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Rey’s slippers make no sound on the stone floors of Castle Aeternus as she approaches the emperor’s study. The hour is late, stars faintly visible through the high, narrow windows despite the torchlight of the army encamped outside the castle’s outer walls. Why her grandfather has summoned her at this time of night, she cannot guess, but it’s surely nothing good.
The door creaks open before she can knock. “Come in, Adreïnna.”
“Good evening, grandfather.” Rey makes her curtsey deep and holds it until the emperor gestures for her to stand. Ensconced in a chair of carved ebony that might as well be a throne, Emperor Palpatine looks as ancient and wrinkled as ever, but there’s a gleam in his dark eyes that makes Rey uneasy.
“Do you know why I have called you here, child?” he rasps.
“No, grandfather.” Rey schools her expression to docile blankness.
“I have received a divine vision.” Bone-white fingers dig into the crimson velvet armrests of the emperor’s chair. “A prophecy. A revelation.”
Rey fights to keep her breathing steady. Sith visions usually portend destruction and bloodshed, not peace and prosperity. With the Nabooian army at their doorstep, and the enemy’s most fearsome knight recently crowned king, peace and prosperity are already in short supply.
“It is unmistakable,” Emperor Palpatine continues, a note of triumph entering his frayed voice. “You, my dear Adreïnna, will kill Kylo Ren. Tonight.”
An icy chill slides down Rey’s spine. “Are you sure, grandfather?”
With a wave of the emperor’s hand, Rey’s knees slam to the floor. She bites back a cry of pain; if there’s anything her grandfather hates more than defiance, it’s weakness.
“Of course I am sure,” the emperor hisses. “Are you questioning the revelations of the Divine Force?”
“No, grandfather.” Rey forces the syllables out. “Forgive my thoughtless words.”
“Hmmm.” The pressure holding her down eases, but the emperor does not invite her to stand again. “You have a great destiny, child—this is a moment of fateful importance in the glorious history of Exogol! My foresight in training you in the blade and the techniques of the Sith has proven wise.”
Head bowed, Rey grits her teeth and waits for the axe to fall.
“I have Seen it. My dear granddaughter, slipping unseen through the enemy camp. Slitting the throat of that upstart Kylo Ren.” He spits the name out, flecks of saliva landing on the stones before Rey. “And in between—” he cackles, long and loud. “A kiss! Bare skin! The doomed usurper king, utterly distracted and vulnerable.”
Rey’s stomach lurches horribly.
“I can hardly believe I didn’t devise such a scheme earlier!” the emperor exults. “Kylo Ren, like his former master, may aspire to our greatness, but he will never achieve the control required to be a true Sith.” Scorn twists the emperor’s pale, wrinkled face into a grotesque rictus. “Sentiment lurks within Ren’s heart—just as it did for his treasonous grandfather. So he is but a man—and men are weak, easily led astray by the pleasures of the flesh.”
Pushing down her disgust and panic, Rey forces herself to think logically. She has killed before, though only in the heat of battle. Kylo Ren is a fearsome warrior, but she has skill of her own. If she can take him by surprise, she stands a chance—though her odds of escaping the enemy camp afterwards remain slim.
But maybe this is her fate. Maybe she can finally make up for her disgraceful, traitorous parents. She’d prefer to die as a warrior than run away and drown in the River Ixigul like they had. And maybe the seduction that her grandfather claims to have foreseen won’t be necessary—she might catch Ren already sleeping, or distract him with a mere kiss. Surely she can stomach that, to end this war for the sake of her people.
A terrified maid enters the room, curtsying far lower than Rey had. The emperor reaches out with a withered hand and takes the bundle of silky fabric, then dismisses the maid with a curt command.
Sheev Palpatine, the Divine Emperor of Exogol, Exalted Scion of the Sith Eternal, Rey’s grandfather, holds up the dress—if indeed it can be called such, as the fabric is nearly translucent—and laughs again.
He tosses the garment to the floor in front of Rey. “Go now, Adreïnna. Make your ancestors proud.”
—
Rey creeps through the Nabooian army camp, keeping to the shadows and using the power of the Sith to further muffle her footsteps and conceal her from the handful of soldiers on patrol. It must be nearing midnight—if Kylo Ren has any sense, he will be resting before battle resumes on the morrow. Though perhaps it is too much to hope that a knight who killed his king and stole the crown, who hides his face behind a fearsome dark helmet and fights like a devil, has any sense whatsoever.
The tent belonging to the king of Naboo is easily identifiable by its large size, proud black-and-gold pennant, and the two guards standing before the entrance. Expecting as much, Rey had reluctantly donned the sheer dress beneath her battle leathers, stuffing the trailing ends into her breeches. Now, in the shadow of a neighboring tent, she unbuckles her sword and leather armor, and rolls the whole lot in her breeches before stowing the bundle under the tent's edge. The aftertaste of wild carrot seeds lingers on her tongue, a bitter precaution for an equally unpalatable contingency.
