The Kraken King

by Meljean Brook

  “Were you living with her?”

  “No. After my father’s assassination, she left me to be trained with the other boys.”

  His father. And his mother had been consort to the former Horde emperor.

  Zenobia hadn’t put it together before. She could barely wrap her head around it now. She grasped for something that would fit better than Ariq might be an heir to the largest empire on Earth.

  “It means nothing, except as a political tool.” He must have caught her astonishment and guessed the reason for it. “There were many consorts, and I’m one of many children. One of them is Khagan now.”

  Then he’d been rebelling against his own brother—an old man. “How old were you when you began your training?”

  “Five.” At her gasp, he shook his head. “It was no different than schooling. And I saw her more often than many other children saw their parents. My mother was an assertive woman. She directed my education. If she didn’t agree with anything that I was taught, she corrected me. She saw the turn the rebellion was taking—that it was no longer just about freeing people from the Khagan’s tyranny, and that the rebel leadership had begun to splinter over who would sit in his place and who would create the new laws. She didn’t want me to take that turn, too.”

  And he hadn’t. She must have been a remarkable woman. “How did she manage to visit you?”

  “She was careful. I was the only risk she took.”

  But still a risk. “Is that why she was caught?”

  “No,” he answered, and for a long moment she thought that was all he would say. The strident caw of seabirds filled the brief silence, and the deep lowing horn of ships passing in the harbor. “A message to her was intercepted. They shouldn’t have been able to trace her. There was a system of drops in place, and— It doesn’t matter. Her husband discovered her and oversaw her execution. My brother had no idea what she was, but they thought she’d influenced him. He was imprisoned. They tried to force him to talk.”

  Zenobia didn’t need to ask how. The gravel in Ariq’s voice said it well enough. “And the husband, too? No—you said he was an admiral now. He wasn’t discredited? He’d given up secrets for years.”

  Ariq gave a short and bitter laugh. “The Khagan had been fighting wars on two fronts—against Nippon and against the rebellion. And because of the information she’d sent, the rebellion knew where the Khagan’s troops had been moved to fight the Nipponese, where the weak spots were. Eventually the Khagan had to withdraw from the Nipponese front to contain our forces. My mother all but ended the war between the Golden Empire and Nippon. But the Nipponese said that her husband had known all along, and had fed her the information. They took what she’d accomplished and gave it to him. He did get a hero’s welcome.”

  She looked across the wall at the orange, shimmering city. “He’s there now?”

  “No. He still lives in that house. I think of killing him.”

  He said it so easily. And he could kill him just as easily. He’d snapped a man in half as if he were a twig.

  “But you don’t?”

  “He is my brother’s father. Taka would be obligated to avenge him, though it would be brother against brother. True brothers, by blood and heart.” Ariq shook his head. “I would destroy us all—and there has been enough of that.”

  Zenobia clung to his hand, not knowing how to reply. Only thinking: I could love this man.

  Maybe she already did. What was the possibility of love? Meaningless. Anyone might be someone whom she could love. Any stranger, if she began to know him.

  She had begun to know Ariq. Not everything about him. But what she did know, she loved.

  So it was really: This might be a man who I could love fully, body and soul. This might be a man who can fill every part of my heart.

  But she didn’t know if it was hope or terror that was filling her now.

  Blindly, she stared out over the Red City. “Will you search for the marauders here?”

  How long would it take? How long would he stay?

  “They will know I’m here.” He glanced down at her. “My former general bought the flyers.”

  His own people had attacked all of those airships? “Rebels? Why?”

  His dark gaze searched her face before he looked away again. He didn’t answer her question, only said, “I will give them a short time to come to me.”

  “Just as you gave me a short time?” Only until tonight.

  “I would give you longer. But you’re not as safe when I don’t know why I’m protecting you.”

  Zenobia knew that was true. She nodded, then stilled as his hand rose to cup her jaw.

