by Kati Wilde
Her gaze searched his face. “You are kind to me.”
“Kindness is easy. Courage is not.” He eyed her solemnly. “Neither is living without magic in Ivermere. I think you have more courage than I knew, Anja.”
Her heart full, she could not speak. As if sensing how overwhelmed she was, he lowered his gaze to offer her privacy and slowly began wrapping the clean strip of linen around her thigh.
And it was not only her heart that was overwhelmed. Her exposed leg ought to have been freezing, yet she felt so hot—and he was so close. His fingers slipped over her skin, so carefully, almost reverently. He had said the ointment had a foul smell yet he seemed to be leaning in toward the juncture of her thighs, breathing deep, and she felt a great strain within the muscles beneath her hands.
By the gods, and what she imagined then—of lifting the hem of her tunic and exposing bare flesh beneath. Of urging him closer, until his mouth met the part of her that burned hotter than any wound. The part of her that was so wet, her inner thighs felt the icy kiss of the wind more sharply than the rest of her skin, and she was uncertain whether the ointment was all that slicked his fingers. But she could pull him forward, and know the kiss and the touch she so desperately craved.
Unless he turned away again.
He suddenly stilled, and looked up to her with eyes that seemed to burn with hunger.
Anja trembled as a war waged within her. She had not enough courage to pull him closer, not enough courage to face his rejection again. This gentle touch as he tended to her might be all she would ever know of him. But from now until they reached Ivermere, perhaps she could have the small joy of touching him.
Her fingers slipped over his upturned face, tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “There is blood here. Do you wish me to wash it for you?”
Catching her fingers, he shook his head. “I have blood everywhere upon me,” he said gruffly. “And it doesn’t wash.”
He did not mean the crimson staining his skin. “Will mine?”
“This was no stain upon you. It is their stain.”
The bandits’. “Then this blood on your face and hands is their stain, too. You wear the stains of many villains.”
Smiling, he pressed a kiss to her fingers. She caught her breath, in pleasure and hope, but he only rose to his feet.
“You are cold,” he said, folding her hands between his. “Let us ride to find a warm inn and a hot meal.”
“What of them?” She glanced at the bandits’ bloodied remains.
“The ravens will make use of them.”
With that, he swept her up and lifted her astride the mare. And as she gathered up her reins, Anja knew her heart would not be merely sliced open when this was done. Instead it would be rended into bloodied pieces, left as carrion.
That was what the Conqueror did.
7
Kael the Wolfkiller
Lyngfen
From almost every corner of his kingdoms, Blackworm Mountain loomed visible in the distance. As they’d traveled north on this journey, it had always lain in front of them. Now it no longer lay ahead, but rose to the west as they passed through the upper part of Lyngfen.
Fifteen years he had spent in the belly of that mountain, in the mines and tunnels that seemed a sunless world of their own. A world that Kael had destroyed almost the very moment after he’d freed those who’d been enslaved there.
Yet it was not those fifteen years that loomed in his mind when the mountain was no longer a peak in the distance but a glowering hell nearby. Instead it was the cursed road ahead and the next four days that gnawed with vicious teeth upon his heart.
In four days, they would be in Ivermere.
“Kael.”
Immediately his gaze went to Anja’s face, searching for the source of the worry that sharpened her tone. She was frowning, but not looking at him. Instead she leaned over in the saddle and watched the horse’s long and even stride.
“Is she favoring a leg? Her head bobs more than usual but I can’t feel it in her gait.”
He studied the mare’s walk. “Not one leg over the other.”
“Perhaps she’s favoring two.” Anja drew on her reins and swiftly dismounted.
Kael halted his own mount and joined her, taking Anja’s reins and remaining at the mare’s head while she ran her hands down the horse’s forelegs.
“It’s hot and swollen here.” Gently she prodded the horse’s leg below the knee. Nickering, the mare shifted her weight away from Anja’s touch. “And the other side, too. Splints, I think.”
Which would heal, given time. But they did not have much of that.
Anja let out a relieved breath, then smiled up at him. “I feared worse. Especially after that bearded bandit caught hold of her so roughly.”
“That might have helped the splints along, but it was more likely the road.” They had been traveling long distances each day.
Gnawing her lip, Anja rose to her feet. “I should not ride her. It is only more weight for her to carry.”
“Ride with me, then.” His own horse was sound and he traveled light. If he and the horse had been dressed in full armor, the chainmail and metal plating would have weighed more than she did. “The next village isn’t far. We’ll stable her there and leave word for the caravan that follows. By the time your trunks are delivered to Ivermere and the caravan returns this way, she’ll be sound enough for the journey home.”
Anja nodded, though unhappiness passed through her eyes—and he wasn’t certain whether it was mention of her going home or the idea of riding with him. But he only had four days left and would not pass this opportunity to hold her again.
After tethering the mare’s lead to his saddle, he moved to lift her onto his horse but she hesitated, moving back.
“If I am to ride behind you, I should mount second,” she said.