Despite the smaller blades masquerading as jeweled pins in her hair, Rey feels horribly naked and vulnerable, but she knows there’s power in being underestimated and waiting for the right moment to strike. Posing as a camp follower isn’t a bad plan, just a deeply distasteful one.
Although she’s never crossed blades with Ren herself, she’s seen him on the battlefield, cutting down scores of soldiers with a heavy broadsword and using his own skill with the Divine Force to deflect arrows with a wave of his hand. But even if she can’t catch him unawares, he’ll be at a disadvantage in close quarters, against an opponent with equal—or greater, she hopes—strength in the Divine Force.
In the best-case scenario, Ren will be sound asleep, she can slit his throat, and she’ll disappear into the night with no one the wiser.
But if things get messy…. Rey’s chest feels leaden, lungs straining for air. She has only the vaguest idea of how she might escape afterwards, all predicated on the faint hope that Kylo Ren will have the decency to die silently without making a fuss. She can’t risk causing a disturbance by taking out the guards first, nor having someone stumble across their bodies and raise the alarm.
Well, so be it. Rey may not survive past morning—but she’ll see to it that Kylo Ren doesn’t, either.
Rey allows herself three deep breaths, centering her mind and body in the Divine Force, then steps out from the shadows. With an extra sway in her step, she approaches the guards outside the king’s tent.
“Evening, gentlemen,” she greets them. Their slack-jawed, admiring expressions are actually rather gratifying. “I’m here to serve His Majesty.” She adds the smallest nudge of power to her words, just enough that the men will assume the obvious without questioning whether she’s actually allowed to enter.
“You’re here to serve His Majesty,” the rightmost guard repeats. He exchanges a glance with his comrade. “Ohhhhhhhh. You’re here to serve His Majesty. ”
“Good thing,” the guard on the left says, with more honest cheer and less leering than Rey might have expected. “His Majesty’s been in a testy mood lately.” He winks at her. “Maybe you can set him to rights.”
Rey attempts her best alluring smile and hopes it doesn’t come off as constipated.
“Your Majesty?” The left guard knocks upon one of the exterior tent poles. “There’s a lady here to see you?”
A pause, and then a deep voice calls, “Send her in.”
I am a warrior of Exogol, Rey reminds herself. The blood of the Sith flows in my veins. I wield the Divine Force. Kylo Ren is nothing to me.
With a deep breath, she enters the tent.
Inside, a hanging lantern casts soft illumination over a war camp’s best attempt at luxury and comfort. Her feet sink into soft carpets draped across the canvas floor. A real bed, piled high with pillows and velvet comforters, dominates the far corner. But her focus is drawn to the center of the room, where a man wearing a loose black linen shirt and breeches sits at a desk covered with letters, maps, and a sheathed broadsword.
The new king of Naboo is tall, even sitting. Broad, with wide shoulders and powerful thighs. But to Rey’s shock, which she does her utmost to conceal, he can’t be a day over thirty. Dark hair escapes a leather band at the nape of his neck and falls forward to cast deep shadows along an aquiline nose and full lips.
Kylo Ren’s deep brown eyes regard her steadily, taking in her state of undress with a raised brow. “Did Hux send you?” His tone is mild, but a current of frustration lurks underneath. “Is this his idea of a joke?”
Rey shrugs, letting some of her own affront at his reaction show on her face. “It’s not a joke to me.” She doesn’t mention that she’s far more likely to gut General Hux with his own weapon than don a seductive outfit on his orders.
“Hmm.” For all that he’s technically a usurper king—and currently barefoot, in plain clothes—there’s something innately regal in Kylo Ren’s bearing. “What’s your name?”
Rey doesn’t have much of a cover story prepared, but she’s thought of this, at least. “Kira, Your Majesty.”
Kylo Ren presses his plush lips together and Rey has a dreadful realization that kissing him might not be so bad.
“And are you here of your own free will, Kira?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She had a choice. Not much of one, but enough to imbue her answer with honesty.
“I see.”
She hopes he doesn’t see past the obvious, so she lets her gaze linger on his lips and the long triangle of pale skin revealed by his half-unlaced shirt.
Widening his stance, Kylo Ren pats one strong, muscular thigh. “Then come here, Kira.”
Swallowing her trepidation, Rey ends up perching sideways on his lap, with both her legs between his own. One of Ren’s hands steadies her, a bastion of solid warmth against her lower back. If she is quick enough, can she pull one of the small blades from her bun and thrust it into his neck? No, the angle is all wrong, and he could easily grab her wrist before the blade made contact. She must be patient and wait for the right moment.
