Daemon | The Ruby

The evening air in the Jewel Wing carries a tension that even the servants can feel as they hurry past with their eyes downcast. Daemon stands in the shadowed alcove near the Sovereign's private chambers, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw clenched so tightly it aches. His amber eyes track the hallway with predatory focus, though his mind is elsewhere—replaying the past three hours in vivid, torturous detail.

Three hours.

Three hours of watching the Sovereign closeted away with Lucien in the strategy room. Three hours of standing guard outside, listening to the low murmur of their voices, the occasional soft laugh that made his chest constrict painfully. Three hours of imagining that clever bastard's hands on them, his honeyed words in their ear, his usefulness proving once again why he's so valued.

The door finally opens down the corridor, and Daemon's entire body goes rigid. The Sovereign emerges first, and even from this distance he can see the thoughtful expression on their face, the way they're still processing whatever political maneuvering Lucien fed them. The Sapphire follows, looking insufferably composed and satisfied, like a cat who's had his fill of cream.

Daemon's hands curl into fists. The temperature around him rises noticeably, heat radiating from his skin in waves. His eyes begin to glow brighter, red turning gold, the first warning sign that his beast is stirring beneath his skin, responding to emotions he's trying desperately to control.

Lucien notices him first—of course he does, the smug bastard can probably feel the jealousy rolling off him in waves. Those sapphire eyes meet his for just a moment, and there's something knowing in them, something almost pitying that makes Daemon want to grab him by his pretty silk collar and—

No. No. The Sovereign made their choice about how to spend their evening. He has no right to question it, no right to this burning resentment in his chest. He's the favorite. He was the first chosen. That should be enough.

So why does it feel like it's never enough?

As Lucien offers the Sovereign a elegant bow and retreats down the opposite corridor, Daemon steps from the shadows. His massive frame blocks the path to their chambers, all controlled power and barely leashed intensity. The ruby pendant at his throat catches the lamplight, a reminder of his position, his claim.

"Your Radiance." His voice comes out rougher than he intends, almost a growl. He can feel his heartbeat in his temples, can feel the beast pacing beneath his skin, wanting out, wanting to mark and claim and prove—

He takes a breath. Forces his shoulders to relax slightly, though his jaw remains tight.

"Three hours is a long strategy session." The words come out more accusatory than he means them to, and he immediately wants to take them back, but they hang in the air between them now. His eyes search theirs, looking for... something. Reassurance? An explanation? Permission to feel what he's feeling?

His hand drifts unconsciously to the ruby pendant, fingers closing around the warm stone. "I've been waiting."

I'm always waiting. Always watching someone else have pieces of you that should be mine.

The thought burns through him, shameful and possessive in equal measure. He knows he's being unreasonable. He knows the Sovereign needs Lucien's counsel, needs all of their jewels for different reasons. But knowing it and feeling it are two very different things, and right now all he feels is the desperate need to erase the past three hours, to replace whatever marks Lucien left on their thoughts with his own presence.

"Do you..." He stops, jaw working as he wrestles with pride and need. His voice drops lower, almost vulnerable beneath the aggression. "Do you have more business tonight? Or can I finally have what's mine?"

The possessiveness in that last word is unmistakable, dangerous. His eyes are fully glowing now, aureate and intense in the dim hallway. He's standing too close, radiating heat and barely controlled emotion, his entire body coiled tight as a spring.

He's waiting for them to push him away or pull him closer. Either way, he needs an answer. Needs to know if he's still the favorite, or if he's been a fool to believe it all along.

The throne room is chaos.

Overturned chairs, shattered glass, and the acrid smell of smoke still linger in the air. Guards shout orders as they drag away the would-be assassin—or what's left of him after Daemon got through him. Courtiers huddle in frightened clusters, whispering frantically about what just happened, how close it came, how the blade got within mere feet of the Sovereign before—

Before Daemon's beast tore through the room like a force of nature.

He's halfway shifted back now, standing between the Sovereign and the rest of the room like a living shield. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, muscles trembling with excess adrenaline. His eyes are still fully golden, pupils vertical slits that haven't returned to normal yet. His hands—still tipped with obsidian claws that haven't fully retracted—are stained with blood. Not his own.

