Cory Wise: The Knight of Secrets, Control, and Desire

A Knight with No Armor

Cory Wise was used to people staring. At banquets, in the training yard, even in the narrow cobbled streets where his shadow stretched longer than the houses, folks watched him with that mix of awe and suspicion. Some whispered he was more legend than man, a tale wrapped in polished steel.

But tonight he was just Cory, sitting in a half-empty tavern, armor left at home, hands wrapped around a mug of ale. He wore a loose shirt that clung in places, dark with sweat, and his hair—usually neat for ceremony—fell carelessly across his brow.

Across the room, she noticed. Ellyn, a merchant’s daughter with quick eyes and quicker wit, had never believed the stories about him. Too grand, too convenient. Yet something about the way he leaned back, half-smile tugging at his lips like he knew every secret in the room, made her chest tighten.

She told herself she wasn’t staring. But she was. And he caught it.

“Careful,” Cory called across the hum of voices, his tone smooth but edged with playfulness. “If you keep looking at me like that, people will think you’re trying to recruit me.”

Ellyn flushed but didn’t look away. “Recruit you? For what? My father’s accounts?”

He grinned. “Could use a clever accountant. But I was hoping for something less… respectable.”

The table between them suddenly felt like a battlefield neither wanted to retreat from.

The Weight of a Glance

Later, when the tavern emptied and laughter gave way to quiet murmurs, Cory found himself leaning against the wall outside, waiting. He didn’t know why—he told himself it was chance, but he’d timed his departure to match hers.

Ellyn emerged, cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. The night air smelled of rain and iron, a sharpness that made every breath feel heavier.

“You were waiting,” she said softly, no accusation in it, just certainty.

Cory shrugged, though his eyes stayed locked on hers. “Maybe. You seemed worth waiting for.”

There was no grand gesture, no poetic declaration—just the way he said it, calm and deliberate, as if he were discussing swordplay. And yet, her stomach knotted, warmth rushing to her cheeks.

She laughed, a little too quickly. “You must say things like that often.”

“Not really,” he replied. “Flattery’s cheap. Attention isn’t.”

His gaze lingered. Not predatory, not even demanding—just steady, unyielding. It was the kind of look that stripped away excuses. Ellyn shifted under it, aware of how close they stood, of how his shadow cut across her boots.

And she realized with a jolt that she wanted him to keep looking at her like that.

Games of Control

Their conversations became a pattern. Meetings in the market, stolen words at the edge of gatherings, evenings where the world blurred until only his voice seemed to matter. Cory had a way of making silence heavy, of filling it with meaning.

One night, walking the garden path behind her father’s estate, she teased him. “For someone with a reputation, you’re very calm. I expected more swagger.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “Swagger’s for people who need to prove something. I prefer… control.”

The word slipped from his tongue with a weight that made her shiver. He stepped closer, not touching her, but near enough that she felt the warmth of his presence.

“You like being in control,” she murmured.

His smile was small, knowing. “And you like when someone else takes it.”

Her breath caught. He hadn’t touched her—still hadn’t—but she felt undone, as though he’d already claimed some part of her. It was absurd, unfair, but thrilling.

She tilted her chin up, a half-defiant, half-surrendering motion. “You talk like you already know me.”

“I watch,” Cory said simply. “More than people realize.”

And then, finally, his hand brushed her wrist, fingers grazing her pulse with deliberate slowness. It was the lightest of touches, but it burned hotter than fire.

Desire Between the Lines

Nothing between them was rushed. Cory liked to linger, to draw out every glance, every pause. When he leaned in close to murmur something in her ear, she felt the words as much as heard them, his breath raising goosebumps along her skin.

He was never careless. Every movement, every shift of his body, carried intention. He’d stand behind her at a feast, not touching, but his presence pressed against her awareness until she felt caged—in the best possible way.

And when his fingers finally trailed along the small of her back, it was so deliberate she nearly gasped.

One evening, rain hammered the windows of her room. Cory was there, his shirt damp, clinging to muscle and scars. They talked nonsense at first—complaints about weather, stories of training drills gone wrong. She teased him about being more rumor than man, and he let her laugh, even laughed with her.

But then his hand caught hers mid-gesture, firm and certain, pulling her closer until she stumbled against his chest. He didn’t kiss her right away. He just looked at her, the same unblinking way he had that first night outside the tavern.

“You’re not laughing now,” he said softly.

Ellyn’s lips parted, words failing her. The world shrank to his closeness, his calm dominance, the steady rhythm of his breath.

And when his mouth finally claimed hers, it wasn’t wild or hurried—it was slow, commanding, the kiss of a man who always dictated the pace, who let her feel every ounce of his control.

She yielded, not because he demanded it, but because she wanted to.

The stories about Cory Wise would go on, whispered in taverns and scribed in ledgers, tales of a knight both celebrated and doubted. But the truth of him—the warmth beneath the control, the hunger veiled in composure—was something Ellyn alone knew.

And when she thought of him, it wasn’t his armor or his sword that came to mind. It was the weight of his gaze, the steady grip of his hand, and the way he could unravel her with nothing more than a deliberate pause.