37 MY QUEEN
ALAR SCOOPED HIS wife up into his arms.
A few strides took them across the sheepskins to the pile of furs waiting for them. Around them, the brazier and cressets had settled down. When she’d shattered—for the second time—earlier, he’d thought she might set the tent alight.
Fortunately, she hadn’t.
Her cheeks were flushed now, her gaze limpid, as he lay her down amongst the furs.
Alar’s gut twisted, hunger spiking through him. He’d thought their wild tumble might have sated his appetite for his wife, but it had merely stoked it. He’d been tired earlier, his body aching after the clash with the Fuath, but now he felt as if he could go all night.
And he would.
He’d greedily take all this woman gave him. He’d then store it away and keep it for the dark days ahead, when he’d need reminding that beauty and light did exist in this twisted world. He kissed her then, tenderly now, heat igniting in his veins when she responded eagerly.
Lara’s hunger for him, her lustiness, drove him insane. It was impossible to think straight when she fixed that luminous pine-green gaze upon him.
Idiot, a voice growled at the back of his mind—one that reminded him of Lyall— what the fuck are you doing?
Aye, indeed. He’d set himself strict rules since wedding the High Queen of Albia, but he’d broken every one of them.
He was supposed to remain detached, to bed her only when necessary.
He wasn’t supposed to care.
Pull back. Now.
But he couldn’t. The feel of Lara, pliant and wanting, in his arms, the sweet taste of her mouth, and the warmth and softness of her body, was a drug.
He was nearly three times her age and had weathered much in his decades alive, but he’d never met anyone who made him see his existence for what it really was. Austere. Lonely.
He’d thought he was nothing but a bitter husk, but he’d been wrong. The lad he’d once been was still there, buried under layers of armor.
Driving all thoughts from his mind, he continued to kiss Lara, taking his time now. Their first coupling had been frenzied. He’d been rougher than intended, yet she’d welcomed it, matched every thrust as she ground herself against him.
Exploring her body again now, he committed every curve, every smooth plane and angle to memory. She sighed and undulated under his touch, and he reveled in how responsive she was, how her fingers tangled in his hair when he suckled her breasts, and when he spread her legs and feasted on her.
Lara’s gasps and throaty moans made him sweat.
He rolled her over then so that she lay on her belly upon the soft furs, propping herself up on her elbows.
Covering her body with his, he spread her legs once more and entered her, gently, while his hand slid between her body and the furs and found her slick heat.
He stroked and circled as he moved inside her, thrilling at the way she trembled against him, how her breathing caught, how she moaned his name.
She was close now, and he could feel his own climax gathering too. Heat ignited at the base of his spine. His self-control started to fray.
His eyelids fluttered then. He’d never forget tonight.
“Alar,” she groaned his name, drawing it out like a prayer.
“My Queen,” he whispered back as his sweat-slick body slid against hers.
He held himself up with one elbow, his lips dragging along the soft line of her neck.
This position was intimate, protective almost. She turned her head to him, and he grazed the column of her throat with his teeth before nipping.
She gave a choked cry then, and wetness flooded over his fingers as he continued to stroke her. “Aye, that’s it, mo rùin,” he rasped. “Give yourself to me.”
My secret … my beloved . That was what she was. His one weakness.
Her sharp cry tore through the tent, her body trembling.
She writhed against him, yet he held her fast. Around them, the firelight roared.
Alar barely noticed. He rode her hard now, grinding deep with each thrust. And then, his self-control unraveled.
Giving in to wildness, he sank his teeth into Lara’s smooth shoulder.
She groaned, shuddering against him as he held her fast and drove into her again and again.
She sobbed his name once more, her quim clutching at him mercilessly now.
It was too much. He wasn’t made of stone.
An instant later, he let go.
“Our names are similar … did you realize that?”
Alar’s eyes flickered open, a half-smile playing upon his lips. “No … how so?”
“They have the same sounds.” Propping herself up onto an elbow, Lara looked down at him. The soft light inside the tent—for the cressets had died and the brazier had burned down to mere embers—caressed his proud features.
