her eyebrow. "And I filed the request under 'lifelong objectives.'"

Her laugh came softer now, laden with affection. She turned, meeting his gaze fully, letting him see all the devotion, all the playfulness, all the fierce resolve a queen could hold for her chosen troublemaker. "Then add pastry procurement to the objective."

He saluted. "At once, Your Majesty." Yet he didn't shift to leave the bed; instead he repositioned so their foreheads touched, lips brushing in feather-kisses.

His hand drifted over her spine again, lazy, calming strokes that raised goosebumps. The question in his grin returned: "Who's stopping us?"

The hush inside the royal bedchamber thickened, as if the room itself conspired to hold back Time's impatient hand. Elowen rested her temple against Mikhailis's, inhaling the familiar scent of him—warm skin, faint spiced soap, and the subtle trace of midnight ink he so often spilled while sketching designs. Outside, a kestrel shrilled once before settling into a steady chorus of morning birdsong, but the world beyond their drawn curtains felt miles away.

She drew small patterns on his chest—figure-eights that dipped round a pulse point, swirled across a faint scar, then drifted lower, as though mapping secret geography. Each brush of fingertip coaxed a lazy hum from deep in his throat. His hand mirrored hers, exploring the line of her spine in soothing sweeps. When he reached the base, he paused, thumb stroking the sensitive dip just above her hips. Her breath hitched.

"You know," he murmured, voice still husky with sleep, "every cartographer needs pilgrim routes. Shall I trace yours again?"

She managed a halfhearted glare that dissolved into a smile. "At this rate you'll rename all my freckles and still be lost."

"Impossible. I have an internal compass." He tapped his temple solemnly. "It always points north—right there." His hand slid to cup her breast, thumb brushing the peak.

A ripple of heat fluttered through her and she fought a giggle. "That is flagrantly south of my heart, sir."

"Debatable. My heart says otherwise." He shifted, eliciting another slick glide within her. The sensation stole her retort, lips parting on a soft gasp.

Mikhailis's eyes darkened a shade. He caught her gasp with a tender kiss, swallowing the sound. The kiss grew, not hungry but lingering, like a sweet held on the tongue. Between them, the subtle rocking created a slow pulse—push, retreat, push—enough to keep them aflame without tipping into frenzy. Elowen's lashes fluttered; she felt each motion echo all the way to her fingertips.

A sudden gleam of mischief flashed in his eyes. "Experiment: if I change angle by one degree…" He flexed his hips again, this time upward. The new pressure stroked a spot inside her that made color burst behind her eyelids.

She slapped his shoulder lightly—half reprimand, half plea. "You—ah—you promised pastries."

"I promised procurement. Data collection may still proceed." He did it again, softer. Her toes curled under the sheets.

"Heartless scientist," she breathed, though her own body arched into him.

He dipped to nuzzle the shell of her ear. "That sounds like informed consent." But he stilled, allowing the delicious ache to ebb into warm contentment. "Another time, my light. Right now, the rebellion in my stomach must be quelled before it breaches the walls."

She huffed a laugh, pushing his chest playfully. "Very well. To the victors go the pastries."

Reluctantly, he eased from her body with a languid slide. Even that parting felt intimate, drawing a small breathy sound from them both as warmth escaped. A single stray thread of pearly fluid joined them for an instant before stringing away. Elowen glanced down, cheeks pinking at the sight, then met his eyes. Rather than tease, he brushed a reverent kiss to her forehead, honoring the vulnerability.

"Come," he said softly, rolling to his feet. Sun licked over the sculpted lines of his torso, and she watched a bead of sweat trace downward, marveling that the kingdom called this man frivolous. They saw the clown; she alone witnessed the quiet devotion hidden beneath.

He extended a hand, fingertips wiggling. "Rise, radiant."

She placed her hand in his; the size difference always surprised her—his engulfing hers with gentle surety. Together they slipped from bed, the cool floor sending a pleasant shock through her warmed skin. Mikhailis snagged a sheet and wrapped it round her like a cloak before lifting her effortlessly. She squeaked and clutched his neck.

"Show-off," she muttered into his collarbone.

"No, practical. Your feet looked chilly."

He carried her through the carved archway into the bath chamber. Steam rolled toward them, fragrant with crushed rose petals and a hint of vanilla. Lantern-globes overhead dimmed automatically to candle-softness as they entered, casting the white marble in gentle peach tones.

