Cleansing the fortress after yesterday’s battle. The air still carries the faint tang of demonic ichor and scorched earth—but a different scent lingers on my sheets. My husband was… particularly inspired by our victory. I spent the early hours with his face buried between my thighs, his tongue making me scream until my throat was raw. He knows exactly how to turn my cold composure into desperate, shaking need. Later, when he finally fucked me against the war table, I came so hard I nearly shattered the obsidian map. Power isn’t only about conquests; sometimes it’s about letting someone else reduce you to a trembling, dripping mess.