She hadn’t been able to study him like this in the past, without fear of being caught staring. But now she drank him in.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well …” Her own mouth curved. Then, reaching out, she began to trace letters upon his naked chest, next to where his wolf’s head tattoo gently rose and fell with each breath.
He couldn’t read or write, but she’d show him, nonetheless.
“This is my name.” She drew each letter with care.
“And this is yours.” Slowly, she spelled his name too.
“A. L. A. R.” She paused then, letting him focus on what she’d just written upon his skin.
“Did you notice I used the same shapes?”
Their gazes met once more. His grey eyes were hooded, sleepy, yet something glinted in their depths. “Aye … you’re right.”
“A coincidence, isn’t it?”
His mouth twitched. “Maybe.”
“Or perhaps it's fate playing its part again.”
She was straying into dangerous waters again here. However, after what had just passed between them, she felt bold.
“You think fate brought us together?” His voice was low, although she didn’t miss the faint teasing note in it. “Not the Gods?”
“It’s the same thing … for the Gods weave our fates,” she replied.
He didn’t answer that, although a thoughtful look flickered across his features. “My mother named me after my uncle.”
She inclined her head, keen to know more about his past. There was so much she had to learn about him. “Aye?”
“He died before I was born … strayed too close to a ruin on a hunting trip and was attacked by powries.”
Lara suppressed a shudder at this, recalling her own close brush with the murderous imps. “Lara was my grandmother’s name,” she replied. “She too died before I was born … although, according to my father, it was a fever that took her.”
He was looking at her in that way of his that made her feel as if she was being laid bare. All signs of humor had drained from his face.
Breathing shallowly, Lara dropped her attention to where her fingertip still traced patterns upon his naked chest. Letting the moment draw out, she began to follow the outline of the wolf’s head tattoo, inked in blue woad upon his skin.
“I’ve always wanted to ask you about this,” she admitted finally. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. A tattooist in Braewall did it.”
“It’s a recent one, isn’t it?” Indeed, the marks were still sharp, not yet blurred by time.
He nodded. “I had it done around five years ago. The woman used to be a druid … a sacrificer who’d once served the arch-druid on The Isle of Arryn.”
Lara listened with interest. Most of those gifted with druidic abilities ended up serving the rulers of Albia or the arch-druid.
However, she’d heard that some druids did turn their backs on their calling, although those who did often found life difficult.
Their abilities set them apart from others.
Many became recluses or vagrants, not fitting in anywhere.
“Well, she’s talented indeed.” Lara ran her fingertip along the wolf’s bared teeth. “Sometimes, I swear this wolf is watching me.”
Did she imagine it, or did he stiffen slightly under her touch? The moment was fleeting though, and then he relaxed once more. “Really?” His tone was casual, too much so, and she raised her gaze, meeting his once more.
“Aye … she didn’t weave earth magic into it, did she?”
He gave a soft snort. “Such a thing is forbidden, Lara … except for druids.”
She held his eye. “Aye … but that doesn’t mean that a former sacrificer wouldn’t weave magic into a tattoo … if the price was right.”
Their gazes held before his mouth quirked. “All right then … she might have.”
Intrigued now, Lara placed the palm of her hand over the tattoo. “And?”
“It’s nothing like druidic tattoos, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he replied, his smile tightening a little. “I can’t summon earth magic to fight … or use it in song, to access visions or speak to the Gods … but when she marked me, the tattooist imbued the spirit of the wolf.”
“Strong and loyal,” Lara murmured. “Yet ruthless and cunning.”
She remembered then, watching him fight the Slew. He’d moved with unnatural speed and agility. Was that because of the tattoo?
“Aye,” he replied. “A great need for freedom too … long ago, I swore never to have a master.”
“Is that why you did it?” she asked. “To make yourself stronger … a more dangerous enemy?”
His eyes glinted, although he didn’t answer.
Silence fell then as she mulled over this discovery.
The King of Braewall would be angry to learn a former sacrificer was weaving earth magic into tattoos on common folk, but she wasn’t.
Nonetheless, the knowledge made her uneasy.
Many people believed that it was ill luck for anyone except a druid to bear such marks, and Lara had to admit she was superstitious enough to believe such tales.
