by Milla Vane
On her moon night, Maddek would pin her hands down so that he heard her every gasp and moan and scream. So that she cried aloud his name with every hard thrust of his cock.
Now it was her legs that he pinned to the furs when her orgasm released her from its devastating grip. Her thighs he pressed apart again, holding her open while she lay boneless and quivering and panting. So wet she was, her cunt flooded with her hot release, and his hunger not yet sated. She flinched now at the brush of his tongue against her clit, so he backed away from it, kissing her slick inner thighs and licking between her sultry lips. This time when he eased a blunt finger inside her, her narrow passage accepted him more readily. The tight clasp of her inner walls stiffened his erection to excruciating hardness as he imagined her cunt clutching his throbbing length in that scorching embrace.
Five nights he must wait for that. Yet he need not wait for more of her sweetness. After a few tentative rocks of her hips, as if she tested the thickness and length of his finger within her, Yvenne’s restless movements renewed. Shallowly she fucked herself against his hand, her muffled moans sharpened by a pleading note until he bent his head to her cunt again.
All teasing was done. More even than her honey, he craved her helpless surrender, her eager response. With a choked scream against her fist, she gave both to him, until the inner convulsions of her sheath snapped the chain of his restraint.
Red lust swam through his vision as Maddek surged over her, cock arrowing to her cunt. The broad crown slicked through her passion-drenched cleft and lodged against her virgin entrance, and all his strength it took then to remain rigidly still, though his instincts roared for him to plunge deep, then roared louder when Yvenne’s ragged whisper filled the air between them.
His name again. Unmuffled, for she buried her fingers in his hair and arched her hips to receive his seed. At that naked invitation, uncontrollable pressure boiled at the base of his shaft and erupted with a single rough stroke of his hand.
Grunting, he came in thick pulses, a brutal release that stole his strength. He was utterly drained when he collapsed onto his side next to her—and utterly satisfied that she was in the same state, her skin gleaming with sweat, her body languid and legs still splayed, as if she had not the power to cover herself now.
Better that way, for they were not done. And by her own suggestion, she was in his bed. Now he would keep her there.
“You will share my furs again each night.” He slipped his hand between her thighs, where his release pooled at her entrance. A soft, shuddering sigh left her as he pushed his longest finger into her sheath, carrying the seed deeper. “For I intend to fill you with my spend whenever we are not upon the road.”
She gave no argument. Only a solemn nod, her moonstone gaze locked on his. Seeing through him. Into him. The eyes that had seen a warrior, not a king. Yet this night he had been Maddek.
Withdrawing his hand, tenderly he gathered her close, pillowed her head on his shoulder. Faint anise perfume filled his senses as he buried his face in her hair.
“Sleep now,” he said. “For my cock will rise with the sun, and then I will ease my need upon you again.”
“It will not rise again until dawn? Perhaps Hanan has forsaken us, then.” Unexpectedly her fingers curled around his softened shaft, which instantly began to swell beneath her touch. Her voice was full of satisfaction when she said, “Or perhaps not.”
He grinned even as fierce possession ripped through his heart. What a treasure she was, a queen and a woman full of purpose and heat. And this night he had made her surrender.
“If that god blesses us, the child you carry will not be Syssia’s daughter,” Maddek told her, voice roughened by his own purpose. “It will be mine.”
As Yvenne was.
She lifted heavy-lidded eyes to meet his. Like her arrows, that moonstone gaze seemed to pierce straight into Maddek and fell him with a single look.
“Ours,” she replied softly, and that he would accept for now, though it seemed not enough. Though it seemed there was more from her that he needed to have, because his chest had been a poisonous open wound at the thought of not having her.
Yet that ache was gone now. Because she lay so close. Because soon she would be safe. And then his vengeance would be had.
All was as it should be.