“You will be in front.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That is not the usual way of riding double.”
“No.” But he would do it no other way. If she sat ahead of him in the saddle, he would see any threat approaching. His body would shield her from any unseen threat from behind. “It is how a king rides double.”
Her soft lips smashed together as if fighting a smile—a battle she quickly lost. Laughing, she shook her head.
“I should never have told you that whatever you do is what a king does. Will you use it to get your way every time?”
“If I must.”
“All right, then.” But she didn’t step forward to mount the horse; instead she took off her coat and turned it backward, pushing her arms back through the sleeves and covering her front in fur. At his curious look, she explained, “It is too thick and would bunch between us.”
So it would. He hefted her up into the saddle, clenching his teeth against a tortured groan when she swung her leg over and he glimpsed the barest bit of skin at her inner thigh. Then she settled and straightened her tunic beneath her, so that bare skin would not chafe against leather. His cock stiff as a sword, he swung into the saddle.
She could not mistake the hardness behind her, for with both of them in the cradle of the saddle, the seat was a snug fit. His cock was a rigid pole pressing against her ass, yet she gave no indication—neither pressing against him or moving away. Though perhaps she didn’t feel it through her thick tunic and his straining breeches. Or perhaps she believed he was always in this state, for his cock was always hard when he held her close.
By the gods, he had missed this. He had not held her since he’d stopped sharing her bed. The sweet pleasure of binding her leg had been dulled by the shame of wanting to fuck her even while she bled from an injury he ought to have prevented. And she touched him so often of late, but that was more torment, because they were innocent touches to his hands or his face.
But never did she open her mouth and ask for more.
He would have given anything she asked for. At her command, he would have razed Blackworm Mountain itself. But for now she on
ly leaned back against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. The coat draped like a blanket down her front and was long enough to cover their legs.
Her soft laugh shook gently through his chest. “This is quite comfortable, in truth. I could nap here.”
“I will not let you fall if you do.” Already he held her securely, the reins in his right hand and his left arm wrapped around her waist.
“I am not tired.”
He heard the smile in her voice when she answered, yet despite how often she’d talked these past days, she seemed content with silence now.
As was Kael, though it was all he was content with. To have her against him, to know the soft feel of her, to breathe the sweet smell of her—never had he been so overwhelmed with need.
And this journey would be all that he ever had of her. He ought to have spent every moment like this, holding her close.
She reached up, and the soft touch of her fingers against his jaw thundered through his veins. Gently she turned his gaze to the west. “That is Blackworm Mountain, is it not?”
“It is.”
She said nothing after that, but let her palm curl back around his nape—as if in comfort.
A comfort he didn’t need, but would take. “Ask me,” he told her. “I know you have wanted to all day.”
She sighed, and he was sorry he’d spoken when she slid her hand from his neck and let if fall back to her lap. “I don’t want to dredge up painful memories.”
“It does not.” There had been pain, but he had survived. That was all that truly mattered. “But there is little to say. It was as bad as you likely imagine.”
“Probably worse than I can imagine.”
Kael could imagine worse than he had suffered. He had seen worse. “I was enslaved as a boy and became a man within the mountain—and if the Dead Lands were the fire that created me, the mines hammered me into sharpened steel. Others were not so fortunate. When stories of the mines are told, it should be theirs. For they still suffer and I do not, and it’s too easy to believe there were no other consequences when the story most frequently told ends in victory.”
“With you killing Toatin Zan and Geofry losing his head?”
And his guts. And everything else. “Yes.”
Nodding, she fell quiet for a moment, then said, “Have you ever returned to the Dead Lands?”
“There is nothing for me to return to.”
She made a soft noise and her hand found his at her waist, lacing their fingers together. Another comfort he didn’t need but would take. “You had a story before that, though, didn’t you? You have been called the Wolfkiller—were called that even before you began your campaign against Geofry. It is said that you killed five wolves with your bare hands when you were only four years of age. That the pack had bedeviled your clan for a full winter before attacking. And while the adults were fighting them off, more cunning wolves stole into the village from the opposite direction, slinked into your hut and dragged you off to be eaten, but you killed them and escaped.”
Kael grinned against her hair. “It was not my bare hands. I used a rock.”
“Oh, come now!”
“Truthfully.” Partially.
She scoffed.
Laughing, Kael said, “I will show you the scars on my arm from where I was dragged. They are clearly from a wolf’s teeth.”
“Then I will believe you killed one.”
That would be closer to truth. So was this. “I spread the tale and the name—along with the name of the Butcherer. It is always an advantage when enemies fear you long before you arrive to kill them.” Wryly he added, “Perhaps I did it too well.”
“You speak of how the people fear you?”
“I do.”
