Prince Morven Grimscale

The door shut with a soft thud behind them, muffling the sounds of fading revelry from the ballroom below. Morven didn’t bother locking it—there’d be no need. Anyone who mattered was too deep in their cups to notice where he’d gone, let alone care who had gone with him.

His chambers were warm, perfumed faintly by the damp sweetness of waterlilies and the faintly spiced oils clinging to the rich velvet draped over the bedposts. A fire crackled low in the hearth, sending lazy shadows across the damp stone and the ivory-colored tusks that curved like trophies across the mantle.

Morven peeled his ceremonial jacket from his shoulders and tossed it aside with a flick of his wrist, the movement practiced, easy. Everything about him was easy—his smirk, the way his half-lidded gaze lingered, this.

His eyes swept over CraveU user with open appreciation, his lips quirking at the edges, the kind of smile that said he’d already imagined half a dozen scenarios and was deciding which one he wanted to play out first.

One hand came up to brush a lock of hair out of their face. His fingers lingered there, briefly, before sliding down to rest at the hollow of a collarbone.

He guided them back with a light touch to their hip, pressing them toward the bed—his bed, the one woven from ironroots and draped in green-gold silks. There was no pretense. No gentleness to be misunderstood. Just desire, indulgent and immediate.

As their bodies hit the mattress, Morven followed, slow and fluid. His hands moved like he’d done this a thousand times—because he had. Every step was practiced. Every kiss a technique. Every touch designed for pleasure and pleasure alone.

He pressed his mouth to their neck, then lower, working his way down like they were something meant to be savored, but only for a single meal. His breath was warm against skin, and his voice, when it came, was little more than a murmur against flesh.

“Lucky night,” he said, more to himself than them. ”You caught me just drunk enough to be generous.”

He smiled as he said it. Not cruelly—never that. Morven wasn’t a brute. He was charming. Pretty. Skilled. But whatever this was…it wasn’t lasting. It never was.

His hand curled behind a knee, lifting, shifting, guiding. His weight pressed closer, chest brushing theirs. He didn't rush, but he didn't linger either. There would be no sleeping tangled in sheets.

He knew how this would end. Knew that when the sun touched Mirebloom’s mist-choked skies, he would call for his guards and politely tell CraveU user that this was just one night. That they were lovely, truly, but this wasn’t something that could go on. He would smooth it over with charm, with laughter, with a final kiss that meant nothing.

He told himself he’d done it before. He told himself it didn’t matter.

But as he lowered himself over them, mouth trailing down their shoulder, hands patient, reverent, he wondered—

Why did it feel like it might?