Ren tilts her chin up with one massive, gentle finger. Desire is overtaking his thoughtful mien, darkening his eyes and parting his lips. This close, she can feel his breath upon her face; it is warm, smelling faintly of spiced wine, not unpleasant.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmurs. “Tell me if I do anything you do not like.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Rey’s heart is hammering so loudly she imagines Kylo Ren can hear it.
His full lips quirk into a brief frown, almost a pout. “None of that. Call me Kylo.”
“Yes, Kyl—oh.” The last syllable of his name turns into a gasp as his mouth covers hers.
Rey is utterly unprepared for kissing Kylo Ren to be a full-body experience. She is instantly, intimately aware of not only his warm, soft mouth, but his firm thigh tensed beneath her, his strong arm encircling her waist, and every inch of her own body reacting like a flower blooming toward sudden sunlight.
It is far too easy to get lost in his kisses and the sensations they evoke in her, particularly when Kylo strokes her tongue with his own and tugs her even closer against his chest. Testing to see if she can employ the same tricks on him, she sucks on his full lower lip. The moan he lets out is deeply gratifying, but causes her attempt at distraction to distract her as well, stoking the arousal that simmers low in her belly.
Frustrated, Rey bites and licks at his mouth as if she can fulfill her task by devouring him this way. Kylo doesn’t seem to mind; he slides one hand around the nape of her neck to angle her just so, matching her kiss for increasingly filthy kiss. It’s nothing like she expected. Even though she can feel the tension in him, the desire, the want, he doesn’t rush—he kisses like a warrior reveling in the chance to learn from a worthy opponent, admiring her even as he studies her reactions and seeks to dismantle every one of her defenses.
Eventually, Kylo Ren pulls his mouth from hers, breathing heavily. “Kira—fuck.” He glances toward the bed in the corner of the tent. Rey marks a lovely gold-hilted dagger on the bedside table, but her heart twists at the boyish eagerness in Kylo’s expression as he lifts her effortlessly and carries her to his bed.
It will be easier there, she decides. I can use his dagger rather than my hairpins. He’s a big man, and a tiny blade won’t finish him off quickly enough.
Kylo sets her on the edge of the bed—out of reach of the dagger, unfortunately—and strips off his shirt and breeches in a handful of quick, efficient movements. Rey barely gets a look at his naked body before he drops to his knees and begins tugging off her boots and stockings. She hopes he’s in too much of a hurry to note their quality.
“Scoot back.” His voice is gravelly, low, sending another bolt of desire into her. As soon as she does so, he pushes up her dress, spreads her legs with large, calloused hands, and presses his mouth directly to the apex of her thighs.
Rey cries out loudly, not in dismay but in shamefully sweet pleasure. Kylo Ren’s mouth is warm and wet and he must be working some sort of forbidden magic with his tongue, because nothing has ever felt so good as this. Falling back upon her elbows, she almost forgets where she is, who she is, what she’s here to do.
Kylo devours her enthusiastically as she gasps and pants, then has the audacity to pause and raise his head, face gleaming with her arousal in the low lamplight. “More?”
“Yes.” Rey lifts her hips, chasing his mouth. “Don’t stop.”
She means it, even though there’s no way she can reach the dagger from here. Let me have this, she begs the Divine Force. Let me feel this, just once, and then I will do what I must.
Kylo shoves her legs apart wider and licks at her until her thighs tremble in his hold and Rey squeezes her eyes shut. The sight of him on his knees before her, dark head bowed and dedicated to her pleasure, grinding his own hips against the edge of the bed, is simply too much to bear.
“Say my name when you come,” he growls.
It’s hardly an imposition. The syllables of his name were made to be sighed and moaned in pleasure.
“Kylo,” she gasps, starlight fizzing in her veins. Then again, nearly a wail as everything within her clenches tight and detonates, a miniature supernova: “Oh—oh—Kylo.”
She is boneless, dazed, remade by the waves that ripple through her, stars dying and forming anew in the wake of blazing ecstasy.
By the time she blinks her eyes open, Kylo Ren is kneeling next to her on the bed, languidly stroking his cock with one massive hand. The organ itself is intimidatingly large, flushed red and beading with clear fluid at the tip.
He follows her wide-eyed gaze and gives a low chuckle. “It’ll fit, Kira. We can go nice and slow.”
“Um.” Rey tries to sort out her muddled thoughts and remember her lethal task. Instead, she says, “Okay.”
Kylo grins, a little too smugly for a man whose cheeks and chin are still shiny with the evidence of her climax. Or maybe the right amount of smug, upon further consideration. He strips her “dress” off, guides her pleasure-heavy body along the soft blankets until she’s reclining fully on the bed, and situates himself between her thighs.
She can’t quite reach the dagger on the bedside table from here, but it’s closer.
Perfect, Rey tells herself, gasping as Kylo Ren bends over her to lick at her nipples. Wait until he is relaxed and drowsy after his own climax, then strike without warning. She pushes away the sharp sliver of guilt that tries to embed itself in her heart. Sentiment is a weakness a Sith cannot afford.
