Poriel, whom Baz recognized for his uncommonly fluffy wine-colored crest on the crown of his black head, was one of Junot’s favorites.
Poriel, the titfucker, only squeezed his talons harder.
Around a silent hiss, Baz snapped, “You’ve landed. Now get the scorch off me. You can deliver your message from the railing.”
Did Alobaz secretly hope that Mauldrene would bite him? Yes, yes he most certainly fucking did.
Poriel, however, didn’t relent until blood ran in rivulets down Baz’s arm. The rapplecon extended a long, slender tongue toward one talon, withdrew it, and dipped his tongue into the hole through Baz’s shirt and skin—and sucked through his hollow tongue as if it were a straw.
“You’re supposed to secure my consent before drinking from me. I had other payment to give you.”
Along with his emergency rubies and a favorite sword or two of his, Baz was never without a treat for the rapplecons … to avoid precisely this.
“You think I like carrying around arbosaurus acorns wherever I go, just in case that’s the moment you decide to show up?”
He liked collecting them even less. Arbosauruses looked mostly like trees, but had the temperament—and the teeth-filled maws—of an ogre. Their acorns were hard as stone, but the rapplecons’ beaks could pierce them, and within was a nectar they devoured nearly—but not quite—as eagerly as blood.
Poriel merely slurped and dug his tongue deeper into Baz’s flesh.
Baz tsked. “One final sip and that’s it. That’s all you get this time.”
From experience, Baz knew no rapplecon ever willingly took just one more drink. Like their emperor, they were never sated.
Baz uncorked the wompa wood vial tied to a collar around Poriel’s neck and retrieved a small scroll. Before reading it, he replaced the cork. Junot rarely required a reply. He preferred to give orders and expected Baz never to question them.
“Now…” Baz barked in the command voice he used on his troops when expediency was urgent. Poriel’s ears perked and he withdrew his tongue, jerking his head up. “…get the fuck off my arm.”
Poriel squawked in affront—the cheeky, scorching bastard—flapped his wings—intentionally dragging one along Baz’s face—and pushed off.
He dug his talons into Baz’s arm one last time—what a blazing asshole!—upon takeoff.
Baz’s nostrils flared. He smelled the unique scent of his own blood.
He smelled Velle, his wicked sorceress, too. He’d taken to showering only before he was to see her again—to take her again—so as not to prematurely wash her scent off his skin.
Off his dick.
He enjoyed that reminder best.
Knowing she opened herself to him. Allowed him to claim her. Took his cock to the hilt. Went crazy for it. And begged him for more.
His dick twitched. His jaw hardened. His eyes glinted like gemstones.
More sorcery. It wasn’t reasonable that he should crave her scent on his body.
He frowned at the thought, at the blood dripping from his arm, and unfurled the note.
In the empress’ neat, slanted cursive, to whom Junot had no doubt dictated, the missive read:
Prepare Our Dominance’s quarters for his immediate arrival.
Baz turned over the parchment. That was it. Terencia hadn’t even bothered to sign it.
Baz found himself breathing hard and gripping the railing again. He pulled his hands back before Mauldrene decided he needed to better learn his lesson.
Junot’s “immediate arrival” might mean minutes, could mean days.
“Fuck.” The Bazrians weren’t going to like this. Lev was definitely going to whine like a little bitch.