Emphatically she shook her head, her white braid whipping against his shoulder. Her fingers tightened on his as if not to allow him escape from what she said next. “As someone whose life has been saved by your butchery, I will tell you that it puts the savagery in a different light. To only hear of it…in truth, you sound like a monster. But upon the road, as horrible as it was, I only felt gratitude when I saw what you did to those bandits. Your people feel the same. Whether you freed them from the yoke of slavery or from Geofry’s reign of terror, they know they have been saved and are grateful.”
Her fingers might as well have taken hold of his throat, his tongue. Kael knew not what to say.
“Let me ask you,” she said now, “why do you always remind them of your savagery? Such as at the sentencing—you made certain to describe what you did to Qul Wrac. But you do not revel in the memory, like hunters sharing stories around a fire. And with me, you do the same. Often because I ask, but you do not spare the gory detail.”
Grimly he replied, “I do it so there is no mistaking who I am.”
“But you only give one part of who you are. The bloodiest part. You almost never speak of courage and strength. Never the part that the people want to celebrate: of freeing them, of inspiring them, of giving them hope.”
He frowned—but again, he could not answer. This was not a view he had of himself.
Turning her head, she leaned sideways so she could look up into his face. Her own expression was one of wonder. “You do not even realize that is how they see you? Or you don’t accept it,” she said thoughtfully. “Or think you do not deserve it.”
That he could answer. “I’m not certain I do.”
“Your people have decided you do. Trust them.” Her eyes brightened with amusement. “How strange to think that you doubt yourself. The more powerful someone is, the more certain they usually are of their worth—and their estimate usually inflated. Do you think because of the blood on your hands, the savagery that put it there, that you are some kind of monster who deserves to be ousted and alone?” She shook her head and answered her own question before he could. “I have seen monsters. You are not one.”
She said it with sheer conviction that allowed no argument, but Kael did not care to argue about himself, anyway. “What monsters have you seen?”
Her cheeks colored slightly and she pulled back against his chest again. He could not see her face but she snuggled in so sweetly from hips to shoulders that it was a fair exchange.
Every step the horse took stroked his cock against her ass, a rhythm that was pleasure and torment in equal measure. Mostly likely he would spill his seed before this ride was finished.
His only regret would be that it wasn’t inside her.
“In Scalewood.” She leaned her head back against his shoulder again, turned her face so that every breath was a white cloud past his jaw. “Even though I had no magic, I still wished to be useful. And there are threats that are impervious to spells and must be fought with weapons, instead. So I believed that, as a future queen, I should know how to protect my people—from the creatures within Scalewood or from monsters abroad. Like Geofry.”
“Or me.”
He caught the curve of her smile. “Yes. At one time, I thought Ivermere would be your next conquest.”
“So you dreamed of killing me even before you decided to become my bride.”
She laughed. “Yes.” Her hand squeezed his again. “But this was before you began making your names across the four kingdoms. My parents wished me only to study magic and learn the workings of our kingdom. But I begged the Mistress of the Hunt to teach me the sword and more.”
The hunters who destroyed the magical beasts that broke through Scalewood’s wards. Just as spellcasters did, the monsters had a natural protection against magic—but instead of being resistant to the scaling, they were resistant to spells cast.
“And she agreed?” Then taught her well, by what Kael had seen.
“Yes. And that training was not secretly done, but my parents never liked to hear of what I did—and of course studying always came first. So it always seemed very…private.”
She seemed unhappy with that word, yet Kael understood well enough. Learning the sword and hunting was something that she’d l
oved and was hers.
And there was a wistful note in her voice as she continued, “So I rode with the hunters when I could—and that was almost always at night, when my other duties were finished. Usually we patrolled the borders of Scalewood and I saw many monsters then, but they never passed the wards. All of Ivermere holds them, did you know?”
Kael nodded. Every ward had to be maintained by a spellcaster or its power faded over several days—and that ward was only as strong as the sorcerer who cast it. But it could be cast by more than one. So it did not surprise him that all of Ivermere held the wards; it would be suicide not to.
“Yet something escaped?”
“Yes. There began attacks on villages near the wood. Just…slaughter. And the bodies partially eaten. But we didn’t know at first that it was one of the Scalewood beasts. No one saw anything of the like, and others reported seeing a man during the attacks.”
“The human sort of monster.” In his experience, more common than the magical sort.
“So we believed. But it wasn’t. It was a wolf who could cast a transformation spell and shed his skin, then pass through the wards—because they allow humans through.” Her fingers tightened on his. “When we came upon him the first time, he’d butchered a family—and though his skin was still off, we could see he wasn’t a man. Not with those claws and teeth. And we chased him. But he passed back through the wards and put on his wolfskin, and we didn’t dare pursue him into the wood.”
“But you knew what he was, then.”
She nodded. “So we waited for him to come out again. Every hunter in Ivermere was there—and he was so fast and strong. Not like a man at all. We used spelled arrows that never missed their mark, yet they barely slowed him. And when hunters came close with their swords…” She let out a long sigh. “There were many killed that night. We feared that he would reach his skin and we would have to do it all over again, but the Mistress of the Hunt finally got close and beheaded him. He did not heal from that.”