“Kira?” Ren strokes her hipbone with his thumb, too tenderly. “Do you want my fingers first, sweetheart?”
“Oh—no, that’s okay.” She can’t possibly allow him to bring her to another climax if she wants to keep her wits about her. “I want you, um, inside now.” Displaying eagerness for the idea comes all too naturally, despite her slight trepidation. “Please?”
With another chuckle, Kylo slides his cock through her seam a few times to coat himself in her wetness. “If you want me to fuck you—” he drawls the word, unexpectedly sending another bolt of arousal to her core “—you can say so.”
The head of his cock bumps against her clit, already sensitive from his earlier attentions. It feels good. Too good. She moans, her hips moving of their own accord to rub against him.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Kira?” Kylo’s eyes are dark pools, his voice a throaty murmur. “Tell me.”
“Yes. I want it.” Rey grips the bedcovers tightly. The worst part is that every word falling from her lips is the truth. “I want you to—to fuck me.”
With a pleased growl, Kylo lines himself up and presses the blunt tip of his cock into her. Her breath leaves her lungs in a whoosh at the stretch. Knowing he’s thicker than three of her own fingers and feeling it are very different things. “Fuuuck,” he hisses. “You’re so wet—and so damn tight. Relax for me, sweetheart.”
Rey does as he bids, unclenching taut muscles and taking deep breaths. Carefully, patiently, he works her open, pressing forward and retreating inch by inch. Unable to help herself, she gasps and squirms beneath him; even as she struggles to adjust to the sheer size of him, she finds herself parting her thighs so he can push in further.
It’s devastating in completely unexpected ways. She didn’t know—she couldn’t have expected—that taking Kylo Ren inside her body would also feel like letting him into the air in her lungs, the blood in her veins, the ache in her heart. She claws at the blankets, unsure of what will bring relief, or even what kind of relief she needs.
Kylo’s own thigh muscles are tense and straining, his brow furrowed. “So good,” he mumbles—to her or to himself, she isn’t sure. “You feel so damned good, Kira. This tight little cunt”—he pushes forward another inch—“so hot and wet for me.”
There’s an aching stretch, and Kylo’s grip on her hips is tight enough to bruise, but Rey welcomes the slight pain. Words like “relax” and “good” and “sweetheart” aren’t supposed to exist in her world; they’ll fade away once Kylo Ren is no more. She doesn’t deserve to feel only pleasure. Except—
One of Kylo’s hands easily spans her thigh. He circles his thumb around her clit, making her gasp and squirm against him enough that he slides in another inch. The head of his cock nudges a place inside her that welcomes the pressure, begs for more. The stretch eases. “Oh,” she gasps.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “There?”
Rey makes a wordless, garbled sound that Kylo correctly interprets as assent. “There we go. You’re going to take me all the way, sweetheart.” He sounds almost as wrecked as she feels.
Still stroking her clit, he retreats and presses forward again, until his hips are flush with hers and she is incredibly, perfectly, overwhelmingly full. They both still, breathing heavily. It’s so much. Too much.
Everything. Not enough. Rey needs—she needs—
Kylo curls his body over hers and presses his forehead against her own. “Damn.” His breath puffs hot against her lips. “Kira, I’m—”
“Move,” she pleads. She wants an onslaught of physical sensation, pleasure or pain or both, to push out the emotions welling within her.
The king of Naboo obeys her impatient command, resting his weight on his forearms and fucking her with deep, slow rolls of his hips. His broad form blocks out the tent, the low lamplight, everything but the two of them—but it doesn’t feel like he’s looming over her or caging her in. If anything, it’s like he’s sheltering her from the world with his own naked, unarmored body.
And it feels … spectacular. Like watching a hurricane and marveling at its beauty and potential for destruction, except at the same time she’s within the storm, its gale-force winds shaking the foundations of everything she thought she knew.
With a grunt, Kylo sits up and lifts one of her ankles onto his shoulder, changing the angle and increasing the force behind his thrusts. Mid-moan, Rey realizes with a start that she’s building toward another inevitable, ruinous climax. It’s too good again—her hands scrabble at the bedclothes—she needs control—
“Can I—oh,” she gasps. “Can I be on top?”
Ren slows his thrusts, a frown furrowing his shadowed face. “Too much, sweetheart?”
“No! It’s good. So good.” The effort of maintaining the big lie makes other truths and half-truths tumble from her lips. “I just, um, really want to try it. To please you.”
With a thoughtful hum, Kylo Ren withdraws; Rey instantly feels achingly empty. He flops on his back beside her, cock hard and glossy from—Rey swallows—from her. From fucking her. It’s a flag waved in declaration of something—she’s just not sure what yet.
