“She must rest, Your Majesty. Sleep is all that she needs in this moment.”
“I order you to do something!”
“You know there’s naught he can do, boy,” Tor’en said, weak and shivering within his many layers despite the pervasive warmth.
It was then Er’it noticed the grayed cast of the people surrounding them. The village Elders, wilted and huddled, stared at Aida with unmitigated terror. Er’it’s remaining mages and no few villagers also kept their wary gaze snagged upon his sleeping Omega.
They feared her.
Er’it’s lip curled in a savage snarl, a growl grinding from his chest as he held Aida tight and backed away from the onlookers. Her slack weight still little burden to him, the overwhelming need to protect her gave him strength. With power enough to keep them all at bay if need be, he tucked his tiny female against a hip to have at least one arm free.
“Majesty,” Ath’asho murmured. Staying well outside the sphere of Er’it’s brutal presence, the general’s silent nod directed his king to a place offering some measure of safety.
The ruins of Er’it’s tent, far from grand after its long journey and Aida’s rages, still offered privacy, a sanctuary where he could tend his mate among the softness and warmth she so enjoyed.
Not until he had her stripped out of the dirty clothing and dressed in a long tunic did Er’it realize the strange word that filtered through his thoughts. Mate. Foreign and awkward on his tongue when he murmured it aloud, it still suited. Shoving the heavy blankets into a loose circle and stacking the smaller cushions around Aida, he created a ring of comfort and shelter. It didn’t seem right. Feeling as though something about it was wrong but unable to pinpoint what was so jarring, he left it as it was. Flinging his clothes away, he curled up under the thick duvet with Aida, curling his body around hers so that no inch of her remained exposed to the cruelties lying in wait outside the flimsy protection of sundered canvas.
Soldiers circled the tent, and he knew Ath’asho would allow none to enter. Not even the mages or Maruk could sway the dedication and steadfastness of Er’it’s friend and general. Calming somewhat with that knowledge, he tugged the blanket up over their heads to create a dark den for them to rest within. It muffled the noises from outside well enough, and the faint wrinkles of Aida’s brow smoothed as she settled against him. Nose tucked tight against his arm, her lips moved in a sleepy kiss that had him hard and aching within moments.
Knowing it was neither the time nor place, Er’it closed his eyes and murmured every prayer he’d ever been taught.
* * *
It took Aida the rest of that day and well into the next to rouse from her unnatural slumber. No amount of cajoling, threats, or curses could wake her until then. Her scent became more incredible as each minute ticked past, overwhelming him until it took all of his control to not mount her as she slept. As she cupped his aching length against her rounded ass, it was upon a rather vicious string of threats to keep her tied to a bed and never let her leave it again that she moaned her way awake and rolled over to face him.
As she looked at him with those midnight eyes, visible somehow even in the darkness he provided, Er’it saw them twinkle. Laughter made the starshine sparkle as if she understood his pain and found it amusing.
“I will do it,” he whispered into the gloom, tracing the line of her jaw with his fingertips. Uncertain how she could understand him since he spoke in his mother’s tongue, he knew she did all the same. His mate would forever understand him, and he knew that, too.
She hummed her agreement, though to his words or his thoughts, Er’it wasn’t certain. He didn’t much care, either, as Aida wriggled closer and pressed her nose against his neck to take in his scent. Guiding her leg over both of his, he began to roll onto his back. He enjoyed having Aida on top of him, her little legs spread so wide as she bounced in feral abandon.
Aida’s hands were at his waist, tugging at his pants. Urgent fingers tried to free him, though each movement was weaker than the one before. Er’it needed to stop her, but as she circled her hips in a teasing dance, he was helpless.
Until someone cleared their throat at their door. A violent fit of coughing followed when Aida whined at Er’it’s pause.
“What is it?” Er’it barked, somehow having forgotten what a weak barrier the canvas was to her moans. He’d become cautious since their time in the woods alone. He did not want to share even the slightest of her whimpers and would spend what little power he’d regained in a day to build a buffer of silence around the tent when she succumbed to his questing touches.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the Elders would speak with you,” Ath’asho said, the robust growl painting his words telling a long story of lost patience with these people.
“Stay,” Aida murmured, lips traversing his throat to place heated kisses against his shoulder. “Stay with me.”
“Rest more,kou’vera. I will find you food.” Er’it gripped her nape hard, tugging Aida’s face up before she could torment him with that tongue of hers any further. Crushing a fierce kiss against her lips, he tumbled her aside with as much gentleness as he could muster. It was not much, not as the smell of her intoxicated him as it had in the quiet glen or during those first moments in the dark castle.
Er’it crawled from beneath the covers in an attempt to not disrupt Aida further, a barrage of curses at these Elders blistering his tongue as he shoved his worn trousers down. The loss of Aida’s warmth was nothing compared to stripping away the thickness of her scent clinging to him as he swiped a cold cloth over his chest and neck in an attempt to restore some order to his appearance. Tugging on fresh clothes, he shoved aside the tent flap to find what had driven his general to disturb him.
The six haggard men and women who claimed leadership of the village stood in a tight pack far back from the tent. Two soldiers kept them there, much to their dismay, as they tried to push forward when Er’it came into the late afternoon sunlight. Still pale and cold during this season, it struggled in vain to warm its inhabitants.
“They wish an audience to discuss the Lady Aida,” Ath’asho murmured as he leaned in, lips scarce moving with his words.
“What of her?” Power surged through him. It was not the syrup-thick crimson of the blood but the quicksilver flash of fire—the one he was born to, the one he’d denied all his life. It trembled at his fingertips, the golden glow of it a subtle light that begged to be released.
“They wish to inquire as to her wellbeing and if she is healed enough for travel. They offer a stag they hunted in the fields she made. You made? I do not understand this at all, my king.”
“They wish to provide for her?”
“They speak of some tale, Your Majesty. Black mages, an entire people ruined. A land murdered and which prophecy claims will be one day healed by blood of… I do not remember the whole of it, save that they appear to think Lady Aida is the one to deliver them from something evil.”
“You are jesting.”