  “Not now. I will come to you later,” he said softly, and his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “How is your lip?”

  Heart thundering, she whispered, “Better.”

  So much better. Perfect. Ready to be kissed.

  He nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on her mouth. “I know you aren’t in the habit of letting others make decisions for you. So when I visit you tonight, I will give you a choice.”

  “What choice?” Her voice seemed thick, her body molten.

  “You will tell me what you need to.” His thumb dragged across her bottom lip. “Or you can tell me in the morning when I wake next to you.”

  She imagined it instantly, clearly. Her legs tangled with his. All that warm skin and hard muscle. And Ariq, his hair loosened and jaw shadowed, waking her with a luxurious kiss.

  “That was unbelievably presumptuous,” she said in astonished wonder. “I should be furious. But it was so well done. I have shivers all over.”

  His grin sent another shiver racing over her heated skin. “Your pleasure is my only goal.”

  “I prefer protection.”

  “And if you’re with me in bed, you’re easier to protect.”

  “A persuasive argument.” And she was happy to be persuaded. “But you’d be distracted. If you give me your all, you’re not protecting me. And if you’re protecting me, you can’t give me your all. Either my pleasure or your protection would suffer for it.”

  His eyes narrowed as he tried to work his way around that one.

  Laughing, she said, “Admit defeat, Governor!”

  His big hand left her jaw to grip her nape. His head lowered, his mouth just above hers. Their breath mingled, hers trembling, her laughter gone. She tried to rise onto her toes but he held her fast, so close to his lips and yearning to breach the distance.

  “Ariq,” he said softly. “When we are alone, you will call me Ariq.”

  “Ariq,” she breathed.

  He let her go. She staggered back, her heart racing, and what wasn’t throbbing was tight and hot and aching. God.

  Still catching her breath, she stared up at him. “You, sir, do not fight fair.”

  He didn’t look sorry.

  XIV

  Zenobia was right; he didn’t fight fair. This wasn’t a game. Ariq was trying to battle his way past her defenses. They’d already cracked. When he visited her that evening, they needed to fall.

  If they didn’t, he knew which weapon to use. Zenobia’s mercenaries had told him the walls she’d built around herself were vulnerable to anyone who cared for her.

  Ariq should have no trouble walking right through.

  He wouldn’t yet. He still hoped for her trust, her surrender. In this war, his heart was iron, but also molten. Placing it in her hands would be his own surrender. She could mold and shape it—or ruin it completely.

  For now, her soft touch and trembling breaths only made it stronger, and his will remained steel.

  Fortunately. He needed a steel will to sit through dinner.

  Several other diplomats had been invited, though Ariq and the ambassador’s wife had only arrived that afternoon. If it had all been hastily arranged, Ariq couldn’t tell.

  That was what Auger seemed to do best: smooth out problems and put people at ease. It was a skill Ariq didn’t have, but he knew enough not to insist th
at Zenobia be seated next to him, or to cut down the table’s legs so that he could sit somewhere more comfortable than a stiff, tall chair. When he ate, Ariq liked to feel that his stomach was at his center. Seated like this, it felt as if his center was his ass, instead.

  But when one drank the water of a place, one followed the customs of that place—and here, Ariq was being given more wine than water, which he didn’t mind. Though fingers carried food to the mouth better than forks, he used the silver. He engaged in the nearby conversation, though he only had eyes for Zenobia at the opposite end of the table.

  He was the only one who did.

  It was strange how she was disregarded. He’d seen it before with the French aviators, but he’d thought they’d preferred Helene because she was the ambassador’s wife and therefore their priority. They’d been polite to Zenobia, had seemed to acknowledge she was a sensible woman, but hadn’t shown any other interest.

  The same happened now. When she spoke to her companions, she sometimes smiled, or even laughed, and they did the same. But it was all politeness. Through it all, she seemed detached. Guarded. As if she used her words to keep them away instead of bringing them in.