Kylo pats his thigh in invitation, pale skin dusted with dark hair and rippling with muscle. “Climb on, then.”
Trying to pretend she knows what she’s doing, Rey straddles him and lets him guide his cock back into her. It’s a stretch to take him all over again, but Kylo seems content for her to set the pace—if anything, he appears transfixed by the sight of her above him. His eyes are fully dark, with only a thin ring of honey-gold around the wide pupils, his lips red and parted.
His body is simply the most convenient place to put her hands—for leverage, for control—and she finds her fingers tracing the scars on his chest. So many scars, but none that could have felled such a mighty warrior. Rey imagines there’s a story behind each one—and that all those who managed to wound him perished shortly thereafter.
By the time she’s halfway down his cock, Kylo Ren is gripping the bedclothes with his fists and clenching his jaw. Control, Rey realizes. She has it. He’s fighting for it—and she longs to make him lose it.
They both let out a gasp once he’s fully seated inside her once more. Joined. Complete.
He’s beautiful like this, scarred chest gleaming golden in the low lamplight, rising and falling as he breathes heavily. Alive. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, the long line of it exposed. Vulnerable.
Rey knows sixteen ways to kill a man with a variety of weapons, or none at all. The thought drifts across her mind that she could use the Divine Force to cut off Kylo Ren’s air supply right now—but it would be a slow, undignified death, leaving him plenty of opportunity to fight back. No. She’ll stick to the plan of unravelling him through pleasure first.
But on her first attempt to raise and lower herself atop him, she lets gravity pull her down too suddenly and hisses at the sharp pinch in her core.
“Easy.” Kylo’s hands fly to her hips, lifting her with apparent ease. “Take your time, sweetheart.”
Rey doesn’t want to take her time. She wants to build the storm between them to a fever pitch again, to make him fall apart this time. Leaning forward, trying to mirror the position they were in before, she experiments until she glides down on him easily and Kylo’s long, too-pretty eyelashes flutter. His grip on her hips tightens, but somehow it feels like appreciation rather than an attempt at controlling her movements.
“Good,” he gasps. “Oh, Force. Just like that, Kira.”
Her core unexpectedly clenches at his words, making both of them moan. If the noise sounds more like a whimper to her ears—well, that was probably Kylo, not her.
It is good, though. And when he tilts his hips beneath her, suddenly it’s better than good. Rey bites back more moans, digging her teeth into her lower lip to regain a modicum of focus.
She sets a steady rhythm, aiming to wipe off the hint of a smirk on Kylo’s face and replace with distracted bliss. Every mutter of fuck, yes and so good and there you go, sweetheart makes her tempted to clamp her hand over his mouth. But to her chagrin, the unfairly sweet words prompt her body to flutter around him, which makes him groan in pleasure every time.
“Perfect little tits,” Kylo whispers, as if he’s talking to himself more than to Rey. When his hand reaches out to touch her breasts, she grabs his wrist none-too-gently and pins it to the bed before she’s conscious of doing so. Luckily, his eyes flare with interest rather than anger and he licks his lips rather than chastising her. “Have it your way, sweetheart. You want to please me and be in charge, hmm?”
It’s hard to remember what Rey wants and what “Kira” wants and what Adreïnna is supposed to want, especially because everything that’s making Kylo groan feels truly spectacular to her as well. Her attempt at answering him comes out as another moan.
“Yeah?” His wrist flexes within her grasp, but he makes no attempt to break free. In fact, he places his other forearm very deliberately in a mirrored position, where it’s only natural for Rey to grab it, too. For symmetry. Balance.
Kylo’s eyes gleam as she presses his wrists to the bed with bruising force. “Fierce little Kira,” he hums. “Walking right in here in that fucking farce of a dress, so sweet and coy, but all this fire was just waiting to be unleashed.”
Rey isn’t sure if she wants him to shut up or never stop talking to her in his low, hoarse voice. Meanwhile, his fervent gaze flicks between her breasts, the point where they’re joined, and, hardest of all, her face.
“What I can’t figure out, pretty Kira,” he murmurs, “is how much of you really wants to please me like a good girl—” Kylo plants his feet on the bed and bucks up into her with two powerful thrusts, making Rey cry out and clench around him before he stills again. “—or if you just want to take what you need from me, just use this cock to make yourself feel good.”
He’s nowhere near close to guessing the full truth, but he’s not wrong, either. Rey glares at him, but it just makes him grin.
“I could stop,” she threatens, even as she finds a new rhythm and her words come out as gasps. “Stop right now and walk away and leave you hard and wanting.”
Kylo groans, wrists twisting and thighs flexing beneath her. “But you won’t,” he begs her, confident words intertwining with a plea in his voice she can’t ignore. “Because you can have both, you know.”
“B—both?” Force, Rey hates how his perfect cock feels so damned good inside of her, pressure building toward a pinnacle she’s now desperate to reach.
