by Imogen Sera
She watched him through the slits of her eyes, wondering what he was getting at. She didn’t need to be reminded that she wasn’t his mate.
“I never,” he said, punctuating the word with a kiss on her shoulder, “never want you to feel less than because we’re not.”
“But… aren’t we, kind of? No magical bond or whatever shit?”
He chuckled darkly against her neck. “See?” he said. “This is why I need you to be my wife. I don’t want you questioning what’s between us.”
She didn’t respond, just sighed as his lips moved down, pressing kisses from her throat to her collarbones.
“I love you,” he said as his lips just brushed against the top of her abdomen. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
“I’m still not your mate,” she said.
“You’ll never be my mate, but… Aurelia will never be my wife. I’ll always love her,” he said, and rubbed his cheek against her belly. “I’ll always love you, too.”
She watched him as he said it. His face was sincere and lovely and sad, just like everything that had ever happened between them. She didn’t like the sadness, but it was there, it would always be there. Now there was a sweet contentedness, also, which lessened the bitterness considerably. He loved her, and deep down she knew that she’d loved him for almost as long as she’d known him. She’d been so afraid, but she didn’t have to be anymore. She wanted to make him happy, would fight to make him happy, and as she pondered the almost year that they’d spent together, she was struck by the thought of how much she would enjoy him being her husband.
“Okay,” she said. When he looked up from where he’d been kissing across to her hipbone, a hopeful smile on his face, she clarified. “We should get married.”
He grinned, and then he was on top of her, pressing sweet kisses all over her face. She giggled— she giggled— and wrapped her arms around him, savoring his reassuring weight on top of her.
“Really?” he asked. “You’re sure?”
She nodded vigorously, then held his face between her hands and kissed his mouth. He responded immediately, and the sweetness of before was gone— there was only heat there, only a fierce need for him to be joined with her in as many ways as possible. Her tongue darted out, swept across the seam of his lips, and then their tongues tangled together and she couldn’t help but sigh as they did.
He pulled away from her, breathless, and with an impish look that was becoming more familiar he returned to where he’d been a moment ago, kissing along her hips. It was clear where he was going, where she needed him to be, and when she moaned helplessly she felt a dark chuckle pressed against her lower abdomen. He pressed kisses straight down, straight to her core. Her breath hitched as he kissed her right on her clit, softly and tight lipped, almost chaste. She made a frantic, needy noise, and jerked her pelvis once, and then his hands moved to grip her hips, and his tongue came out to sweep through her folds.
She threaded her hands through his hair and made a halfhearted attempt to not press his face further into her. He devoured her; his tongue swirling and tasting and curling, his lips pressing and sucking. Before long she was writing under him, and calling out for him, and when he slipped his fingers inside her and began to move them she clenched around them and shuddered while his mouth was still on her.
He returned his lips to her mouth, and she could feel his hard length pressed against her. It would be so easy to shift slightly, to jerk upward, and have him inside of her, where she needed him. He seemed to have other ideas, though, thrusting tentatively against her, rubbing through her folds and against her clit, while his tongue swept through her mouth and his arms held her to him.
She begged for him, the friction delicious but torturous, and he responded by nipping lightly at her neck and thrusting harder against her. He still wasn’t in her, still wasn’t where she needed him, but when his fingers came and caressed her nipple and he sucked at the skin on her neck, she found herself again calling for him, again shuddering and clenching— this time around nothing.
Not nothing, though, because just as she went over the edge he adjusted his angle and pushed into her. She was so full— every delicious spot inside of her was caressed as he moved in her. She wondered how she could have forgotten so quickly what this was like. It was nothing short of perfect. The fullness inside of her, the weight of him on her, the heat from his skin and the heat from his breath— perfect.
She kissed his temple, then his cheek, and then the stubble that had grown along his jaw. She kissed everywhere she could reach, frantic to remind him of her love, of her devotion, and when she couldn’t reach anywhere else she held his head and cradled it against her chest. He moved inside of her slowly, reverently, almost lovingly, but when the tempo increased and his gaze was burning into her, she pressed her fingertips into his hard shoulders and pressed her feet against the back of his powerful thighs and clung to him.
He fucked her hard, like he’d needed this as much as she had. Each time he filled her, she reveled in it, and when he pulled out, she felt a vague sense of loss— every single time. As he moved faster and faster the feelings overlapped more and more, until she found herself in a strange kind of limbo where she was as satisfied and as wanting as she’d ever been.
