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“It is a beautiful thing to witness.” Miranda’s soft gaze fixed on me, her head cocked to the side, as if admiring a delightful weapon she might wield. “Your three generals approach. Speak with them before you are too far gone, my dear.”
The vorec in me had no interest in wasting time out in the open—she dreamed of a soft place to rest, imagined the scent of her offspring, called to her mate while she burned me alive from the inside.
Soft edges developed around my vision, the lights in the courtyard far too bright. A new, powerful urge demanded I go to ground. That I burrow.
And not just I.
A dark-haired, dark-skinned beauty to the left of Miranda’s elbow—her scent changed. A powerful, heady perfume wafted from her, filling the courtyard as her body signaled the work it had begun.
I watched her shiver and sigh, move as if popping every bone in her spine. One moment, she was docile, the next, hastening to her mate, who was rough with her in a way she clearly enjoyed.
He had her over his shoulder, racing off to see to her needs, while other females began calling to their mates, beckoning partners to claim all they offered—upsetting the gathering, the evening, and the tables.
Chaos grew, couples crashing together, all witnessed by the unfortunate unmated males who had no female to sing for them.
Skin growing so sensitive that even the thought of touch had my breasts aching, I took a stumbling step away from the table and almost wept in relief to find Cyderial’s strength meet my back.
He had come to me.
Hands to my arms, squeezing a bit too tight, he pressed his nose to my hair and inhaled as deeply as his ribs might stretch.
“The generals…” One touch of him and I did not feel at all like myself. He was the catalyst that would bring me to my knees, a necessary balm to a gnawing need growing deep in my belly. “They must give me their word.”
Groaning in such a way it seemed Cyderial suffered even more than I, my mate worked to restrain his own growing need, murmuring as his lips brushed my temple, “Demand your price, then you are mine.”
With the light growing too bright to tolerate, I faced the trio standing still in the chaos of partnering couples and overturned tables, far too close for my comfort.
Fair, stoic General Boreal and deviously smirking General Murdoch hovered near wherever I went, watching me with their unblinking stares.
General Aegir, silver hair gleaming, blinding, dared smile. Yet there was no joy on General Boreal’s countenance, and even foxlike Murdoch possessed no happiness in that smirk.
In a breathy voice heavily laced with song, I said, “As you know, Maeve has agreed to submit to General Thayer. She does this in full knowledge of what he expects and how it will alter her future.” Leaning into Cyderial, I melted, shut my eyes to the burning light, and knew a gnawing agitation to still be out in the open. “I will grow pregnant, and you three will keep your word to me. You will also keep your distance. You may not interfere with her rearing. I do not care how loudly her song may call to you; you cannot have her until she is fully grown.”
Trembling, I added, “When she is twenty-two, as I am now, she will choose which of the three of you pleases her most—assuming you hear her song. That male will have to earn her affection, as Cyderial earns mine. There will be no infighting or foolishness. Try to take her, and I will make you suffer.”
Looming terrible at my back, gravel in his voice, Cyderial threatened their very lives, “Give Lorieyn your word now, and be done with it—you will support her in gaining sexual education for our females, and you will back away.”
Far too intrigued with my scent to argue the finer points, daring to sup air, General Murdoch was the first to agree. “You have my support. But I will hold the baby after her birth, and updates on her progress will be given. If you wish me to court her, then her personality cannot remain a mystery. Do this, and I will not resort to other means to know my future mate.”
“Fine,” Cyderial agreed.
Fine? No. I did not and would not agree. No one but me would touch my child. Yet before I might hiss my strong disagreement, Cyderial’s palm slid over my throat.
Not in threat.
This grip was something very different.
Something led my eyes to flutter closed, urged me to tip back my head and forget arguing finer details with lesser men.
To trust him to handle everything. A reminder he would take charge now.
I had other work to do.
Important work.
Fiery work deep, deep in my core.
My mate snarled, “Aegir, Boreal, give her your word, or you will never know our child.”
