The assembly hall's candles had burned low by the time Cang finally pulled free of the Queen entirely.
Queen Yue collapsed forward against the throne, both forearms braced on the armrests, her pregnant belly swinging heavily as her body shook through the final aftershocks. Her court robes were a ruin — rucked up over her hips, soaked through at the hem, the inner silk dark and wet. Her platinum hair, so perfectly arranged three hours ago, had come entirely undone on one side, trailing across her sweat-damp cheek.
She was breathing in the specific way she breathed now — in ragged, involuntary gulps that hitched on every exhale, the way a woman breathes when she has been so thoroughly used that her lungs have forgotten the uninterrupted rhythm they once knew.
