Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 68: To Belong To Each Other

A soft sigh slipped from Catherine’s lips. Somewhere in the room, an old winding clock ticked steadily, grounding the moment, while warm light pooled around them like something alive.

The instant that sound left her, Maximilian stopped trying to be careful.

He tugged her sleeves down, one and then the other, and the dress slid without ceremony... too easily, too honestly, leaving her... exposed.

Her heart slammed so hard it felt as though it tore loose from her chest.

Maximilian froze, his gaze caught, unguarded. Catherine reacted on instinct. Her hands flew up, covering herself as she rolled onto her stomach, heat rushing to her face.

For a beat, there was only silence.

Then he blinked. "You’re not wearing a bra," he said, genuinely startled.

He’d assumed there would be another layer, something that would slow this down, give him time to decide what he was doing. This... was not what he’d expected.

Catherine should have been furious. Or embarrassed. Or both.

Instead, the part of her brain that analyzed neural pathways promptly shut down.

She laughed.

"It’s a couture dress with an open back," she said, breathless, amused at herself and him both. "Of course, it has built-in support. Idiot."

She wasn’t entirely sure who the insult was meant for.

Him, for staring.

Herself, for ever thinking this was a good idea. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

Enemy king. Rule book. Boundaries. All of it felt absurd now, reduced to fragments while she lay half-undressed beneath him and he... of all people... looked flustered.

"Stop laughing, woman," he muttered, dropping his weight carefully against her back.

His lips pressed there, warm and solid, and the laughter faded into a sharp inhale as heat spread through her. She stilled, acutely aware of him... of the way he fit too naturally, too familiarly.

"It’s rosy pink," he murmured, almost to himself. "Just like last time."

It took a moment for the words to register.

"When did you see it in our past life?" she asked, absurdly calm, as though this were a reasonable question under the circumstances.

He didn’t answer. His cheek rested against her back, his silence heavy with things left unsaid.

She didn’t push. Maybe it had been that night. Maybe it hadn’t. Thinking too hard about it felt dangerous.

Catherine exhaled slowly, the weight of irony settling in. She had drafted rules. Pages of them. Clear lines, clear refusals.

And yet here she was, with warm sheets beneath her, his presence anchoring her, and her body betraying her with ruthless consistency.

That familiar heat stirred low in her abdomen again, unwelcome and persistent. She hated it. She wanted it gone.

But it had become a fact.

Her body wanted him.

"You smell so good..." he murmured, his lips grazing the smooth plane of her back, teeth barely catching skin.

"It’s probably the perfume," Catherine replied absentmindedly, though beneath that thin excuse, her body burned with a far more reckless wish. She wanted him to tear the dress, to lose control, to stop pretending this was anything but hunger.

"Hm..."

His mouth drifted lower, pausing at the small of her back. His lips lingered there, soft, reverent... then stopped, as though he’d decided that was enough. A moment later, his weight settled against her again, careful, restrained.

"Oh... what are we even doing?" Catherine whispered. The question felt fragile, suspended between shame and longing. How could she be like this... with someone she hated?

"I don’t know about you," he said quietly. His thumb traced a slow, scorching line along her spine, and her breath caught despite herself. "But I’m torturing myself. That much I do know."

His breath warmed her skin. She felt the effort it took for him to stop. To stay still.

Her lips curved faintly, unbidden. There was something dangerously satisfying in that restraint... in knowing she was the reason for it.

"I’m ovulating," she said suddenly.

It should explain everything. She’d always been too busy—studies, research, deadlines—to notice anything like this before. Maybe now, with space and stillness, her body was simply... louder.

"That explains the scent," he replied.

Her ears perked. "You can smell it?" She turned her head slightly, curiosity overriding embarrassment. She’d read about it, animal pheromones and subconscious cues, but... humans?

"What does it smell like?" she asked, genuinely intrigued.

He was quiet for a beat.

"It’s..." He exhaled through his nose. "Torturous." Then, rough honesty slipped through. "It makes me want to rock you to heavens and put my baby inside you."

That did it.

Catherine went utterly still.

"Now you’re speechless," he said softly, almost amused, before rolling onto his side. She followed, turning away from him on the yielding mattress, her pulse loud in her ears.

"Don’t worry," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her exposed shoulder. "I don’t touch what I’m not prepared to commit to. And when I do touch you, it’ll be as my wife."

Her heart betrayed her instantly, racing hard enough to hurt. Disappointment threaded through it too, sharp and unwelcome.

"Who—who’s going to marry you?" she muttered, mostly to hide how shaken she felt.

He smiled in the dark. "Then you can’t have me."

"Who wants you?" she snapped back, cheeks puffed in false indignation. "Hypocrite."

His laughter was low and warm behind her.

Carefully, almost tenderly, he helped her pull the dress back into place. His fingers found the zipper, steady, unhurried, sealing fabric where moments ago there had been nothing but heat.

The click of the zipper sounded far louder than it should have.

Catherine let him finish. She didn’t stop him. Somehow, that felt natural—too natural. As if this was how they were meant to exist, side by side, bodies attuned, breathing the same air. As if the rest of their lives could be spent like this, in quiet proximity, in each other’s arms.

No.

Not him. Never him.

The thought struck hard, abrupt, and she felt herself pull inward, retreating behind that familiar wall. Maybe Maximilian sensed the shift, the distance blooming in her chest... because he eased back, giving her space without being asked.

"Do you realize," he said softly, his voice low enough to barely disturb the air, yet heavy enough to echo straight into her heart, "you surrendered your body to me last, last time."

Catherine frowned and turned toward him. "When did I surrender my body to you?" she demanded. "What nonsense is this now?"

Maximilian didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze traced her slowly: her eyes, then her lips, then back to her eyes. They lay only inches apart on the bed, close enough that the heat between them flared again, unwanted and undeniable.

"And now," he continued quietly, "your body reacts to me before your mind does."

Her breath stuttered.

"Liar," she snapped, turning sharply onto her back, staring up at the ceiling as though it could anchor her. As though distance... even this small, imaginary one, might cool her skin.

He watched her in silence for a long moment.

Then a tired sigh slipped from him, unguarded.

"So," Maximilian said at last, "what have you decided about him?" His tone was deceptively casual. "He does own a Big Pharma company."

Catherine’s throat tightened.