  Beside him, Helene had the opposite effect on everyone they were seated with, and they were drawn to her. Men and women. That was a skill, too—to make them all feel more important, smarter, necessary—and the more they approved of her and admired her, the brighter she became. Had any ruthlessness existed in her, she could have ruled a country. Instead she only seemed to need that admiration.

  And Helene didn’t wreck him every time he looked into her eyes.

  But he watched her, too, because Mara had said that everyone who knew Zenobia’s identity took advantage of her in some way. Had her friend? How? As far as he could see, Helene didn’t even know Zenobia’s name. She called her ‘Geraldine,’ and had introduced her to others as ‘Madame Inkslinger.’

  Yet in those conversations, she revealed that they had been friends since they were children. So how could Helene not know who she was?

  Then in passing, between a sip of wine and a bite of fish, Ariq heard Helene speak another name—the family name of her neighbors when she’d been young.

  And he finally understood who Zenobia was.

  ***

  Gunther-Baptiste.

  It had been more than a decade since he’d met the smuggler with the same name, but as he soaked in the steaming water of the bathhouse, Ariq closed his eyes and let the man’s face return to him. Angular, like Zenobia’s. The same brilliant green eyes. Similar accents when they spoke.

  Her brother.

  Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste. He’d partnered with a man named Bilson, and together they’d been two of the most reliable men in the business—until they’d lost a shipment of Temür Agha’s war machines. That was the link between Zenobia’s letters and Ariq’s uncle.

  But what had happened since that lost shipment? No one in the rebellion would work with them again. That didn’t mean they’d quit smuggling. The twins had mentioned rumors that Gunther-Baptiste had helped free New Eden from Bushke’s tyranny—which meant he’d been in this part of the world.

  And it meant he was still the reckless idealist.

  An idealist might believe exposing information was a moral imperative. A reckless man might get into trouble.

  Ariq thought it must be the latter. Her brother had probably leapt into something he couldn’t handle alone and had appealed to his sister for help.

  And it fit what Mara had told him: Everyone used her, and those closest to her made her the most vulnerable. What wouldn’t she do for her brother? If he’d asked her to carry dangerous information into the Red City, would she?

  Ariq thought she would have—but only if Gunther-Baptiste’s life depended on it. She was too clever and too practical to risk herself for foolish reasons, or to gratify a brother’s idealistic ambitions.

  The names she and her brother used in their letters made more sense now, too. With a personality as loud as his clothes had been, Gunther-Baptiste was exactly the type to take on the name of a popular hero to disguise his identity during the course of a job. And Zenobia . . . was not. But she must have thought it prudent to disguise herself, as well, and to hire mercenaries who could protect her. She’d traveled with her friend aboard a French naval airship that should have been secure.

  He couldn’t fault any of the precautions she’d taken. Yet somehow, someone in the rebellion must have discovered she was coming.

  Were they also the ones who had threatened her brother?

  If she trusted him with the truth tonight, Ariq could help her. He would help them both.

  Unless she chose to tell him tomorrow morning.

  He’d have to be careful when he kissed her. So careful. Her mouth was still bruised. The cut on her side couldn’t have fully healed. He’d have to be gentle when he took her, no matter how badly he needed.

  Dregs and hell. He needed now, just picturing the softness of her skin, her long legs, the gentle swell of her breasts. Remembering her taste, and the hitch in her breath when his tongue had swept between her lips. Imagining her tight and hot and needy as he settled between her thighs and eased in.

  Almost fifteen minutes passed before he could stand up and begin drying himself. The Kraken, at home in the water—because he couldn’t keep his damned tentacle under control in a public bath.

  Zenobia would laugh at that. A good thing, too. His control would be tested often when she was his. He might have to build a private bath in his home, or risk every man in his town knowing just how frequently Ariq thought of her.

