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“Oh!” I stiffen at the sudden lash of pain when the Queen plucks my pubic hairs and places them on the nearby end table. “Why?” I ask him, wondering why she doesn’t fetch my undergarment.
“She possessed the courage I never have held,” he dictates, and I notice his jaw steeling below his mask.
“Forgive me, My Lord, but I know one mustacceptKryach’s curse and spirit. That is no mere feat. It requires great courage...perhaps the greatest.”
He snorts, surprising me with the sudden vehemence within his fingers curving into my skull. “Or great foolery. Or surrender because there was little other choice.”
“Perhaps you may share with me sometime...” I trail off, too bold. Like Fathyr always warned me about my spirit...it could rival an unbroken mare.
“Perhaps.” He offers no promises.
I cringe when the Queen pricks my finger and squeezes to loose a drop of blood into a prepared, glass vial. Allysteir’s fingers do not retreat from the sides of my face when she lowers her lips to my ear and murmurs, “I have my own test, little tribute,” she hints, her breath warm, her tone too-hinting. But unlike her son, she wears no mask. Her agenda is plain. Shehatesme. Is it because I am not worthy of her son? “It will aid in releasing her required tear.”
“Mathyr...” Allysteir’s voice darkens.
“Oh!” I moan when her fingers nudge my sex, parting my folds. “What are you?”
“She is moist and ripe, my son,” the Queen retorts from beyond the tapestry.
My thighs and ankles quiver when she taunts my center by nudging my swelling rosebud, causing me to arch, eyes glistening. I buck. Hard. Clench my thighs. But the Queen pins them, her diamond-studded nails raking my skin.
“Stop!” demands the King, rising, body tensing, but his hands do not retreat from my cheeks.
“Why?” his mother challenges. My cheeks burn as she plunges two fingers into my inner chamber. “We must know if she is a fertile bride. One who will bear you a strong son able to free you from the Curse and assume the next mantle for Aryahn Kryach.”
Oh, gods!I whimper when she adds another finger and plunges deeper.
“Gryzelda!” he exclaims her name, the essence of the Death God injecting into his voice, the shadows spiraling past the tapestry to threaten his mother.
No...I grip his sleeve and thrash my head. “Please, Allysteir...” I wince again, slamming my eyes shut when his mother rubs my clitoris in a frenzy and injects another finger. “I can take it,” I assure him. When I deadpan with the Queen’s eyes, I know she would prefer me to fight, struggle.Do your worst, I almost dare, but press my lips, narrow my eyes to deadly slits. They speak fathoms.
Everything in me screams to wage a war, but I can take whatever this Queen, this Gryzelda?a name of grey battle?throws my way. I will not balk. I will not weaken. And if I climax, I won’t be ashamed. My eyes do not forsake the Corpse King’s.
When the Queen has the audacity to add a final finger and curve them deep in my sex, I shriek from the irresistible climax. Aware of my body, I don’t deny the lightning feathers titillating my spine to tingle my flesh. But I keep my eyes on Scathyk, on mine and the Corpse King’s legend love, on his brow pressed to mine, his breath a fatal vapor on my face.
Queen Gryzelda does not hesitate to meet my eyes at the height of my climax. I battle a whimper when she raises her fingers to her mouth to suck my fluids before she replaces my undergarments without wiping the dampness out of spite. I sigh when she collects the tear from my cheeks, and nods, taking her leave to give the offerings to the elders. The King growls at her, shadows billowing a warning upon her departure.
Allysteir sighs and grips the tapestry, flinging it to the floor as if it’s no more than a handkerchief. Cheeks flushed, I bite my lower lip and arch my neck when he eases my gown back over my spread legs and offers me his gloved hand.
Accepting, I wobble to my feet, legs trembling in the aftermath from the Queen mother’s hands. The King catches me before my knees buckle. He apologizes, his breath an icy draught along my ear. “My mother can be?”
“A bitch?”
“I was going to say contentious, but your term is more appropriate.”
“Lord Allsyteir...” I lower my head, recognizing how I insulted his mother. How he could have me executed for such a transgression and choose another bride. Perhaps she had her reasons aside from hatred. Or not...
Goosebumps or maybe tingles grow along my flesh when he curls his gloved fingers to my cheek and shakes his head. “No, Isla. You have nothing to apologize for. I love your sharp tongue and you should never soften it...not before me.”
I smile. And I...I mighttrusthim.
Damn,I love her blushing cheeks and when she bites her lower lip. My cock throbs from her arousal. I cherish her moans from her climax despite it coming from my mother’sministrations. Yes, I have pleasured many a bride before I fucked them and collected their moans, their shrieks, their blissful wails. But never before has my mother inflicted her torture.
Yes, Isla will overshadow her Queenship. Mathyr was the first in centuries’ worth of brides. Five hundred and twenty years ago?four years before my birth?Mathyr was one of only nine brides in our centuries-long history to ever survive Aryahn Kryach. No, she could not defeat him, but her soul was strong enough, he could only consume a portion. And left a bitter, jealous shrew shell.
As Isla rights herself, I curl my lip beyond my bone mask from the memory of the night I accepted the Curse of Aryahn Kryach because I’d sooner have welcomed the God of Death if it meant I could keep my art and give the “crown” to Aydon who was birthed for it. And because there was no other choice.
But Isla...oh hellfire, she will be my death! Thanks to my mother’s damned actions, her nipples are erect through her gown’s thin lace. It takes all my resolve not to petition her, tobegher to allow me to tear it from her frame, rip off my mask, and bury my face into her bosom to taste those sweet, ripe fruited seeds.