It didn’t last long, because she was surprised by her orgasm— she’d been so focused on the now unfamiliar sensations that she hadn’t realized how close she was, and she was over the edge with no warning. She felt as if she were coming unraveled, as if she were falling with no end in sight, but he was there to catch her, to put her back together. He fucked her hard through it, and her clenching around his cock was it for him. He shuddered his release inside of her, and as he did he breathed her name.
She held him on top of her for a long time afterward, not letting him move or do anything other than lay his dear head against her chest. She stroked his hair away from his face, she ran her fingers softly over the stubble on his jaw, she fingered the lines along his ears and nose and mouth. When her heart had slowed again, and when she found her eyes getting heavy, she shifted slightly, and he rolled off of her.
She missed him right away, but he pulled her against him, so that her cheek was pressed to his chest and his arms were around her.
“I love you,” she whispered, so quietly she wasn’t sure if he heard it in the dark room, but then his lips pressed against her temple.
“Fuck, I love you,” he said, squeezing her almost painfully against him. She wasn’t going to protest his grip.
They were silent for a few minutes, savoring each other. “Why are we here?” she asked quietly, for the second time. He hadn’t exactly answered her the first time.
“Well,” he said, after a minute, “there’s this little church right here in town…”
“You mean right now?” she asked, lifting her head to look at him. “You want to get married right now?”
He shrugged. “We have a few days here. Why not before we leave?”
“I… don’t know,” she admitted. “Maggie and Caelian planned their wedding for months.”
“Do you want a wedding like theirs?” he asked.
“Please no,” she breathed, so quickly that he laughed.
“We don’t have to right now, sweetheart, let’s do it when you want to. But I’ve chosen strategically, and if you do want to, we’re not far from your family.”
She chewed her lip as she thought. “I want to. Anytime,” she said. “Now is fine. I would marry you anytime. But… would I be a terrible daughter if I didn’t want them there?”
He shook his head and kissed her softly. “You’ll never be a terrible anything.”
“Just us, then?” she asked, looking up at him hopefully.
“Just us,” he confirmed. “Just like it should be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mira got married in her pants. She fretted about not having a dress for a few minutes on the morning they’d decided on, while Tarquin had watched her with an am
used smirk.
“Let’s go buy one,” he said.
“That’s stupid,” she said. “No.”
“Do you actually want to wear a dress?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Do you still want to get married?”
She paused her pacing at that, then crossed the room to him and hugged him tightly. “Yes,” she said.
“Then come marry me,” he said, and took her by the hand and guided her out the door.
It was brief and uneventful, just the two of them and a priest, and when it was over, she felt exactly the same. They ate lunch afterward, an unhurried affair, and she sat close enough to lean against him as she ate.
They returned to their room where he told her how much he adored her, how much he’d missed her whenever she’d been away from him and how grateful he was for her patience— as she gave him chance after chance after chance. He swore this would be the last one he needed. He would get it right this time.
Then he stripped her and spread her legs and devoured her, and when she was trembling he pushed into her. As he moved inside her he told her again how much he loved her and how much he needed her, and she tried not to cry but wasn’t sure if she’d managed it. He held her to him after, and pressed sweet kisses down her neck and along her shoulders and down her spine. She melted into his touch. She was his, but more importantly, he was hers.
They spent the rest of their stay like that, wandering out occasionally for food, but spending the majority of their time adoring each other. Not just physically, though— a large portion of the days were reserved for lying together and talking about everything, and another smaller, more uncomfortable portion was devoted to Mira’s journals. He’d been patient, though, and eager to help, and she found herself improving more quickly with someone to guide her.
“Help me write a letter?” she said, one morning after she’d finished copying words down.
“To your family?” he asked.
She laughed. “I meant to Cyrus, but… I suppose I should write to them as well.”
He nodded and kissed her then, hard and sweet and perfect. When he pulled away she tucked her head under his chin.
“I’ve gotten a letter,” he said after a moment, his voice rumbling under her ear. “I’ve been ignoring it, but I’ve just gotten a second one. We need to go home.”
She nodded against him. “Is everything alright?”
“I think so, Helias is being as tight-lipped as usual.”
“Hmm,” she said, and then pulled his arms from her and stood. “Well, let’s go then.”
“We don’t have to leave this second,” he said, eyeing her skeptically and leaning back in the chair. “I know you’re not one for relaxing, but some of us are.”
