48. Rani
48
RANI
I linger outside the tent, my heart pounding like war drums.
He waits within—silent, still, patient.
The shelter is a simple frame of poles with stretched hides for walls, but it manages to feel different from the others. Somehow permanent and intentional. The flap lifts—a silent invitation, charged like a lightning strike.
“Come to me, Rani,” he says, voice low and absolute.
The command wraps around me like invisible bonds. I step forward without thought, drawn, wanting .
Inside, the world softens. The floor is layered with leathers. The air is thick with the warm, rich scent of him. Spice, smoke, and very, very male. A crude bed sits in the center covered with skins. Crude, but carefully made.
He stands in the center, watching me with those molten amber eyes.
“I had this prepared for us,” he says, gesturing with his hand.
For a moment, my throat tightens, emotion slamming into me like a wave. It nearly knocks me to my knees. No one has ever done something for me before. For no more reason than they wanted to. I have been a queen, a leader, a shield, but never... this.
Never someone’s desire.
I sway on my feet. He crosses the space between us in a single stride, so close I feel the heat of his body. His hand lifts, fingers brushing a lock of hair from my cheek. His touch is maddeningly gentle. Reverent.
“You will obey me tonight,” he murmurs, voice a velvet rasp against my skin. “You’ll listen. You’ll trust me.”
The words slide inside me, wrapping around something fragile and hidden. I lift my chin, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
I trust him.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice unsteady but sure.
His smile is slow and devastating, a promise and a claim all at once.
“Good.”
He moves around me, a predator circling its prize. His hand trails along my shoulder, down my arm, the lightest brush but leaving a trail of fire behind.
“Take off your tunic,” he commands.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the ties at my throat. I fumble, breath catching, but I force myself to keep going. Knot by knot, I undo the simple fastenings. The fabric slips from my shoulders and pools at my feet, leaving me bare before him.
I want to hide, to cover myself, but more than that, I want to be seen.
Seen by him.
His gaze devours me. Slow. Thorough.
“Pants,” he orders, his voice tighter. I hesitate. Fear gripping me in a sudden, unexpected cold hand. To be so exposed—no male has seen my… “Obey.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. There is no anger, but there is also no hint that he expects anything less than obedience.
My hands move before thought can catch up. I find the tie, fingers trembling as I loosen the waistband and let the fabric fall. Feeling more exposed, more owned. I’ve never felt anything like this in my life.
“Hands,” he says.
I lift them instinctively, and he catches my wrists, guiding them up until they’re held high above my head.
“Keep them there. Do not move unless I tell you.”
The words shudder through me, low, rough and commanding. Heat blooms across my skin, down my belly, and curls between my thighs. I obey, holding my arms aloft, exposing myself fully to him.
The vulnerability burns through me—heady, disorienting, exquisite.
He circles me, slower this time, like he’s memorizing every inch of my body. His gaze lingers on my breasts, on the gentle swell of my hips, on the damp heat gathering between my legs.
“You are beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Every inch of you is mine… to touch.”
He touches me and it’s almost too much. His hands glide over my skin. A feather-light caress along my collarbone, down to the curve of my breast. His thumb flicks over the peak, and I gasp, knees wobbling.
“You are untouched,” he says, voice rough with need.
“Yes,” I whisper, barely able to speak.
A low growl rumbles from his chest, vibrating against my skin.
“I will be gentle,” he promises. “But you will feel me. You will never forget this. You will be my treasure. ”
My hands tighten above my head, straining, wanting to reach for him. But I obey.
When he cups me between my thighs, I nearly cry out. His touch is slow, deliberate, tracing along the slick heat he finds there. His fingers tease, exploring, coaxing.
“So soft,” he murmurs. “So ready for me.”
A whimper escapes my throat. My legs tremble.
“On the bed,” he says.
I move without hesitation, sinking onto the leather-covered surface. The makeshift bed creaks under my weight. I kneel as he directs, thighs spread, arms braced before me.
I feel him behind me, his cool presence, the heavy weight of his arousal pressing against the curve of my backside.
“Look at you,” he growls, hands settling on my hips. “Kneeling for me. Just as you should.”
His praise sears into me, leaving me raw and open.