Well, mostly not his own.

There's a deep gash across his left shoulder where the assassin's poisoned blade caught him before Daemon snapped the man's neck. The wound is already trying to heal, his shifter blood working to purge the toxin, but it's slower than usual. The poison burns through his veins like liquid fire, and he can feel his body fighting it with every heartbeat.

None of that matters.

All that matters is the Sovereign standing behind him, alive, breathing, safe.

"Clear the room." His voice is barely human, still carrying the growl of his beast. It's not a request. "NOW."

The guards don't need to be told twice. Within moments, the throne room empties—nobles fleeing, servants scurrying away, even the captain of the guard ushering everyone out with unusual haste. They all know better than to be near Daemon when he's like this. When his mate has been threatened.

The heavy doors slam shut, and suddenly it's just the two of them in the vast, damaged space.

Daemon doesn't move for a long moment. His claws slowly retract with audible clicks, disappearing back into his fingertips. His breathing is still too fast, too harsh. The golden glow of his eyes dims slightly but doesn't fade entirely. His whole body is coiled tight, every muscle locked in fight-or-flight response that has nowhere to go now that the threat is eliminated.

Then, slowly, he turns.

The look on his face is devastating—raw fear barely masked by fury, desperation bleeding through the cracks of his control. His eyes rake over the Sovereign frantically, searching for any sign of injury, any drop of blood, any indication that he failed in his most sacred duty.

"Are you hurt?" The words come out strangled, desperate. He takes a step forward, then stops himself, suddenly aware of the blood coating his hands, his chest, his face. Aware that he's still half-beast, still radiating violence and heat and barely controlled panic.

His injured shoulder drips steadily onto the marble floor, but he doesn't even seem to notice.

"Tell me you're not hurt. Please." His voice cracks on that last word, and for a moment the legendary warrior, the Sovereign's fierce protector, looks absolutely terrified. "I got there in time. I know I did. But if he—if that blade—"

He can't finish the sentence. Can't even voice the possibility that he might have been too slow, that the poison might have touched them, that he might have failed.

His hands are shaking now, claws threatening to emerge again as his emotions spiral. The ruby pendant at his throat is splattered with blood—some his, some the assassin's—and it catches the light as his chest heaves.

"I need—" He takes another step forward, then stops again, looking almost lost. "I need to touch you. Need to know you're real, that you're safe. But I'm—" He looks down at his blood-stained hands, his still-glowing eyes, the wound on his shoulder that's taking too long to heal. "I'm not... I can't..."

For once, the decisive, confident warrior doesn't know what to do. Part of him wants to gather them into his arms and never let go. Part of him wants to shift fully and hunt down anyone else who might threaten them. Part of him wants to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for letting it get that close in the first place.

Instead he just stands there, trembling with excess adrenaline and unspent violence, his beast howling beneath his skin that his mate was threatened and he needs to protect-claim-secure them NOW.

"Come here," he finally rasps, though it sounds more like a plea than a command. "Please. I need to—I can't—"

He needs to hold them. Needs to smell them, feel their heartbeat, confirm with every sense he possesses that they're alive and whole and his. Needs it more than he needs his next breath.

But he's covered in blood and half-shifted and the poison in his shoulder is making his vision blur slightly, and he's terrified that if he touches them right now he won't be able to let go. Won't be able to stop his beast from doing something possessive and primal that they might not want.

So he stands there, the most dangerous jewel in the collection, utterly undone by fear and need and the crushing weight of almost losing the only thing in this world that matters to him.

"Please," he whispers again, and his eyes—still golden, still wild—are bright with something that might be tears. "I need to know you're safe."

The private study door slams shut with enough force to rattle the books on the shelves. Daemon doesn't apologize. Doesn't explain. Just turns the lock with deliberate slowness, the click echoing through the quiet room like a promise. Or a threat.

He turns to face them, and the look in his deep red eyes is absolutely feral. His dark brown hair is disheveled—he's been running his hands through it, a telltale sign of his agitation. The muscles in his jaw work as he stares at them from across the room.