She hates how what’s happening in this bed feels more important than the empire, more important than death or life or anything else in between. She hates how Kylo is still able to form words even though she can tell he’s hanging on by a thread. Increasing her pace, Rey rides him until her thighs burn.
“All you have to do to please me,” Kylo Ren promises, a vow so deep and fervent there’s no questioning the truth of it, “is to keep fucking me into this mattress”—the strain in his voice increases as she does exactly that—“and take everything you need, until you come all over this cock. Can you do that, sweethe—”
Rey can. She does. She is, and the waves of release crash over her, drown her in pleasure so acute she has no name for it, wash away a lifetime of bleak loneliness and stifled misery, leaving her gasping and trembling and free for long, glorious moments.
Through it all, she’s only vaguely aware of Kylo thrusting up into her when her thighs give out, shoving himself inside her as deep as he can go, and letting out a shout that might contain the word Kira.
Eventually, he rolls them both to their sides, wrists liberated from her grasp and arms wrapped around her.
Rey realizes he’s murmuring words into her hair and stroking her sweaty back with gentle, calloused hands at about the same time she registers that her face is wet and her lips taste faintly of salt.
“… so good, so perfect,” Kylo is telling her, these words that have never belonged to her taking an extra moment to register in her mind. “I never—” She can feel him swallow hard from where she’s cradled against his chest, changing course in the middle of his next sentence. “That was a lot, hmm?”
“Hmm,” she croaks in agreement. She should probably disentangle herself, she knows, but their bodies are fused together with cooling sweat and other fluids and somehow she’s never wanted to move less.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Kylo’s breath catches, hand hesitating between her shoulder blades. “I didn’t hurt you, d—”
“No!” Rey gasps against his chest. The indignity, the painful irony of having Kylo Ren ask if he’d hurt her, when she’s the one here to—
She bites her tongue to keep from sobbing for real, and wills her breathing under control. The way Kylo resumes his steady, soothing caresses along her spine makes it easier and harder at the same time.
“It was just so good,” she whispers once she can speak again, the sweet language that he’d gifted her rising to her tongue unbidden. If she has to take still more from him, she can at least give him one last small, precious truth: “You were perfect.”
Kylo chuckles, breath huffing across the top of her head. “You don’t need to flatter me.” With a brush of his fingertips against the curve of her ass, he adds, “Especially not now. But thank you.”
Rey doesn’t know how to tell him it’s not flattery without letting far less palatable facts leak into the reassurances her weak heart longs to offer. In the time it takes her to prevaricate, his breathing evens out and his arms relax as he falls asleep. He’s still holding her close, but not so close that she can’t wriggle out of his embrace.
Sated and exhausted, every part of Rey longs to drift off to sleep in Kylo Ren’s arms—but she absolutely cannot allow that to happen. Instead, she lifts her head enough to peer over Kylo’s broad shoulders at the dagger on the bedside table. If she can roll him onto his back without waking him, and call the weapon to her….
To be safe—relatively speaking—Rey waits for long minutes, letting Kylo fall into a deeper sleep and focusing her mind by reminding herself of all the reasons she has to complete her mission. Her grandfather, and what awaits her if she returns without fulfilling his vision from the Divine Force. Her people, because someone has to care if they live or die as this war drags on. Her traitorous parents, and the possibility that she can make up for their dishonor.
When she’s certain Ren is fully asleep, Rey maneuvers herself to reach one arm over his unconscious form, cringing at the wetness she can feel trickling down her thigh. He obligingly rolls to his back with a sigh, and she freezes in place until his breathing steadies again.
She reaches for the Divine Force, but it resists her, reluctant to obey until she digs deep into her frustration and makes it serve her will. With one final tug, her fingers close around the cool metal hilt of the dagger as it soars into her grasp.
There is no peace, she recites, gripping the weapon with white-knuckled fingers. There is only strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I achieve victory.
She brings the blade to Kylo Ren’s neck.
Later, she cannot say if she hesitates in a moment of weakness or if Ren merely reacts with uncanny speed, his eyes opening and both hands gripping her forearm just as the cold steel kisses his throat.
“Fierce little Kira,” he pants, almost like he had when she was riding him. He’s far too alert to have been asleep; she curses at the realization that he’d managed to trick her. Had he known all along? Had he suspected? Rey shoves aside a swell of painful fury and bears down on him with her full weight, until the muscles of his forearms flex and strain to keep the dagger from biting into his skin.
Gritting his teeth, Ren hooks an ankle around her leg and shoves his bare hips against hers in an attempt to flip her over. Rey throws herself backward—no, no, no—and scrambles off the bed. She’ll regroup, she’ll find another angle, she can salvage this—
—she can kick Kylo Ren’s hand away as he tries to grab her ankle—
—and not feel a flicker of guilt about hurting the same hands that had held her so tenderly only minutes ago.
