I Got Married to a Yandere Queen
Chapter 58 - 57 - Drenched in Desire

Chapter 58: Chapter 57 - Drenched in Desire

They emerged from the pool with their bodies still dripping wet, water cascading from their soaked hair and clothes. The cool night air brushed against their skin, making Riven shiver slightly. He immediately grabbed two large towels and dry sleepwear from the closet, tossing one set toward Ashtoria without looking at her.

"Dry yourself and change," he said curtly, his voice still thick with restrained desire.

Ashtoria caught the towel and clothes slowly, her eyes never leaving Riven’s back as he stood facing away. Water still streamed down the contours of his back to the waistband of his pants.

Riven toweled himself off roughly, as if trying to erase all traces of Ashtoria’s touch from his skin. But when his hands reached his waist, he froze abruptly—sensing her burning gaze on his back.

"Please," Riven gritted through clenched teeth, "Turn around."

Ashtoria raised an eyebrow but eventually complied. They stood back-to-back in the same room, each removing their wet clothes.

Yet curiosity got the better of her.

Moving slowly, Ashtoria glanced over her shoulder—and saw it.

What was that?

Between Riven’s powerful thighs, something large and rigid stood proudly, indifferent to his attempts at concealment. Though Riven quickly turned further away, the image was already seared into Ashtoria’s mind.

Was that... because of me?

A burning curiosity hotter than the pool water flared within her. Her body reacted strangely—her stomach fluttered, and an unfamiliar warmth blossomed between her own thighs.

"Are you done?" Riven’s rough voice interrupted her thoughts.

Ashtoria turned around completely, now dressed in a new silk nightgown that hung loosely on her frame. "Almost," she answered, her eyes deliberately tracing over Riven’s body now clad in loose sleep pants.

But Ashtoria could still see—the distinct outline remained visible.

.

.

.

The large bed felt cramped with both of them in it. Riven lay in Ashtoria’s tight embrace—his body serving as the queen’s pillow, his arm as her support. Initially, he had planned to sleep facing away, trying to maintain distance so his still-smoldering desire wouldn’t flare up again. But Ashtoria, like a child refusing to part with a favorite doll, clung to him tightly until they became locked in this position.

Ashtoria slept peacefully, her usually cold face now looking utterly serene. Her legs entwined with Riven’s thigh, her small hands gripping his waist tightly as if afraid he might disappear. When she shifted slightly, the soft skin of her thigh accidentally brushed against Riven’s still-tense member.

"Nh—!"

Riven suppressed his body’s jerk, his breath catching. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. Slowly, he glanced at Ashtoria—the woman remained fast asleep, her expression innocent and untroubled.

’How could I have such dirty thoughts about someone so pure?’

He exhaled deeply, then gently stroked Ashtoria’s crimson hair that shimmered in the lamplight.

Riven’s thoughts swirled in an endless vortex. In his arms, Ashtoria breathed calmly, her body warm and soft like a kitten that had just been fed. But in Riven’s chest, a storm of emotions raged endlessly.

She loves me.

That fact should have made him happy. So why did it feel like a knife between his ribs?

"I love her too," whispered his innermost heart, "from the very first moment my eyes saw her."

His memory drifted to their first meeting—how the severely wounded Ashtoria had collapsed before his doorstep. At first he had wanted to leave her, but after seeing her up close and being persuaded by Mira, something in his heart told him he couldn’t abandon her.

But now...

"I’m not worthy."

Riven stared at the ceiling.

As a man... he couldn’t accept that he was completely unworthy of standing beside such a woman.

He was self-aware.

He was nobody. Not particularly intelligent. Average-looking. Poor. Without family. Without connections. Even in magic, he couldn’t be considered extraordinary. Just someone stubbornly surviving, without luxuries, without special talents.

The list of his shortcomings stretched endlessly in his mind. While Ashtoria? A ruler of kingdoms, a legendary Lawbearer, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, possessor of everything.

"What could I possibly offer her? Protection? Wealth? Status?"

His hand clenched against Ashtoria’s back.

"I almost failed to protect even Mira..."

So how could he possibly stand beside someone as remarkable as Ashtoria?

He had no right.

He didn’t deserve her.

