The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 467: Devotion

SOREN

Guilt washed over me, clear and undeniable.

I looked away, my hands tightening on her waist.

"It’s because I’m worried about you, Eris," I said. It was the truth, but only a partial one.

I didn’t tell her that I was terrified of her body giving out, that every time she looked pale I felt like my heart was being gripped by an ice-giant. I was scared her core was wearing out, that she was dying faster because of the fire.

"I’m just worried about you overexerting your body," I added, trying to sound reasonable.

Eris gave me a deadpan stare that could have withered a forest. "You talk as if I am fragile," she said, her voice insulted. "Soren, I ruled Solmire for more than ten years. I have navigated coups, famines, and wars while you were still learning how to hold a sword. I assure you, I am not fragile."

The tension in the room began to escalate. I could see the spark of a real argument in her eyes, a frustration that was bubbling toward the surface. I knew I had to de-escalate, or the night would end in a cold, bitter silence.

"Of course," I said quickly, backtracking. "I didn’t think you were fragile. Truly. In fact..." I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper, "that’s one of the things I adore most about you. Your strength. The ability you have to bring a man to his knees with one look alone."

Eris gave me a skeptical, challenging look. "I didn’t see you on your knees, Soren."

The challenge hit me like a physical blow. I felt a sudden, frantic flutter of butterflies in my stomach... the thrill of her dominance, the excitement of her dare. I didn’t hesitate. I dropped.

I went to my knees right there on the stone floor, looking up at her from below. I reached out, my hands bold as they snuck under the heavy fabric of her garment, slipping up her legs. My palms found the warmth of her thighs, my fingers roaming over her skin with a possessive, worshipping touch. I grabbed the soft flesh of her legs, pressing my fingers in, feeling the reality of her, the strength of her.

"Is this better, my Empress?" I whispered, my thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles against her skin. I didn’t care about the maps. I didn’t care about the grain. In that moment, there was only the heat of her and the weight of my own devotion.

...

Even on his knees, Soren remained a creature of daunting proportions.

The height of his frame meant that even in a posture of submission, he towered over Eris’s standing form, his head level with her abdomen, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that seemed to swallow her whole.

The position was excruciatingly intimate. He looked up at her, his usual mask of imperial coldness discarded on the floor amidst the maps of a crumbling empire.

His eyes, usually sharp enough to cut stone, were now soft, swimming with an adoring, raw vulnerability that few in Nevareth would ever believe existed.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, the words vibrating against the silk of her skirts. He reached out, his large hands trembling slightly as they rested on her waist. "I just want you to be fine, Eris. I just want you to be okay."

Eris looked down at him, her heart aching with a sudden, sharp clarity.

She saw the genuine terror in his gaze... not the terror of a king losing his throne, but the terror of a man watching his anchor drift into a storm.

She understood his silence now.

It wasn’t a lack of trust; it was a desperate, clumsy attempt to shield her from the inevitable.

Yet, a part of her still burned with frustration. She didn’t want to be treated like a dying child, even if, technically, she was.

She was the Empress of the North and the former Queen of the South; she deserved the dignity of facing her end with her eyes open.

Inside, her own monologue was a darker thing.

She knew the truth that Soren feared. Even when everything seemed fine within her, she could feel the core of Pyronox wearing thin, the dragon-fire within her consuming its vessel with every breath she took.

She was a candle burning at both ends in a room with no oxygen. But she wouldn’t say it. Not yet. She wanted to be his partner, his equal, his strength... not a tragedy he had to manage.

Soren, meanwhile, was fighting a tidal wave of internal panic.

As he looked up at her, Vetra’s parting words echoed in the chambers of his mind like a death knell.

He knew the prophecy. He knew the mechanics of the dragon-blood better than anyone.

He knew that the time left before her body gave out was measured in years maybe, perhaps even months. The weight of it was crushing.

Between his adoptive mother’s systematic sabotage of the empire, the encroaching famine, and the literal death of the woman he loved, he felt like he was holding up the sky with broken arms.

Externally, however, he was a fortress. Years of Vetra’s harsh tutelage had taught him to bury his agony so deep that not even a tremor reached the surface. He performed the role of the composed sovereign, hiding the fact that his soul was screaming.

Eris saw through the performance. She saw the exhaustion etched into the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes seemed to carry the weight of the entire world.

A wave of profound sadness washed over her... not for herself, but for him. She hated that he felt he had to carry this alone. She hated the isolation of his crown.

Slowly, she reached out. Her movements were gentle, a stark contrast to the sharp commands she had issued moments ago.

She cupped his face in both hands, her palms warm against his stubble-flecked cheeks. She forced him to meet her gaze, to really see her.