“Did Hux send you to kill me?” Ren demands, rolling out of bed fully nude in the guttering lamplight, poised to fight despite his lack of a weapon.
Rey snorts derisively. “General Hux had nothing to do with it.” She angles herself between Ren and the desk where his broadsword rests.
This time, his searing gaze surveys her with the eyes of a warrior rather than a lover.
“Then why?” He feints left, then pivots right with speed that belies his bulk. Rey blocks him from reaching his sword and bares her teeth at him, letting the adrenaline of a fight distract from the fact that neither of them are wearing a stitch of clothing.
“For my people.”
Ren’s eyes widen in realization, truly surprised for the first time. “You’re Adreïnna Palpatine,” he breathes. His fists clench. “I would have thought such seduction beneath you, my lady.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” Rey snaps, stung. She lunges at him, but he sidesteps her swing, the point of the dagger missing his chest by a hairsbreadth.
He scoffs. “Surely your grandfather wouldn’t—”
The expression on her face must give her away, because Ren stops mid-sentence. “No,” he breathes.
The pity in his eyes is unbearable. Barreling forward, Rey swings the dagger in a broad upward slash that slices a shallow cut across Ren’s face from jawline to forehead. A tiny, traitorous part of her cries out in horror and regret along with his hissed curse. She blames her distraction at the sight of blood dripping down his face for letting him dance past her guard. He grabs his sword from the desk, unsheathing it in a single fluid movement.
Rey has seen the broadsword of the infamous Kylo Ren before, as he cleaves through enemies across the field of battle. Up close, the dark steel blade and swooping, ruby-inlaid hilt—and the ease with which he wields the massive weapon—are even more intimidating.
Unfortunately for him, she’s not easily intimidated.
“You don’t need to do this.” Kylo takes up a defensive stance, but his longer reach remains an undeniable threat.
“Actually, I do.” Circling him warily, Rey looks for an opening. If he’s not calling for his guards because he thinks he doesn’t need their help, he’s underestimating her.
“Why?” Kylo counters. “Because your grandfather is willing to sacrifice you for his power-hungry cause?”
“Because I want to end this war,” she hisses.
“So your people can keep starving under your grandfather’s rule?” Kylo anticipates her feint and parries with infuriating ease, but Rey twists under his raised blade and lets her momentum carry her past him. Leaping onto the desk, papers scatter as she slashes down toward his exposed shoulders.
Kylo barely blocks her in time, the impact of their colliding blades making her bones ache. The gold hilt of his dagger must have a steel core, because it holds steady as their weapons lock together.
“It’s not the only way,” Kylo continues, muscles flexing as he tries to leverage their crossed blades to shove her backwards off the desk. She can feel his hot breath on her chest and is abruptly reminded of the way he’d kissed her breasts less than an hour ago. “You could work with me. We could take him down together.”
Rey scoffs. “And then what, hand over the throne to you?” She draws on the Divine Force surrounding them and shoves him backward with all of her strength, sparks flying as steel scrapes along steel. “Not a chance. I won’t be a treasonous coward like my parents.”
Kylo Ren tilts his head to one side, keeping his guard up but not bothering to advance. “Your parents weren’t cowards.”
“What would you know about them?” she snaps.
His gaze bores into her. “I know your grandfather had them executed.”
Rey almost drops the dagger. Instead, she vaults backward off the desk, putting it between them to buy time. “You’re lying,” she gasps.
The pity returns to Kylo’s eyes. “You didn’t know,” he murmurs. He wipes away the blood that threatens to drip into his eyes, leaving a red smear across his forehead and wrist.
“They ran away,” Rey insists, hot tears threatening to blur her vision. “They drowned when they fled Exogol and left me behind!”
“They tried to flee with you. To seek refuge in Alderaan.”
“No.” Yanking her hairpins from her disheveled buns with her free hand, Rey throws them at Kylo like darts. He swats the first aside, but the second catches him just below his collarbones, scoring another bloody line across his skin—except he merely grunts, undeterred.
“Yes. I saw their letter to the queen with my own eyes.”
“How?” Rey croaks. She contemplates throwing the dagger at him, too, or pummeling him with her bare fists.
It seems she’s surprised Kylo Ren for a second time, though neither instance in battle as she’d hoped.
“You didn’t know?” This time it’s a question.
“Know what?” she shouts. The guards outside must be asleep, or incompetent, or both.
“I was raised as the crown prince of Alderaan,” Kylo says simply. “Queen Leia Organa is my mother.”
Try as she might, Rey can sense no trace of a lie in this audacious claim.
“Then why did you become a knight of Naboo? Why kill Snoke and seize his throne?” She doesn’t understand anything right now.