Druids channeled their earth magic, while Alar’s coursed through his veins with no outlet. Hopefully, it wouldn’t harm him.
“It makes sense now,” she said finally. “Why Skaal adores you.”
He huffed a laugh. “You’re right … it’s the tattoo.” He paused then, eyes twinkling. “How her devotion to me pisses Cailean off.”
“Oh, it does,” she assured him. The chief-enforcer’s bond with his fae hound was a strong one indeed—one he was protective of.
“The tattoo also gives me a kinship with wolf-kind,” he added then. “Ever since getting it, I trust my own instinct and intuition better.” He paused a moment, his features softening a little. “And it brings me closer to my wulver brothers and sisters.”
Their gazes met and held before she smiled. “Your family.”
He smiled back, although his eyes shadowed just a little. “I’d do anything for them.”
Lara stirred in the furs, awaking with a slow, languorous stretch.
Her body had never been so relaxed. It ached in places she hadn’t known it could, but she welcomed the sensation.
It reminded her of the wild night she and Alar had just shared.
Not only had they tumbled, but they’d lain together talking.
She’d learned more about the enigma that was her husband, although she was eager to continue her discovery.
A smile curved her lips. She then slid her hand out, across the furs, reaching for Alar.
She couldn’t find him.
Eyes fluttering open, she blinked in the dim early-morning light. A few feet away, Alar was dressing. He’d just pulled on his leather breeches and was lacing them closed. His chest was bare, his wolf’s head tattoo watching her.
Lara couldn’t help it; her gaze dragged over his long, lithe form, hunger igniting in her lower belly.
Even after a night of sex, she wanted him still.
She’d never stop wanting him.
“What time is it?” she whispered.
His chin kicked up, his gaze meeting hers. His lips then tilted at the corners. “Early.”
“Where are you going?”
“To check all is well.”
Lara pushed herself up, the furs falling away as she did so. “Are you worried about something?”
He shook his head, even as his attention slid down to her bare breasts.
“No.” There was a husky edge to his voice now.
“But I don’t like to let my guard down.” He reached for his leather vest then and shrugged it on.
“We should reach Dulross by mid-afternoon … and after the Fuath, we need to remain alert.”
She nodded, grateful for his vigilance.
“I should get up too,” she said, scooting toward the edge of the furs.
“Stay … rest a while longer,” he said with a shake of his head. “You didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Warmth flushed over her. “Neither did you.”
“I’ll return for breakfast,” he replied, shrugging on the harness that held the twin blades he wore on his back. “Save me some oatcakes.”
She smiled. “I will.”
He moved across to her then, stooped, and cupped her face with his hands, staring into her eyes. There was an intensity to his expression this morning that made her pulse flutter. Lowering his lips to hers, he kissed her. It was slow and so tender that something deep in her chest twisted.
The emotions this man roused frightened her sometimes.
She was falling for him. Hard. She should exercise a little more caution, should spend more time observing him, for their relationship was still new, but after last night, it was difficult to slow down.
Drawing back, his gaze then dropped to her shoulder. His fingers slid down her jaw and neck to where he’d bitten her, his gaze shadowing slightly. “I hurt you.”
Surprised, Lara lowered her chin, peering at the livid red mark upon her shoulder. She lifted her hand, catching his. “Not really … I liked it.”
Something sparked in his eyes, a hungry look that made her breathing quicken and her belly turn molten.
She hadn’t lied. Being taken by him, marked by him, had unleashed something primal inside her. He’d made her his, and she couldn’t wait for him to do so again.
But as their stare drew out, his expression changed. Tenderness replaced hunger, and something akin to … pain … flickered across his face. “Lara,” he murmured. “I—”
“My Queen!” An urgent voice intruded, slightly muffled by the thick hide of the pavilion.
Lara stiffened, her gaze snapping to the tent flap.
“What is it?” Alar asked, his tone sharpening.
“Apologies … but this can’t wait.” She recognized the voice, as well as the edge of belligerence, as it addressed her husband; it was Roth.
Rising from the furs, Lara reached for her shift. “What’s wrong, Captain?”
“There’s something you need to see.”