“I’m at your command, little Flame,” he murmured, and she knew her thought had slipped right into his mind. “If you want me to fuck you, I will. If you want me to kneel at your feet and worship you with my mouth, I will. If you want me to just kiss you while I slowly burn in your presence, I will gladly do so.”
Desire licked down Lory’s spine like a white-hot tongue, and she knew she wouldn’t get a word out. So she slid her hand between them, fumbling with the ties of his pants, until his cock sprang free, and Khayrivven groaned as shewrapped her hand around his solid flesh, guiding him past the loose silk of her undergarments.
“Give me everything,” she whispered.
And when Khayrivven thrust into her, the thread in her chest wrapped tighter around her heart.
Mine.It echoed inside her head.Mine.
She didn’t realize the full meaning of it until the moment he stopped holding back—and his thrusts became hard and deep, slow enough to draw a full breath before he plunged back into her every time he pulled back to the tip. His mouth slammed down on hers, devouring her in a kiss so consuming, she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
The thread glowed a fiery orange now; she could see it with closed eyes, could feel it spiral out of her and into him, out of him and into her.
Lory didn’t feel the hard, rough stone behind her back, couldn’t feel the rain falling from the skies now, the gods pouring their tears upon them; for joy or mourning, she wouldn’t have cared had she noticed her soaked hair and dress.
Mine. Mine. MINE!
His voice echoed in her mind for a minute after he shuddered inside of her, his climax chasing hers by a heartbeat.
And then, the world lay still.
Twenty-Eight
Elina
In her chambersinside the royal residence at the heart of the province Sen Dunai, Elina DuMarin lounged upon her feather-soft bed, staring at the sky-blue gossamer duvet high above. Outside, rain was pounding the roofs of the city, a rhythm that had always set her on edge, with the way it tended to draw forth images of lush vegetation and spacious, white marble rooms with wide windowpanes spanning entire walls. It called forward the scent of blossoms and ripe fruit, sweet and delicious, and her stomach always complained, and her heart constricted with the sort of melancholy her adopted father would never allow forher to show in public.
Once.Onceshe’d let a tear slip during a ball, when a lady from the south had approached her, curtsying and offering her a gift from the woman’s homeland—Criulias.
A waft of the same scent had climbed up her nostrils, and the heaviness in her heart had spilled onto her cheeks. She still bore the scar from that night on the side of her hip, where Ulder had a hooded man carve a line with a rusty nail.
Absently, she rubbed the spot, ignoring the phantom pain. The other scars, those around her wrists, were from the day the fire wielder almost burned down one of the army camps. Ulder had shoved her into the desert rose bushes that day upon receiving the missive about the havoc the flames had wreaked.
Those scars were older than the one on her hip.
Ulder had never once mentioned the man’s name, but his moods had gotten worse since.
Gingerly, she shifted on her bed, wincing as the metal of the shackle around her ankle dug into her raw skin.
Ulder had apologized for it, had told her it was the only way to keep the fire wielders from taking her in the night. Then, he’d had the servants carry this new, luxurious bed into her chambers and a feast ordered to her dining area.
The chain had clinked along the stone floor when he’d guided her into a cushioned chair and served her the fresh fruit and sweet goat yoghurt with chopped nuts and honey himself.
Served by a king.
That had been a few days after the fire wielder destroyed the army camp.
It was the only way to keep her safe from the Flame-born rebels wreaking havoc on Dunai. It didn’t take a genius to know she was target number one on their list. As Ulder’s ward, she’d make a fine hostage. Guards followed her everywhere she went in this palace these days, replacing the shackle on her ankle with a more metaphorical one.
A knock sounded on the door, and the king strode in, graceful and dignified in his white and gold robes. He wasn’t wearing a crown outside of court events, but it was clear he owned this palace, this kingdom, and every last subject within it. A true ruler of strength in times of upheaval. Elina lay very still, hoping he didn’t come bearing more bad news that would warrant for a new scar or an additional manacle, perhaps a collar and a leash.
“You look better.” He turned his deep-set brown eyes on her, studying her as she rolled off the bed. His face wasn’t unkind, merely set in the mask of the king. “Have you eaten?”
Elina managed a smile, the melancholy grasping her these days spreading heavily in her chest. “Yes, Father.” A glance at the table in the corner, where she liked to take her meal, watching the endless-seeming yard between the palace and the pyramid on the other end, where black-clothed men and women came and went day in and day out.
Ashthorn Ward. She’d overheard Lord Ycken and Lord Cann one day before she’d had the shackle attached to her leg. An academy for Ulder’s military elite. Rumors had it, some of the fighters from Ashthorn had magical abilities.