And so, even though his heart desired Ashtoria... Riven couldn’t allow himself to fall deeper.

Slowly, he closed his eyes. His arms returned the embrace, carefully encircling Ashtoria’s body. Then he began focusing his mind, quietly activating his mana absorption technique.

A subtle flow of energy began channeling into his body—from the air, from the earth, from their surroundings. He synchronized it with his breathing, stabilizing it, merging with it. He sought to make this technique instinctive—to keep it active even in sleep. The best way to keep growing without wasting time.

The night grew later.

And in the warmth of Ashtoria’s embrace, in the silent darkness, Riven tried to calm the storm within himself.

.

.

.

Morning cloaked the Valderacht estate in a veil of mist and dew. Beads of moisture clung to the edges of leaves, and rays of sunlight pierced through the thinning fog in slanted beams. The air was cold on the skin—brisk, but invigorating. In the quiet, expansive backyard, the only sounds were the shuffle of feet and the whisper of a sword slicing the wind.

Riven stood tall in the middle of the open field, his body already damp with sweat even though the day had only just begun. In his hands, Crysthalis gleamed faintly beneath the early light, like a shard of freshly melted ice. His breath was steady. His gaze, unwavering.

He moved.

A step forward. His stance pressed firm into the earth. Crysthalis cut through the air—forward, then to the side, then down in a smooth arc that traced a single, deliberate motion. He was drilling forms, instilling rhythm into his muscles, and imprinting purpose into memory.

Each motion wasn’t mere repetition—it was a pursuit.

A pursuit of precision. Of silence within momentum. And of power not born from anger, but from control.

The memory of his battle with the savage bear returned—those harrowing seconds when death nearly gripped his throat, the cold rush of fear as claws slashed toward him, and the surge of adrenaline when he finally brought the beast down.

Those wounds, that fear... had become his guide.

He adjusted his posture. Repeated the movements. Tweaked the angle of his swing. The blade began to feel more like an extension of his arm—lighter, more responsive, more natural. A slow harmony began to form between his body and the weapon.

After some time, Riven paused. His chest rose and fell with effort. He wiped sweat from his brow and looked ahead—to a large stone not far from where he stood. Its surface was rough, weathered by time, and it stood nearly as tall as him.

He approached it slowly.

And stopped.

He pressed a palm against its cold surface, feeling the unmoving resistance. Then he closed his eyes, trying to recall that one perfect moment... the instant he cleaved through the White Tiger with a single strike. The moment when body, mind, and intent fused into one unbroken line of death.

He opened his eyes.

Inhaled deeply.

Crysthalis rose into a vertical stance. His hands tightened around the hilt, firm but not rigid. He lowered his center of gravity, aligned his shoulders with his heels, and then—

—brought the blade down in a clean stroke.

Air split open. The sword traveled smooth and sharp, carving a flawless arc through space.

CRANGG!!

The edge of Crysthalis struck the stone directly... and bounced off.

No mark. No crack. Not even a lingering echo in the morning air.

Riven stared at it, then exhaled deeply.

"...Of course it’s not that easy."

He lowered his sword, his shoulders loosening. But there was no disappointment in his breath. He understood what was missing—not strength, not technique... but something deeper. A perfect intent. A clarity that had yet to return.

That moment, when he severed the White Tiger in one blow, hadn’t come from raw courage. It had come from something else—perhaps the resolve born only at the edge of life and death.

And this morning, even if he remembered the motion... he had not yet reclaimed that feeling.

But he didn’t stop.

"Again," he muttered under his breath.

He stepped back, re-centered himself.

First step. Then the second. The movement of his body. A steady breath. A downward strike.

And once again, the same sound.

CRANGG!!

CRANGG!!

On the fifth attempt, Riven drew a longer breath. His body was beginning to wear down, but his focus never wavered. He imagined the cutting line. He envisioned that elusive moment of perfection—then swung Crysthalis with everything he had.

CRANGG!!

The blade struck and bounced again. A faint tremor traveled up his arms.

And before he could inhale once more, a sharp voice shattered the silence of the morning.

"Hey! Who are you?!"

The voice—cold and full of irritation.

"What is a country bumpkin like you doing in a place like this?!"

Riven turned toward the sound—and saw a woman standing just beyond the garden path.