Kylo sighs. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you if you agree to set down our weapons and discuss an alliance,” he bargains. “One in which you rule Exogol, not me. We could sign a treaty right here, right now.”
Before Rey can answer, the guards finally burst into the tent, brandishing their own weapons and gaping at the sight of their king with blood drying on his face and chest, wielding his sword fully nude and facing off against an equally unclothed woman. Kylo’s raised hand halts them in their tracks.
“Your Majesty—”
“Leave us,” Kylo commands, without taking his eyes from Rey.
From the corner of her eye, Rey can see the guards exchange reluctant, embarrassed glances. After a long moment, obedience and embarrassment win out, and they retreat with a final, wary look at the naked woman brandishing the king’s own dagger against him.
“An alliance,” Kylo Ren repeats. “You wouldn’t be the first heir of Exogol to depose your predecessor, you know.”
Rey does know the history of her Sith ancestors. She wouldn’t even be the second or third or fourth Sith descendant to kill a relative for power. The treacherous thought has crossed her mind before, but she has no doubt that failure would lead to a painful, drawn-out death. On her own, she could hardly risk challenging her grandfather, but with a warrior of equal strength at her side, one whom, despite herself, she wants so very badly to trust … well, at least if she dies in the attempt, she won’t be alone.
“I’m not the emperor’s heir, though,” she points out, knowingly pedantic. “He doesn’t have one.”
Kylo Ren’s full lips twist in scorn. “Why not? Because he’s planning to live forever?”
Rey winces. “According to his visions from the Divine Force….” She trails off. The vision of her slitting Kylo’s throat in bed has clearly not come to pass.
Kylo shrugs. “Such things are fallible.”
Slowly, almost without meaning to, Rey lowers the dagger. “You mentioned a signed treaty?”
With his sword, Kylo makes a cut in one of the bedsheets, then rips it the rest of the way. He presses the cloth to his bloody face, keeping his uncovered eye on Rey. “One benefit of my own predecessor’s dictatorial government, until I get around to reforming it—my word is law and I don’t need some council to sign off on a diplomatic agreement.”
Heart pounding, Rey nods and points at the desk with the dagger. “Write it up. We work together to take down the emperor and declare an immediate end to this war. Your army withdraws, all prisoners will be released unharmed on both sides, and a long-term alliance with mutually beneficial trade policies can be finalized once I take the throne.”
The treasonous words come easier than she would ever have expected. She’s already calculating how best to leverage the output of Exogol’s mines and quarries for the food her people desperately need, straight from Naboo’s fertile farmlands.
It takes Kylo Ren less than ten minutes to write a formal treaty in astoundingly perfect calligraphy. He blows on the ink to dry it and turns the parchment around so Rey can read the terms, scribed exactly as she’d stipulated.
“What happens if you’re deposed?” she asks suspiciously. “You implied that General Hux wants you dead.”
Kylo shrugs again, apparently unbothered by discussing his potential death.
“It probably wouldn’t hold up.” He raises one dark eyebrow to give Rey a pointed look, then winces as fresh blood seeps from his cut. With steady hands, he signs his name at the bottom of the treaty and holds the quill out to Rey. “I guess it’s in your best interests to keep me alive, Adreïnna.”
She flinches at the sound of that name. “It’s Rey. Only my grandfather calls me Adreïnna.”
Warm, calloused fingers brush hers as she takes the quill. “Rey,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “Like sunlight. It suits you.”
Rey has no idea how to respond to that, so she focuses on the parchment in front of her. It’s deeply surreal to sign her name to a diplomatic agreement in the enemy leader’s tent while fully naked and only now registering the slight ache between her thighs.
Kylo Ren leans forward as Rey finishes writing the final e and gently tucks her loose, tangled hair behind her ear.
“Just so you know,” he murmurs, his lips scant inches from hers. “I wouldn’t be at all opposed if this treaty evolved into a more permanent sort of alliance.”
If Rey thought her heart was pounding when she agreed to his scheme, it’s nothing compared to the dizzying tempo in her chest now. She doesn’t pull away; she refuses to retreat.
“Because you want the throne after all?”
“No.” Kylo leans forward, brushing his lips across hers lightly. “Because I want you, Rey. At my side.” He presses one lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. “In my bed.” Another kiss, a mirror of the previous. “On the throne next to me.”
“Oh,” she breathes against his lips. It’s so, so tempting to melt into his kiss, to drag him to the bed and consummate their treaty with bodies as well as ink. It takes all her willpower to step back, putting an arm’s length between them.
Rey clears her throat as Kylo Ren’s soft, lovely mouth curls up into a pleased smile despite the bloody cut on his face. “In that case,” she declares, “I look forward to resuming negotiations after our victory.”
Kylo hums, surveying her form for the third time tonight—both lover and warrior and something else in his gaze that makes her stomach swoop and her heartbeat flutter. “So do I, sweetheart.”