CHAPTER 23
YVENNE
Though finding passage on a boat that could also stable six Parsathean horses would be difficult, none of the warriors were willing to leave their mounts behind. The horses Maddek had purchased, however, were sold in a village that lay a half day’s ride from Drahm.
They started out that morning with four fewer mounts and with Yvenne once again sharing a saddle with Maddek. They rode Toric’s horse while that young warrior—still weakened but no longer feverish—shared Ardyl’s mount.
Anticipation hummed through Yvenne’s veins. For not only would they soon reach the Boiling Sea, this was also the morning of her moon night, and her nerves were alive with excitement. Such pleasure had Maddek shown her these past nights, that the day ahead seemed more endless than the combined length of all of those that preceded it.
Despite the long night that faced her and the little rest she’d had of late, Yvenne had no thought of finding sleep. Yet lulled by the warmth of the morning sun, by the broad support of Maddek’s chest, and by the smooth rocking of the horse’s gait, sleep found her.
“Yvenne. Look ahead.”
The low rumble of Maddek’s voice stirred her from slumber. They were still mounted, though he’d brought the horse to a halt. The sun was brighter now, hotter and almost directly overhead—and so she had to blink several times before realizing what he’d awakened her to see.
They were at the top of a ridge, with the road continuing down an incline ahead. But Yvenne saw nothing of the land the road passed through, only where it ended, and the shining turquoise that stretched out to the horizon.
Never had she imagined anything as wondrous as the sea. She knew not what to call the emotion that clutched at her throat, but it filled her chest as well.
Maddek said softly, “It is a fine sight, is it not?”
Her throat tight, Yvenne’s nod was her only response. When Maddek had described the sea to her before, he’d described it well—like the sky, but upon the ground—yet still the sheer expanse of it left her reeling and breathless. No matter how far north or south or west she looked, there was only the water. And he’d not spoken of the color, which she had seen before in dyed silks but never had those silks held such depth and warmth. And he’d not mentioned how the sun sparkled over the water as if diamonds were scattered across the surface. And he’d not said that the waves rolled and crashed and frothed like lace.
He’d not told her that Mother Temra dressed herself so beautifully.
He did not tell her so now, either, and Yvenne felt his attention shift behind them, to where unfamiliar voices were in conversation with Kelir. Once beyond the ruins of Hanan’s statue, they’d more frequently passed villages and settlements—and encountered more travelers, many of whom had recently come from Drahm. Every one they met, the warriors asked for news of Syssian soldiers on the northern road. Thus far, no one had heard any such rumors.
Entranced by the sight ahead, she didn’t turn to see who spoke to Kelir now—but she did listen when the warrior rode up beside Maddek to report.
“A salt merchant,” Kelir said. “He has heard and seen nothing of soldiers . . . and he has spent the past three days trading near the northern gate.”
That pulled Yvenne’s gaze from the sea. Any soldiers who rode into Drahm on the northern road would have to enter the city through that gate—and such an event would be almost as remarkable as a group of Parsatheans. So what the merchant knew was not just rumor. “Then they have not reached the city?”
If soldiers were coming at all. But Yvenne felt certain
they must be—as did the Parsatheans.
“Not before this morning, at least.” The warrior looked to Maddek. “He also gave me the name of a bargeship captain who can leave under quiet sail. Everyone will see us pass through the city, but if the soldiers know not which boat we are upon, they will waste time searching—either on the docks or on the sea.”
“Then prepare to ride,” said Maddek.
Because the other warriors were not mounted, Yvenne saw. When Maddek had stopped to allow her a view of the sea and for Kelir to speak with the merchant, they’d taken the opportunity for a short rest.
She returned her gaze to the water while they readied their horses, leaning back into Maddek’s hard chest.
The arm around her waist tightened. “Is it as you thought?”
“No,” said she. “It is far more.”
“More than I thought, too,” he admitted. “A few times I have seen the northern shore that is the boundary of the Burning Plains. But the water there is not so jewel-like.”
