Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 103: Kisses Weren’t Enough

"Catherine..."

His voice dropped low, rough, almost a warning.

Her pulse answered instantly.

His hand rose to her jaw, thumb brushing her neck, and she leaned into him without thinking. Feeling the warmth of his skin, the scent of him...something in her unraveled, something thirsty and wild.

This man... had waited all those years for her... That thought undid her.

Her robe slipped loose. She didn’t fix it.

The bare skin of her chest brushed his, and a soft, helpless sound escaped her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his grip tightening gently at her chin.

He was trying—trying to stay careful, to stay in control. He didn’t know what Dorian had done that morning, only that something had shaken her. He refused to become another shadow over her.

If he had to, he would step back. He would walk away.

"Why wouldn’t I be?" she whispered.

That was all it took.

His mouth crashed into hers.

She clutched his shoulders as he lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist. He pressed her against the wall, his body settling between her thighs, heat against heat.

Breath tangled. Lips moved. The small, broken sounds between kisses filled the space.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were unfocused, lips parted, and already surrendered herself... and something inside him snapped tight.

He kissed her again. Slower. Deeper.

Her jaw. Her throat. The delicate line of her neck.

A moan slipped from her, and his restraint thinned to a thread.

His hand slid beneath her robe, spanning her waist, then drifting higher, testing, learning the way her body answered him. His mouth followed her throat, collarbone, and the soft rise of her chest... kissing, tasting, worshipping.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, her body arching into him, offering more without words.

That sound she made... the soft, trembling sound, shattered the last of his control.

He carried her to the bed.

Her robe fell away. His towel was forgotten somewhere behind them.

Skin met skin—warm, alive, electric.

For a moment, the world disappeared.

He kissed her again, slower now, deliberate. His hand traced her as if memorizing her every flinch, her every breath, and her every shift beneath his touch.

She met him with the same hunger, her hands moving over him, pulling him closer, refusing distance.

Fear didn’t erase want.

Doubt didn’t quiet the way her body responded to him.

Kisses weren’t enough anymore.

The room glowed softly around them, the bed creaking beneath a slow, unsteady rhythm. Two people coming undone—by want, by memory, by something deeper than either of them could name.

Maximilian caught her wrists and pinned them gently above her head, his mouth claiming hers again before trailing downward, along her throat, her collarbone, the center of her chest.

She arched, a trembling sound breaking free as her body moved against his—seeking, asking, needing.

And he answered.

Maximilian slowed. Catherine felt it instantly—the shift, the restraint sliding back into place just when everything in her was reaching for more.

Her fingers tightened on him. He had told her once... he wouldn’t go all the way until they were married.

And yet her body burned, every nerve alive, every breath unsteady. "Are you going to make me beg?" she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them—half challenge, half plea.

He stilled above her. For a heartbeat he simply looked at her like he was searching for hesitation, doubt, anything that meant she wasn’t choosing this.

All he saw was her. Wanting him. Trusting him.

"Catherine..." he breathed, her name low and rough, like it cost him something to say it.

She caught his hand. Slowly, deliberately, she guided it downward, pressing it against her, against the heat and the ache and the place where she needed him most.

"I’m sure," her eyes told him. And this time... there was no hesitation in her.

Maximilian’s restraint didn’t break all at once; it unraveled. He bent and kissed her again, deeper, hungrier, like he was pouring everything he was holding back into that kiss.

His touch followed her lead—slow at first, careful, learning her responses, the way her breath hitched, the way her body arched toward him without thought.

That gentleness, threaded through all his hunger, anchored her.

Her back arched, her breath caught...and then it broke.

A sharp, breathless cry tore from her as the tension snapped and heat flooded through her in a rushing wave that stole the air from her lungs and left her trembling.

For one suspended heartbeat, the world vanished, and she shattered beautifully in his hands.

Maximilian stilled above her, shuddering at the sound of her, his forehead dropping to hers as both of them fought for breath.

He gathered her close, careful with his weight, as though the most fragile thing in the room wasn’t her body... but her trust.

Their breathing slowly fell into rhythm together.

The bracelet lay quietly against her wrist.

-----

Meanwhile, in Laurel Hollow, James Preston sat on the porch, a mug of warm water cradled in his weathered hands.

His sons had forbidden him from drinking, and the nights had grown long because of it. He hadn’t realized how much he relied on the dull comfort of whiskey to sleep, until it was gone.

William and Bobby sat with him for a while, talking about the ranch, going over numbers, repairs, cattle rotations, anything that felt normal. Anything that didn’t touch the unspoken things that hovered over their family these days.

After some time, Bobby stood, clapped William’s shoulder, and left for his own house.

The quiet settled heavier after he was gone.

Then James’s phone rang.

William glanced at the screen, and his heart dropped. It was Jeremiah Calhoun.

Without a word, he declined the call.

"Who is it?" James asked, his tone mild, but his eyes sharp. He knew his son too well.

"Dad, you need to rest. It’s no one," William said quickly.

The phone rang again.

This time, James reached for it before William could stop him.

"I haven’t spoken to him since Catherine rejected his son," James said, answering as he spoke. "But I can still help his business if—"

The rest of his sentence died in his throat.

Even from where William stood, he could hear the voice on the other end—loud, venomous, grief-stricken.

Accusations.

Curses.

Blame.

His son was dead.

And he blamed the Prestons for killing him.

William clenched his fists. The secret was out.

James slowly lowered the phone.

The softness in his face disappeared, as if it had never been there. The old steel, the man who had built everything from nothing, returned to his eyes.

"He says the Preston boys killed his son," James said quietly. "What happened?"

"Dad..." William began, stepping closer. "It’s nothing. He’s out of his mind. Why would we kill anyone?"

"William."

Just his name—but deeper, heavier, edged with command.

"Jeremiah wouldn’t say something like that unless it was true," James continued. "And I know my sons. If you killed his boy... then that boy must have done something to deserve it."

A beat.

Silence stretched tight.

"What did he do?" James asked.

William’s throat closed.

"Dad—"

"What did he do to Catherine?"

That was it.

The only reason that would push his sons that far. The only reason that would justify blood.

James’s voice softened, broke at the edges. "What happened to our Bitty Bean?"

William swallowed hard.

And then he told him.

Everything.

The porch grew colder with every word.

James didn’t interrupt. Didn’t react.

He just listened.

Too still.

Too quiet.

When William finished, the night seemed to swallow the sound of his last word.

"Dad..." William said quickly, stepping closer, fear rising now. "Catherine is fine. She’s safe. She’s in Winthorp, she’s doing well. She said she’ll come visit you soon—"

James’s hand rose slowly to his chest.

"I... I sent her to him..." His voice trembled, splintering. "That poor baby... she’s been suffering since the day she was born..."

His breathing grew uneven.

"This time... I..." His eyes glistened, unfocused. "I hurt her. I sent her to..."

James Preston clutched his heart... and for the first time since his wife’s death, he looked afraid.