Rodion floated nearby, his porcelain-smooth plates refracting light like ripples over water. Tiny vents emitted a faint chime each time he adjusted the bath glyphs. The petals on the surface drifted in slow swirls, bobbing when droplets from the ceiling enchantments plinked into the pool.

Elowen reached to trail fingers through the mist. "Rodion, perfect as always."

The construct's eyes glowed a fraction brighter. <Margin of error: two percent. Adjustment complete. Water chemistry optimized for post-coital muscle recovery.>

Mikhailis coughed, half laughing. "Rodion, perhaps less explicit."

<Noted. Euphemism module activated.> A beat. <Bath ready for romantic rejuvenation.>

Elowen's laughter rang like glass bells. She slipped from Mikhailis's arms and into the water, a blissful sigh escaping as warmth enveloped her limbs. Silver hair fanned across the surface like liquid moonlight. She leaned back against smooth stone, eyes closing for a long breath.

Mikhailis climbed in behind her, water sloshing softly. He sat, then guided her until her back settled against his chest, her head under his chin. His knees rose on either side to cradle her hips. Their mingled reflections shimmered across the rippled surface—two outlines twined as one.

Silence stretched, filled only by the distant birds and the soft plip-plip of water. He combed his fingers through the ends of her damp hair, detangling slowly. "If only time obeyed us," he murmured.

She hummed agreement. Her gaze traced the ornate murals high on the domed ceiling—scenes of mythical lovers riding stars across midnight skies. "Those frescoes took three years to finish," she mused. "Imagine the patience."

"Imagine the back pain," he quipped. She elbowed him, causing a gentle ripple that set rose petals dancing.

A quiet beat, then she whispered, "Do you ever think we're greedy? Wanting the entire realm safe and still wanting mornings like this?"

He pressed a kiss to the damp curve where neck met shoulder. "Greedy? Perhaps. But a happy ruler governs better than a hollow one." He nudged a petal with his nose; it stuck comically to his wet cheek. "Besides, if anyone deserves both—"

She plucked the petal, laying it over his lips to hush him. "Flatterer." But her eyes glowed.

They lapsed into tranquil silence. Mikhailis let one hand drift under the water, tracing circles on her thigh. Not arousal—just anchoring them to the present second. She floated one hand over his, intertwining fingers, and for several heartbeats they simply breathed.

A knock, feather-light, tapped at the outer door. Rodion pivoted. <Signal pattern identifies Head Maid Lira. Admission?>

Mikhailis answered, "Enter."

The bath doors opened on near-silent hinges, steam curling around Lira as she stepped in. She was immaculate as always: black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, uniform free of a single wrinkle. A silver tray balanced on one hand, steam wafting from a porcelain teapot the color of dawn. Berry-studded pastries, glazed to a high shine, nestled beside slices of honey-soaked bread.

Catching sight of them in the bath, Lira's cool composure flickered for a heartbeat—a faint pink dusting her cheeks—before she recovered. She avoided staring too long, but Elowen didn't miss the flutter of her lashes as they dipped toward Mikhailis's bare shoulders.

"Your breakfast, Your Majesty, Master Mikhailis." Her voice carried that poised lilt, yet an undercurrent of warmth ran beneath the formality, like brandy slipped into tea.

Mikhailis offered a grin bright as trick sunlight. "Lira, you bring salvation. My stomach threatened open revolt."

"Indeed." She set the tray on a low cedar stool beside the bath, precise as clockwork. "I trust the rebel has been appeased?"

"Soon," he said, eyeing the pastries. Elowen pinched his side under water; he yelped softly.

Lira's lips curved by a millimeter; amusement or envy, Elowen couldn't say. The maid folded her hands. "Shall I pour?"

"Please," Elowen answered, voice gentle.

Lira knelt gracefully, skirts fanning. The teapot's spout gurgled, filling two delicate cups. The scent of lemongrass and rosehips wafted, mingling with bath steam. She offered one cup to each—careful to avert her gaze from Mikhailis's torso as he leaned to accept it, water dripping from defined shoulders.

"Thank you," Elowen murmured. Their fingers brushed; she thought she felt a tremble in Lira's usually steady hand.

The maid stood, smoothing her apron. "If there is nothing further, I shall ensure the corridor remains undisturbed."

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