Page 24 of Queen of War and Ruin

His thumb drives into the head of my sex as he enters me, faster and faster, our sweet, slow tempo falling apart, turning to desperate thrusts. My rhythm falters; I’m trembling, shaking beneath him, gasping as I cling to him, desperately reaching for more⁠—

And it crashes over me, long and deliriously slow. The world dissolves in bliss as I fall apart, cresting again and again.

Zarek’s breath is ragged above me. His hips slam into mine, over and over, frantic and desperate, and then he pulls back, sliding out of me with a string of half-audible curses. He kneels above me, panting, while the world spins around us. I’m dimly aware of the rain hammering the roof, the rasp of my own breathing, the soft press of the blanket beneath my naked body.

“Fuck,” Zarek mutters as he staggers to his feet. “Fuck, that was⁠—”

His words trail off as he gasps for breath.

And if I could remember how to form words, I’d agree with him.

Chapter 13

Zarek

THOSE FOUR LETTERS

Igrab a towel with shaking hands and clean up the mess of my seed on the blankets as best I can before collapsing next to my wife. Her gaze is soft and unfocused as she stares at the rafters. I drape my arm over her waist and try to catch my breath.

“I didn’t know,” she finally whispers, “it could be like that.”

Neither did I.

I take her hand in mine and link our fingers together. I used to laugh at the poor saps who told me that fucking their wife, or girlfriend, or boyfriend, was different. That it was better than fucking anyone else. I thought those assholes were delusional, that it was all a lie to make themselves feel better about denying themselves the chance to enjoy any other lovers.

But I was wrong.

Because that was the best sex I’ve ever had.

Gods. I send a mental apology to all the bastards I used to tease. It really does feel different when it’s with someone you care about. Someone you⁠—

Love.

I freeze as those four letters ricochet through my brain.

But that’s the word, isn’t it? That’s how I feel about the woman I was forced to marry.

Fuck me. Malrik’s plan worked beautifully. And I can’t even find it in my heart to be mad about it. Because here I am, with the woman I love breathing softly in my arms, listening to rain beat against the roof. And the rest of the world can burn for all I care. I have her now and, gods above, it’s enough.

I press my lips to her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat, breathing her in.

And then I whisper my name. My true name, the gift given to me by my mother and father when I was born in the shadows of the palace of Dungal.

My wife turns to meet my lips, kisses me, and smiles. She whispers it back to me, like a secret. Like something precious and wild.

“It suits you,” she says.

I wrap my arms around her and hold her close, this beautiful woman who has my heart.

Silence wakes me. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m hearing: the absence of rain against the roof. I roll over, moving as gently as I can so I don’t wake my wife, and stare into the gloom of the inn’s hayloft.

The lamp went out in the night, so all I see is the pale glow of moonlight on the far side of the hayloft’s railing. I drop my feet over the edge of the makeshift bed and run my hands through my hair. It’s still damp.

“Shit,” I whisper into the darkness.

I don’t want to get moving. Hells, my body aches in dozens of new and interesting places, thanks to riding a godsdamned horse for days, and I’m so exhausted that the memory of the past few days feels like an actual weight balanced on my shoulders. I’d like to spend the next week in this hayloft, on these ratty blankets, fucking my wife.

No, make that a month. Two months. Hells, make that the rest of my godsdamned life.