“That must be why the Parsatheans never raided the sea, or stole an ocean—nearer your home, the water is not a gleaming turquoise gem. So you knew not what Temra concealed beneath her robes.”
His deep laugh rumbled against her back. “Mother Temra conceals nothing. She flaunts her beauties, knowing they are too massive for any thief to carry back home. So only a fool would try to steal this gem—and likely drown in the attempt.” His big hand slipped down over Yvenne’s belly, to where her thighs were spread open over the saddle. “And I am well satisfied by the small rubies and pearl that my raids have uncovered, though the wetness here also threatens to drown me.”
His long fingers lightly caressed her silk-covered mound, and fire curled through Yvenne at that subtle touch. Not so subtle was his opposite hand fisting in her hair, angling her head and his hot mouth open at the side of her neck, sucking and licking at her skin, as if in sheer hunger for the taste of her.
Only a moment it lasted, yet she was breathless and enflamed when he drew her head back against his shoulder and flattened his hand over her stomach again.
Because his warriors approached, she realized—and Maddek never eased his need upon her where they could see. Not during the long day at Hanan’s statue, not in the long nights that followed. There could be no mistaking what he did to her, emerging naked from beneath their furs with his skin dripping with sweat and with his lips reddened and wet. Yet he always allowed her to remain concealed, even from himself, with only her nipples and cunt ever exposed to his mouth and hands.
Now nipples and cunt were still covered, yet fiercely aching when Kelir rode up alongside them. The warrior seemed not to notice that Yvenne was flushed and panting, or that behind her Maddek’s chest fell on harsh, heavy breaths, and her body hid the steel rise of her would-be husband’s erection.
Well satisfied, he was—and so was Yvenne. When Maddek eased his need upon her, he always saw to her pleasure, too. And she was glad of it, though it meant abandoning hope of disentangling her emotions and protecting her heart.
But that had been the price paid. When she’d told him to fill her with his seed, Yvenne had known the danger. Maddek had said that he would never give his heart to her, though everything he did demanded that she give him hers.
Or perhaps he made no demands. Perhaps she simply couldn’t help herself.
Yet she could help her people. And two routes to vengeance lay ahead. Maddek preferred one and she preferred the other. Her father would die either way, but only one route would not leave her stranded alone on the Burning Plains, without strength enough to take her throne. She’d made the choice that might weigh the scales in her favor—and in Syssia’s favor. So she could not regret sharing Maddek’s furs again, though her heart was well and truly entangled now, torn between sweetness and pain.
But Maddek was not torn. He was not entangled.
Well satisfied he truly seemed, and not only in their bed. And why would he not be? Her father would soon be within his reach, and Yvenne was in the role Maddek intended for her: a vessel for his seed and a tool for his vengeance.
If tender he sometimes seemed, and attentive to her needs . . . she dared not mistake that for affection. She dared not hope it meant that he was becoming entangled, too. He was a warrior who made use of what he had, and he also attended to the horses he rode and the weapons he used. But never did he kiss her, and his vow still closed his ears to her truth, and he trusted not a word she spoke.
It seemed none of her pleasures could ever simply be pleasures; always her heart was torn. A ragged and bloodied ache accompanied her every joy.
Still. It was pleasure. More than she could have imagined. And Maddek was a fine companion . . . especially when he was well satisfied. Both her mother and his mother had described to her a man of deep passions and quick laughter, and more of that Maddek she’d seen in these past days. Not the warrior ruled by anger and grief.
So perhaps Yvenne would never have his heart. But if this was to be her marriage and her future, she would be well satisfied, too.
Kelir gestured ahead. “There is Drahm.”
Again Yvenne tore her gaze from the sea. Plains and marshes were two days behind them, and they rode upon a ridge overlooking the Ageras. That broad river no longer meandered to the Boiling Sea but flowed swiftly through a wide, deep channel carved out of stone. She only had to follow that silver path to find Drahm straddling the mouth of the Ageras. Even from this distance, clearly visible was the massive bridge that spanned the river.