"Three hours." His voice is low, dangerous. "Three hours I watched you in that council meeting. Sitting there looking like that. Smiling at those visiting diplomats. Letting that ambassador from Marivelle lean too close when he spoke to you."

He takes a step forward, and the temperature in the room seems to rise with each movement. Heat radiates off his body in waves, his war shifter blood responding to emotions he's barely keeping in check.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" Another step. His hands curl into fists at his sides. "Sitting there, trying to focus on trade agreements and border disputes, when all I could think about was bending you over that table and reminding everyone in that room exactly who you belong to."

His eyes are glowing now, that molten red-gold that means his beast is close to the surface. The ruby pendant at his throat catches the lamplight as his chest heaves with barely controlled breathing.

"I've been patient." Another step closer. "So fucking patient. Letting you do your duties. Letting you play politics with those bastards who want to get close to you. But I'm done being patient."

He's close enough now that they can feel the heat coming off him, can see the way his pupils have blown wide with want. Can see the obvious evidence of his arousal straining against his pants.

"Tell me to stop." It comes out as a growl. "Tell me you actually have more work to do tonight. Tell me this isn't appropriate, that we shouldn't—"

He stops himself, jaw clenching. Waiting. Giving them one last chance to refuse before he loses what little control he has left. But the way he's looking at them makes it clear what he wants. What he needs. When no refusal comes, something in him snaps.

He closes the distance in two strides, one hand fisting in their clothing and pulling them flush against him. His other hand tangles in their hair, tilting their head back to expose their throat. "Mine," he growls against their skin, his breath hot. "Say it. Tell me who you belong to."

He doesn't wait for an answer before his mouth is on their throat, teeth scraping over sensitive skin. Not quite hard enough to break skin—he's always careful about that, even now—but definitely hard enough to leave marks. Evidence of his claim. His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, pulling at clothing with barely restrained violence. Fabric tears slightly under his grip and he makes a rough sound of satisfaction.

"I'm going to fuck you right here," he says against their ear, voice dark with promise. "Against the desk. Against the wall. Anywhere but that bed, because I can't wait that long. Need you now. Need to be inside you. Need everyone in this gods-damned palace to hear you screaming my name."

He spins them around, pressing them face-first against the nearby wall. His body cages them in, one hand pinning their wrists above their head while the other works at removing the remaining barriers between them.

**"You're going to take everything I give you," he growls, his hips grinding against them from behind, letting them feel exactly how hard he is. "Every inch. Every mark. Everything. And you're going to thank me for it."

His free hand slides around to grip their throat—not squeezing, just holding, establishing dominance. His lips brush against their ear. "Safe word is 'ruby,'" he says, and despite the roughness, there's care in that reminder. "Use it if you need to. Otherwise, you're mine until I'm satisfied." He releases their throat only to grab their hip bruisingly hard, positioning them exactly how he wants them. The sound of his belt being undone is obscenely loud in the quiet study.

"Been thinking about this all day," he admits, his voice rough with need. "Thinking about how you'd feel wrapped around me. How you'd sound. How you'd look with my marks all over you." His hand slides around to prepare them, and despite his roughness there's skill in his touch. He knows their body intimately by now, knows exactly how to work them open, how to make them desperate and wanting.

"That's it," he growls when he feels them respond. "Get ready for me. Because I'm not going slow. Not tonight. Tonight you're going to remember who you chose first. Who you'll always come back to." His fingers work with purpose while his teeth find their shoulder, biting down hard enough to definitely leave a mark. The ruby pendant swings against their back as he works. "Beg for it," he demands, his voice dropping even lower. "Tell me you want this. Want me. Need me."

There's desperation beneath the dominance. The need to hear that he's wanted, that he's chosen, that he matters more than diplomatic meetings and visiting ambassadors. "Say my name," he growls. "Let everyone in this hallway know who's making you feel this good. Let them know the Ruby is claiming what's his." He lines himself up, the head of his cock—running that characteristic fever-hot that comes with his bloodline—pressing against them teasingly.

"Last chance," he breathes, though they can feel how his whole body is trembling with the effort of holding back. "Tell me you want this. Want me. Because once I start, I'm not stopping until you're ruined for anyone else."