He takes his time. His hands glide over, mapping every inch. He trails kisses along the small of my back, the dip of my spine. Each brush of his lips sends shudders through my body.
When he finally enters me, it is a slow, aching glide.
Stretching. Filling. Consuming.
I gasp, the sensation overwhelming, but he murmurs low words of encouragement, guiding me through the first sharp aches into something deeper. Something profound.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Take me. All of me.”
I do. I take all of him.
The rhythm he sets is slow. A deep, deliberate claiming. Every thrust pushes me further into the bed, every pull drags a helpless moan from my lips. I feel myself unraveling, piece by piece, and I welcome it.
I need it.
He grips my hair, tugging gently, forcing my head back. Forcing me to feel every inch of him.
“You are mine, Rani,” he growls into my ear. “Say it.”
“I am yours,” I gasp, tears blurring my vision.
“And I am yours,” he promises, voice breaking. “My treasure.”
The world narrows to the heat of our bodies, the slick glide of skin on skin, and the unbearable closeness. My climax builds slowly, spiraling tight and hot, until it explodes, shattering me from the inside out. I cry out, arching against him, clinging to the sensation.
He follows a moment later, his roar filling the small tent, his body driving into mine with one final, brutal thrust.
We collapse together onto the leathers, tangled and gasping, sweat-slicked and trembling.
He gathers me against his chest, cradling me like something precious.
I bury my face against him, breathing him in.
For the first time in my life, I feel truly owned—not in weakness, but in a strength so profound it humbles me.
I am Rani.
Queen. Lover. His.
And I would not change it for anything.
The world fades into a haze of sensation—of heat, of trembling muscles, of the soft rasp of his breath against my hair.
For long moments, we simply lie there, tangled together on the leathers. I press my cheek to his chest, listening to the heavy, slowing thud of his heart. Every beat seems to echo the truth now carved into my soul.
I am not alone.
He shifts, careful not to jostle me. His hands, those hands that have commanded me, worshiped me, now move with infinite tenderness. One arm slips beneath my knees, the other around my back, and he lifts me easily, carrying me a few steps to a small water basin tucked in the corner of the tent.
I blink, drowsy and dazed, as he sets me gently on a chair, my legs still parted, my pussy aching from the aftermath of our joining.
“Stay,” he says, voice deep and quiet.
I can only nod.
He wets a cloth in the basin, wrings it out with strong hands, and kneels before me.
The first touch of the damp cloth between my thighs makes me flinch, the sensation too raw, too much, but his hand is already there, large and cool, steadying my hip.
“Easy, little queen,” he murmurs, voice thick with a tenderness that cracks something wide open inside me. “I have you.”
He moves with exquisite care, cleaning me gently, the coolness of the cloth easing the lingering ache. I flush under his gaze, under the intimacy of it, but he looks at me with fierce pride, not a flicker of shame or disgust.
As if I am the most precious thing he has ever held.
When he finishes, he tosses the cloth aside and gathers me up again, pulling me into his lap this time, cradling me close.
I tuck my head under his chin, the roughness of his jaw scraping my forehead, and breathe him in.
His hand moves slowly up and down my spine, soothing. His voice is a low rumble in my ear.
“You were perfect,” he says. “So brave. So beautiful.”
Tears prick my eyes again, but I blink them away. I don’t want to cry now. I want to remember every second of this, every moment of gentleness, every whispered word.
He rocks me, a slow, instinctive motion, as if to anchor me to him.
“You are mine,” he says again, softer now. “And I am yours.”
I lift my face, searching for something in his amber gaze, but find only truth, raw and blinding.
I lean up and kiss him.
It is not a kiss of passion or heat. It is a kiss of belonging. Of gratitude. Of something vaster and deeper than either of us can name.
When we finally pull apart, he carries me to the bed and wraps himself around me, a shield against the world.
“My dragoste,” I whisper, the word settling deep into my bones, like it’s always been waiting.
He is mine. The one Tajss intended—my fate, my flame, my home.
“Sleep, little queen,” he murmurs. “I will watch over you.”
And for the first time since I was a child, I let go.
I let myself be held.
I let myself be loved.
I drift into sleep with his heartbeat under my ear, the promise of forever in every breath he takes.