A bridge that legend claimed was built by the gods—or perhaps by the same sculptors who’d built Hanan’s statue.
“Should we tell them Farians can swim and paddle?” Kelir said, his voice amused.
Maddek gave a short laugh in response.
Yvenne didn’t understand. “Why?”
“Never have I seen a city with half a wall,” Kelir replied and Yvenne saw what he meant—Drahm’s wall only reached the edge of the Boiling Sea, and the city itself was a half circle in shape. “We have spent ten years fighting Farians who have crossed a river by swimming and on rafts. If that wall is meant to protect Drahm from savages, they’d best build one along the water, too.”
“It is much like the constricting clothes they use to protect them from Farians,” Maddek said. “They know the wall cannot truly protect them. But it still offers some false comfort against their fear.”
“False comfort?” She agreed that a robe offered no protection against savages, but walls were not made of thin silk. “Why is it false?”
“Because walls are no true defense. They can always be defeated.”
Many times these past days, they had debated such subjects—and the Dragon often joined in, usually giving support to Yvenne. Always it had been entertaining. Sometimes arousing, for sparring with Maddek fired her blood. Yet now the smugness she detected in his reply was like steel scraping over the edge of her teeth.
“You wear armor,” she snapped over her shoulder. “What are walls but armor for a city?”
Kelir laughed. “She makes a good point.”
Maddek grunted his disagreement. “Armor constrains and confines. So Parsatheans only wear armor when under close threat or riding into battle.”
“And Drahm is always under threat,” said Yvenne. “As is all of Goge.”
“Not close threat. Even upon the Lave, we did not always wear armor in camp.”
“You do not even wear full armor now.” None of the Parsatheans did. Only guards for their shoulders and arms. Not the silver claws or the breastplate worn against opponents they believed were a true threat—because they believed they would not encounter any upon the road. So far, they had been right. Only the whiptail had been a greater threat than they’d anticipated, and against that monster a breastplate would have made no difference. “What if you underestimate your opponent? What if the
soldiers who pursue us are more skilled than you expect?”
“Then we will surely not underestimate them again.” At Maddek’s dry response, the others laughed in agreement. Yvenne could not.
“Perhaps one arrogant warrior can risk his life that way, but would you risk a city? It is not so easy to remove walls as it is a breastplate, and Drahm is not filled with experienced warriors who can easily defend themselves against a surprise attack and survive. Perhaps walls are not perfect armor, but they can slow an enemy. And do not tell me Parsatheans have no use for walls,” she added hotly, “for the stone walls of a granary are what saved Ardyl’s life when the Destroyer slaughtered her clan.”
From behind them, Ardyl said cheerfully, “That is truth!”
Her would-be husband paid that agreement no heed. “And when the Destroyer’s army was gone, should she have forever remained in that granary for fear of his return? What life would that be?” he asked, but gave no time to answer. “You are speechless at the sight of this sea. Yet the people living in that city will rarely glimpse the beauty that surrounds them because they’ve imprisoned themselves within those stone walls. They are all trapped inside a tower, Yvenne, but by their own choice.”
On a sharp breath, she stiffened against him. Was that how he saw Syssia and her people? Imprisoned within a city, living lives devoid of beauty?
But she had no response to offer. For under her father’s rule, it was not completely an untruth.
At her silence, Maddek gathered her hair into his hand again, but not to expose her neck and taste her skin. Instead he tilted her head back, as if to give himself a better angle to look down at her expression, and she felt his gaze upon the side of her face.
She could not return his look. Not when he might see how his words had speared her through.
It was Kelir who answered him, gazing thoughtfully at the city ahead. “That is not the same as your bride’s tower, for the people in Drahm can freely move through the gates. More like . . . they always wear armor, in constant vigilance and expectation of a threat. Yet only when that threat approaches do they fully armor themselves and close the gates.”