Everyone looked shocked except the King himself.
Kaan joined me in our home later and took me so slow and tenderly, speaking a million words through every touch, every kiss, every desperate clutching embrace. I soaked in his presence until the aurora rose like a burst of silver ribbons woven across the entire sky, and we spent The Great Flurrt tangled beneath the sheets in our quiet bubble of delusion and denial.
In thirty cycles, I turn twenty-one. Preparations have already begun for the binding ceremony in Arithia between myself and Tyroth.
For my coronation.
I think Kaan and I both feel as if ignoring the future will prevent it from coming …
If only that were true.
Istare at Kaan’s immense, beautifully tattooed back as he moves through the kitchen space, rinsing a bowl of berries, slicing a globe of copperdew melon into juicy segments that spritz the air with tangy sweetness.
Every confident, fluid shift of his body reminds me how well he broke me down into a trembling, begging mess of corrupted thoughts and short-term decisions.
Chewing the inside of my lip, I strum my fingers on the tabletop, stuck in this strange limbo. Half drunk on lusty satiation while also welling with a ball of static energy that’s flicking at my ribs, urging me to leap across the room and wrestle the male currently filling two bowls with a vibrant cacophony of freshly foraged fruit.
He wraps his fist around a gongnut and cracks it, plucking the shell away from the pale insides he then crumbles atop both servings.
I shake my head.
A fully stocked cupboard with a handful of options to break our fast, and the male knows exactly what to serve me. Not that I asked for a meal, or a spring water served in my favorite mug. Or for my soul to be cradled while he was so deep inside me there was no place to hide.
Yet here we are.
Him, half naked, moving with the mirth of someone who just stepped off a battlefield, blood barely blotted from his skin before dashing a cloth over his shoulder and preparing food he personally foraged. And me, festering in the aftermath of our emotionally charged coupling, hair askew, mind mulched. Trying to work out how I went from winning the most important game of Skripi I’ve ever played to sitting at this table, wishless, boggled, and annoyingly aroused.
Head tipping to the side, I watch Kaan’s perfect, muscular ass as he moves about the space, shucking a sprig of minty herbs he uses to garnish our bowls. Certain the brown leather pants he’s wearing must cut off blood supply to areas that should always have a ready supply as far as I’m concerned.
I sigh.
The purpose of last slumber was to role-play something I’m incapable of maintaining long term. I don’t look at males wistfully and remember all the luscious things they did to my body, then want to do it again immediately after. I don’t do relationships. I certainly don’t do love.
That word has a single definition: dangerous, potentially devastating inconvenience.
Kaan looks at me over his shoulder, brow bumped, strokes of black hair loose from his bun hanging over his eyes. “Are you ready to have our talk yet?”
I flinch, like he just snapped his hand out and struck me. “Thanks, but I’d rather skin myself with a blunt blade.”
He gives me a look that suggests he thinks I’m being a bit dramatic, but it trumps a conversation that makes me feel like my ribs are being snapped off one at a time.
“Okay, well, you’re obviously feeling things—”
“Regrettably.”
“Do you want to fight or fuck about it?” he asks, his coarse accent cradling the question in such a visceral way that a flush of warmth hits my core.
Squeezing my legs together, I sip my drink to wash down the impulsive desire to beg for the latter, reminding myself that his cock waged the war we now find ourselves maneuvering.
I thump my mug back on the table. “Haven’t decided yet.”
He grunts, spinning, his eyes a rich shade of auburn in the low light struggling to filter through the skyhole. With both bowls cupped in his hands, he lumbers toward me like some great beast wrestled down into the confines of his muscular physique.
“Well, while you think on that,” he says, setting both bowls on the table, “shall we enjoy a lovely meal together?”
I look at my beautiful, colorful serve …
It does look delicious. Too bad it comes with the bitter aftertaste of an impending conversation I absolutely, one thousand percent do not want to have.
There has to be a way out of this. I can’t just live here for the rest of my life lavishing in good sex, freshly foraged cuisine, and crafty side quests. Something’s itching at the back of my brain, telling me this perfect paradise will eventually burn—just like everything else. That death will slither up those stairs like a serpent and sink its teeth into somebody else who’s lodged themselves within the clefts of my heart.
I flash him a faux smile. “Sounds delightful.”
Grunting, he pinches a berry from his bowl and tosses it in his mouth, then moves through the room, lifting one of the pre-runed parchment squares from the shelf. He uses my quill and ink to scratch something on it, then folds the square into a wiggly lark he cradles in his cupped hands before releasing it out the window.
“Who was that to?”
“Pyrok.” He settles into the seat opposite me, picks up a shard of copperdew melon, and bites into the crispy flesh. “There’s only one Mindweft in Dhomm—I believe you’ve already met him? I’m moving him to a safe house.”
My heart stops. “You’re joking.”
“Joking?” His eyes flick up, slaying me. “Forgive me, Moonbeam, but there’s nothing funny about it. You have a history of dipping out a side door the moment my back is turned, then winding up dead in the sky.” He offers me a forced smile that stings as much as I imagine mine did earlier. “I’m simply taking precautions.”
I make a huffing sound and shove against the backrest, shaking my head. “I liked you better when you were yielding to me.”
He shrugs. “And I liked you better when you were drunk with a smile on your face, singing to me, telling me you were only running because you couldn’t bear the thought of watching me die.”
I wince.
Those drinks should’ve come with big, bold warning signs.
“The great news is you’re free to butter me up for eternity with those dimpled smiles, because it’s not your job to keep me safe,” he says, tossing another berry into his mouth. “Now, eat your fruit.”
He stands, taking his mug to the sink for replenishment while I simmer in my seat.
“I don’t want my fruit,” I snip as he drains half his mug in three deep gulps. He lowers it, brow lifting, his regard casting a molten trail down to my lips.
Up again.
“Then what?”
“Revenge.”
“For?”
Bypassing my defenses like a fucking picklock.
I ease the iron ring off my finger, welcoming Clode’s mischievous giggle while I move around the table, slide his bowl aside, and plant my ass in its place. I lift both legs, setting one foot atop his chair, stretching the right toward the windowsill.
The ball in Kaan’s throat rolls.
I edge the hem of my shift into the crook between my hip and wide-open thighs, his blazing stare dropping to my naked core—plump and hot and wanting.
Wet.
I lick two fingers and part my swollen flesh, baring myself to him as I whisper a stubborn word beneath my breath, Clode’s dialect gusting from my mouth like a flick of wind.
Kaan slams his mug down, striding two steps forward before he collides with a hardened wall of air. Chuffing out a low laugh, he crosses his arms and shakes his head, his eyes volcanic. “This is war, Prisoner Seventy-Three.”
“Oh, I certainly hope so.”
I smile, sinking my fingers into my hot, clenching core, looking at him from beneath lusty lids. I moan, soft and sensual, imagining they’re his fingers now slicked in the residue of my wanton need—stroking me with deft, confident thrusts.
A rumble boils in his chest. “Does that feel good?”
“Mm-hmm.” I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth, working myself deeper …