  He might have to anyway. He hadn’t seen Zenobia visit the women’s baths, even though she’d enjoyed bathing in the sea. But she’d been clothed then. The rest of their journey, she’d must have washed in the privacy of her chambers, without the luxury of a soak. A tin tub hardly sufficed. With more time, she might become accustomed to the public house, but if not, he’d make certain she could have the pleasure at home.

  Outside, the moon was a sliver peeking through a clouded sky. Gas lanterns lit the empty street. The embassy’s defenses were poor. Watchmen patrolled the gate and gardens, and the fence provided decent protection against light forces on the ground, but like almost every other home in this city, the building was vulnerable to an invasion by balloon.

  The rebellion didn’t use many airships. Their strategy often depended on concealment and making unexpected, concentrated attacks, and it was difficult to hide a large balloon.

  But although airships weren’t often used, the rebellion had access to them, and Zenobia’s balcony might as well have been an invitation. He’d stay in her chambers during the night whether she invited him into her bed or not.

  She was on the balcony now.

  His body tightened when he spotted her, reigniting the stiff ache. She stood silhouetted in the soft glow through her windows, fully dressed, her hair up—waiting for him.

  No, not just waiting. Preparing. She knew he would come, but she wouldn’t let him take her by surprise. If he knew anything about her at all, it was that she wouldn’t allow him to determine the direction this night took.

  By the sweet blue heavens, she was incredible. She must have already planned how this would go. Maybe she’d even consulted her notes, using everything she’d learned about him. She’d probably envisioned it all and readied her speech.

  A sound strategy. Ariq preferred to ambush.

  She disappeared from the balcony before he reached the entrance. The embassy was quiet. No one saw him go to her chambers, but by tomorrow morning, everyone would know, because his boots would still be outside her door.

  He didn’t knock. When he entered, she was locking the balcony doors. Her brows arched when she faced him, as if to say she’d expected him to slip uninvited into her room.

  “What did you decide?” He closed the bedchamber door and turned the key, locking it with a solid click. Her smile faltered. “Now? Or the morning?”
/>
  Her gaze flew from the lock to his face. “Now.”

  Probably the answer she’d prepared. He wondered if she’d planned the breathless tension in her reply.

  “All right.” Ariq unbuckled the shoulder of his tunic. “You have until I cross the room.”

  Jade eyes widened. “What?”

  “Tell me what you need to. I’ll go slow.” He dropped his belt to the floor.

  “You’ll . . . I— Oh, my.”

  He took a step. Her pale skin flushed. She backed up, shoulders pressed against the balcony door. With her gaze fixed on his discarded belt, she slid sideways, palms against the wall until she hit the desk beside the window. She glanced at it wildly, as if confused to see it there, then her gaze cleared and she flattened her hand atop a stack of papers piled on the surface. Her typesetting machine sat beside them, her glider contraption opened by the desk legs.

  She stooped and slid the papers into the pack. When she stood again, her composure had returned.

  So had her prepared speech. “My brother—Archimedes Fox—is an adventurer.”

  Archimedes Fox. Not Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste.

  Disappointment speared through him. She wasn’t going to trust him with the truth.

  But she was clever. And she knew she needed protection. Whatever story she told him would help Ariq do that.

  “I’ve heard the name,” he said, and clipped open the buckle at his side.

  Her gaze dropped to his hand. She hauled in a slow breath, her small breasts lifting, her nipples like beads beneath the silk of her tunic.

  Ariq intended to suck on those sweet buds when she came. Her fingernails scraping at his back, her nipple hard on his tongue as he pumped deeper and deeper into her clenching sheath.

  But gently. So gently. He took another step.

  “I’m not surprised you’ve heard of him,” she finally said, her voice even but her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, as if to hold herself in place. “He salvages antiquities in Europe. His salvaging runs are dangerous more often than not, and he encounters all sorts of people on his travels—then he would tell me about them in his letters. I used his stories as inspiration to write my own: the Archimedes Fox adventures.”