“I’m not one for being bored,” she retorted, “and I’m getting restless. We’ve been here five days and done nothing.”
“We got married,” he pointed out.
“That took ten minutes.”
“We’ve done… other things.”
“Also took ten minutes.” She tossed his bag at him, shot him a playful smile and disappeared into the bathroom.
He found her a moment later gathering her things and shoving them haphazardly into her bag. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her front, his breath hot on her neck and his lips brushing against it.
“I want to leave,” she protested, but her eyes were closed and her lips were curved upward.
“Ten minutes,” he murmured against her neck.
Tarquin wasn’t sure what to expect at the palace. Not from his brother— he always knew what to expect from Helias— but from Mira. They hadn’t discussed it, but he was fairly confident that she would be uncomfortable telling people that they’d gotten married. He thought she’d been standoffish at first, and she had, but he had learned that it was a result of her being so fiercely private. She was finally starting to let him in.
He could still scarcely believe she’d agreed to the marriage. He’d asked assuming she’d tell him to fuck off, assuming that he’d have to spend the next year or twenty wearing her down. But she’d said yes, which he’d only slightly planned for, and he was so thrilled by it that he didn’t want to wait a minute longer.
They arrived back at the palace just after lunch, and he took Mira by the hand and pulled her through the maze of hallways to the queen’s apartments. Helias answered his knock, somber faced, but he was especially surprised at the way that Ingrid launched herself at Mira and enveloped her in a hug.
“I’m so glad you’re alright,” she sobbed. “I mean, I knew that you were with Tarquin and you were probably fine but I’ve been so worried and—”
“What’s happened?” Tarquin asked Helias quietly, his eyes trained on the awkward way Mira held her hands as the queen hugged her.
“Two of the ladies are missing. They retired to their chambers, four nights ago, and just… disappeared.”
“You’re sure they didn’t leave on their own?”
“I’m sure,” said Ingrid. “Elsie would never leave without telling, and Juliette wouldn’t have left her sisters. Besides, they hardly know each other.”
“Do you know anything?” Tarquin asked. “Anything at all about what might have happened?”
Helias held out a slip of paper for him. “This came this morning from Cyrus. Cryptic as usual, but reading between the lines, he seems to think this is related to Tate’s new… lifestyle.”
“Do you need me to go?” he asked.
Helias nodded and opened his mouth to apologize.
“I’m coming too,” Mira said from across the room, where she was now seated next to Ingrid on a sofa.
“Of course you are,” he said. He turned back to Helias. “She’s coming with me.”
Helias smiled at that. “Good.”
Ingrid stood from her seat, her tears wiped from her eyes and a confident smile on her face again. “Where have you been?” she asked.
“Around,” Tarquin said tersely.
Mira laughed at that and moved to stand next to him. “We got married,” she said.
“Really?” he murmured to her. “I assumed you wanted to keep it quiet.”
She shrugged amid the hugs and congratulations aimed at them. “I’m glad you’re my husband.”
“You’re sure you want to come along?” he asked, later that night, finally back in Mira’s bed. “It might be a few weeks.”
She glared up at him. “Of course I do.”
“Good,” he said, and pulled her head against his chest. “I want you to always be with me.”
The next morning, she kissed him and clung to him and pressed her fingertips into his shoulders. He grinned against her lips, and just like that he was gone; not gone though, just shifted. She stood tall as she stared at him, ignoring the tiny primordial part of her that was terrified. It was always there when she saw him like this, but had never consumed her again, not after that first time they’d met.
She climbed up on him on unsteady legs, and clutched at him and pressed her face against the warm, hard scales of his back. A minute later they were airborne, soaring, and as she watched the palace become tiny below her, she had the distinct thought that this was home. This was happiness. This was freedom.
A note from me:
Thanks as always for reading! I love this book so much that I had a really hard time finishing it. I’ve been itching to get this down since I wrote book one, and I have pages and pages of little scenes between that that I scribbled down while I was waiting. I have SUCH a soft spot for Mira—she’s full of flaws and so self conscious and just so human; it was a pleasure to write about her.
The next book features Elsie, Ingrid’s lady-in-waiting who likes pretty dresses and styling hair. It’s about halfway done and I’m really enjoying writing it. The setting is quite different than what we’ve seen so far, and it’s fun to further explore this little world. I’m expecting it to be out in mid-late March.
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Books in the Dragongrove Series:
Book 1: Mated to the Dragon King