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“No. Take it out. No one can see it anyway, and it's just a nuisance.”
He didn't cut the ribbon out but spent extra time unraveling strands of hair until it came loose. As much as he wanted to keep it, he offered the ribbon to her when he was done. She held it for a moment before tossing it to the side. “Remind me to grab it before we leave,” she told him. “I'm sure the monks have a midden I can toss it into on the way back to our rooms.”
There was no way that treasure was going into a midden if he had anything to say about it. He kept the words behind his teeth, finished combing her hair, and scooted around her to slide back in the water. She stayed on the pool's edge, her expression a study in stoic reserve, her yellow eyes unblinking as she watched him. She held an invisible shield in front of her, a defense against embarrassment at him finding the ribbon and the belief that surely, surely he understood why she'd tried wearing it properly, and worst of all, why she had failed.
He did understand and fell even deeper in love with her. It wasn't the right time to tell her either of those things or even dwell on the symbolism of her wearing the ribbon at all. She would only lash out and close off even more. Instead, he steered the conversation in a different direction.
“You,” he told her in a teasing voice, “have the most delicious breasts.”
As he hoped, the outlandish remark worked its magic. The shield went down and her eyebrows went up before she laughed her raspy laugh. “Is that so?” She stared down at her chest before turning to one side and then the other, displaying the objects of his admiration like fine wares. “What makes them so delicious? And which one do you prefer?”
He rose half out of the water, and she leaned forward so he might sample. She slid her fingers into his hair, claws massaging his scalp while he tasted each breast and she moaned her approval.
“It's impossible to choose,” he said after moving from her breasts to her mouth. The small interlude served to heighten his need to taste all of her. He coaxed her to stretch out on her back, her legs splayed so that he wedged between them, his head resting on her knee. He kissed the sensitive skin behind that knee, smiling when her toes on both feet curled. He continued up her body, bypassing her thighs despite the protesting throb of his cock, to kiss her belly, placing a ring of kisses around her navel.
Anhuset's breasts rose and fell with her ever quickening breaths as Serovek retraced his path to the place he'd purposely bypassed, settling between her thighs, nudging them farther apart.
The taste of a Kai woman, he soon discovered, was similar to that of a human woman, but that's where the similarity ended. This was Anhuset whom he made love to with his mouth and tortured with his tongue, and there was no other like her in all the world.
Her climax was a beautiful, thrashing thing to behold, even if he risked having his nose broken again by one of her knees. When she no longer arched and bucked and growled, he slid up her body, cupping his hands around her face. This kiss was leisurely, deep, luxurious.
“You taste like me,” she said when they paused to take a breath.
“And you taste better than the finest wine.”
“Such a honeyed tongue you have,” she said before clasping him tight in her arms and rolling so that he lay on his back atop the clothes and she sat astride him, perched on his thighs. Her hand wrapped around the base of his cock, sliding up and then down, pausing to capture the drop of semen beading its crown with a fingertip. His hips thrust upward and he gasped. She brought her finger to her lips and licked. “Honeyed tongue, honeyed cock,” she proclaimed.
Bewitched by the sight, Serovek grabbed her hips, steadying himself more than her as she shifted positions just enough and sank down on him again, his cock buried to the hilt inside her. His eyes rolled back no matter how much he tried to keep them trained on Anhuset's face and the ecstasy in her expression.
She rode him hard, harder than any woman he'd had before her. She embraced her pleasure and his, enthusiastic and unapologetic in her appreciation of his prowess and love of his touch. For the first time in his life he made love to a woman he wasn't worried about hurting, a woman whose own strength equaled his, who gave as good as she got and then some, who demanded every last drop of his ardor and kissed him until his lungs were on fire.
She'd told him he wouldn't survive her. Serovek was beginning to think she was right. At least he'd die a very satisfied, contented man. His orgasm didn't wash over him in a gentle rush but slammed into him like a storm wave. He chanted Anhuset's name in his head even as his mouth struggled to emit more than groans and growls as feral sounding as hers had been. He kept thrusting until he was emptied and his bones turned to water. She loomed above him in all her naked majesty, a deity, and he her supplicant beneath her.
It was a very fine place to be.
Erostis never appeared to interrupt their interlude. They finally dressed, which took much longer than needed thanks to several interruptions of kissing and caressing.
“Remind me to send the monks a sizable gift for their monastery once I return to High Salure,” he told her. “Without their considerable healing talents, this...” he gestured to the cavern and also her, “would have never happened.” She gave him a dubious look. “At least not now.”
They gathered their things. Anhuset might have forgotten about the ribbon but Serovek had not. He tucked it into the cuff of his tunic's sleeve. A ribbon but also a treasure beyond price. Just like the woman who'd worn it.
Chapter Thirteen
Now would be a very good time to pray.
Their journeyto the monastery had been rife with obstacles, violence and tragedy, its very purpose the grim delivery of a man's living but soulless body into the safekeeping of his fellow monks. Yet Anhuset knew when they all returned home, Serovek and Erostis to High Salure and she to Saggara, she'd hold close the memory of her time with the Jeden Order and with Serovek most of all. He was no longer simply the annoying, intriguing margrave, but her lover now.
She stood on one of the balconies overlooking the Lobak valley, washed in the new green of early spring. Patches of snow still lingered in sheltered places, and her breath hung misty in the brisk morning air. She kept her back to the rising sun and the hood of her cloak pulled far forward to protect her eyes as she surveyed lands bequeathed to and controlled by the Jeden Order.
It looked peaceful, but its appearance was deceptive. This valley remained embroiled in conflict, though she hoped with Chamtivos's death, those who balked at being under Jeden rule and had their lands confiscated for it, might finally come to a truce with the monks. She recalled Karulin's words when he challenged Chamtivos, reminding the warlord that they'd veered from their purpose of fighting for their lands to preying on innocent travelers.
Chamtivos, cruel and ambitious, retained the loyalty of most of his followers through fear or under the guise of pursuing a just cause. Some remained devoted because they could revel in their own brutality under his command. Those had been the ones who beat Serovek so brutally—more for sport than for extracting information from a recalcitrant captive. They were also the ones who volunteered to join Chamtivos's hunt and met a just end.
Karulin and the others had stayed behind, and Anhuset wondered if Chamtivos's second had used that time to sway those with him to turn on their leader. In his place, she would have done so. Loyalty given had to be loyalty earned in her opinion, and Chamtivos had forfeited his reputation when he became a brigand instead of a rebel. From what little she'd learned of Karulin himself, she believed his leadership would offer a chance for peaceful coexistence if the monks were smart enough not to kill him first.
Footsteps sounded behind her, quiet ones, especially considering the size of the person to whom they belonged. Anhuset smiled, her heartbeat speeding up in anticipation of Serovek's company.
“I'm surprised to find you still awake, firefly woman,” he said, stopping next to her. Cloaked as she was against the cold, he'd foregone a hood or cap. The sun lit red highlights and silver strands in his dark hair and even in his beard, which had thickened during their stay with the monks. After a sennight with the Order, their bruises were fading.
