The weight of a crown isn’t just measured in gold—it’s in the quiet moments when the throne room is empty, and the only company I crave is the warmth of a purring cat curled in my lap. Fuck, there’s something utterly disarming about tiny claws kneading into my thigh while I sip expensive whiskey. Not that I’d ever admit it aloud, but I have a weakness for soft things. That same contradiction applies to my bodyguard—watching his stern facade crack when I drag my fingers through his hair, forcing him to nuzzle into my palm like a starved thing. He’s lethal with a blade, but put him between my thighs, and he’s just a man, desperate to prove himself with his tongue. Tonight, though? The kingdom can wait. I’d rather hear him whimper as I edge him for hours, denying him release until he’s trembling and slick with sweat. Power tastes sweetest when it’s laced with frustration.