Chapter 19
Peeble and I spend the day exploring the Verdance. I never saw much of Iteration Nine in the Void. I always assumed it was because it was an early collapse. Now I wonder if it has been shielding itself in more ways than one.
That afternoon, I leave Peeble in the kitchens discussing local politics with the staff over wine. I decide I don't want to be present for the antics sure to follow.
I go in search of Kaelren, finding him in the war office.
Thalia gave him the room this morning after the meeting.
A Root-carved chamber on the second level of the Heartwood, originally built for strategy meetings.
Heavy desk. Maps pinned to every wall. Battle markers scattered across a table like someone spilled a war game and never cleaned it up.
Low amber light from the bioluminescent moss, and a single arched window with a vine curtain that lets in the last of the evening glow.
And Kaelren, sitting in a carved chair behind the desk, looking like he was specifically designed to ruin my life.
He's sprawled. That's the only word for it.
One leg extended, his boot propped on a low ottoman, the other bent at the knee.
His shirt is open, not removed, just unbuttoned to the waist, the dark fabric pushed back to expose the plane of his chest and stomach.
The corruption marks trace down his torso in branching lines, dark against the hard ridges of muscle, and the locket sits against the center of his chest, glinting in the amber light.
His dark hair falls loose around his jaw.
One hand rests on the armrest. The other props his chin, fingers curled against his cheek, and he's looking at a map on the desk with the half-lidded focus of a man who's been thinking too hard for too long.
He looks dangerous, gorgeous, completely at ease. I want to climb into his lap and bite him.
He glances up when I close the door. Silver eyes track from my face down my body, then back up, slow and deliberate. The corner of his mouth lifts.
"You're staring," he says.
"You're sitting there with your shirt open looking like that, and you're going to comment on my staring?"
"Like what?"
"Like you should be illegal in at least three realms."
The half-smile widens. He doesn't move. Doesn't sit up or button his shirt, or do anything remotely considerate.
He just stays there, sprawled and open, watching me from the chair with the patient, heavy-lidded attention of someone who knows exactly what he looks like and is waiting to see what I do about it.
The room darkens.
I didn't ask it to. But the Verdance reads intent, and apparently my intent is loud, because the moss dims from amber to a deep, warm gold, the vine curtain over the window draws shut, and the temperature rises by several degrees.
The city knows what I want before I do. Or maybe it knows exactly when I do.
"Come here," Kaelren says, low. Not a request.
I don't go to him. Not yet.
Instead, I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. I drop it on the floor. His eyes follow it, then come back up to my bare skin, and the lazy ease in his expression burns away like fog in direct sunlight. What's underneath is focused. Predatory.
I unclasp my bra and let it fall. His fingers dig into the armrest. The living wood flexes under his grip.
I unlace my pants. Push them down. Step out of them, and then out of everything else. I stand in front of him naked, ten feet away, in the low light of a room that is very much paying attention.
His jaw tightens. His chest rises and falls harder than it did thirty seconds ago. His eyes move over every inch of me with the thorough, unhurried hunger of a man memorizing something he plans to devour.
"Gorgeous," he says. The word comes out rough, almost involuntary. "Every time I look at you, you're more beautiful. I don't know how that's possible, but you are."
I walk toward him. Slowly. The root floor is warm under my bare feet. His eyes never leave me. When I stop in front of the chair, close enough to touch, he doesn't reach for me. He sits there, hands on the armrests, waiting, and the restraint it takes is visible in every tense line of his body.
I sink to my knees between his legs.
His breath catches. A sharp, involuntary inhale. His hands white-knuckled on the armrests.
I run my fingers up his thighs, slowly, watching his face. I reach his belt and start working the buckle.
He lets me get it open. Lets me slide my hand inside, lets my fingers close around the hot, hard length of him. His head tips back against the chair and the sound he makes is low and guttural and deeply satisfying.
"Elle." My name comes out like a prayer and a warning at the same time.
I stroke him once. Twice. Lean forward and press my mouth to the head of him, and his whole body jerks like he's been electrocuted. His hand flies to my hair, gripping hard, not pushing me down but holding on.
"Fuck." His voice is shredded. "Your mouth. Gods, your mouth."
I take him deeper. He’s thick and hot against my tongue, the taste of him salt, skin, something distinctly Kaelren.
I move slowly, using my hand with my mouth.
He lets me. For about thirty seconds, he lets me.
His fingers tangle in my hair, hips shifting restlessly, curses slipping under his breath with each stroke.
Then his hands close around my upper arms and he hauls me up.
He lifts me off the floor and into his lap in one motion, turning me so my back is against his chest, my legs draped over his thighs. He pulls me closer, and his mouth finds my ear.
"You will never bow to me," he says. The words are rough, absolute. "Not to me. Not to anyone. Not to any creature in any realm. You kneel for no one, Elle."
"I wasn't bowing, I was giving you a blow job."
"And you were doing it on your knees, and I won't have it.
" His hand slides up my stomach, between my breasts, and closes around my throat.
Not squeezing. Holding. "You are already my mate.
You have been since before I even knew the word for what you are to me.
" His voice drops lower, and the dark edge softens into something that sounds almost reverent.
"And when this is over, when we've survived this, I am going to marry you.
Not because I deserve you. But because I have been yours since the moment I saw you, and I will spend the rest of my life proving that I was worth the choice. "
My heart slams against my ribs so hard he can probably feel it through his hand on my throat.
"That was significantly better than 'the universe can adjust,'" I manage.
"I've been practicing." His hand leaves my throat and slides down. Over my breasts, palming each one, his thumbs circling my nipples until I arch back against him. Down my stomach. Lower. His fingers find the wet heat between my thighs and press, and I gasp.
"You're already soaking," he murmurs against my ear. "I haven't even started and you're dripping for me. Were you thinking about this on the way here?"
"Yes."
"Tell me what you were thinking about, Wife."
My breath hitches at the term. "You. In that chair. With your shirt open."
"And?" His fingers slide through my folds, spreading me, circling the spot that makes my breath stutter. "What were you going to do about it?"
"Exactly what I did."
"Get on your knees for me?" He slides two fingers inside me and curls them, and my hand flies back to grip his hair. "I told you. The only time you'll be on your knees for me is when I've earned it." He pumps his fingers slowly. "Have I earned it, Elle?"
"Yes," I breathe.
"Not yet." He pulls his hand away, and I almost scream. "But I will."
The chair shifts beneath us.
I feel it happen. The living wood responding to him, to the intent behind his words.
The armrests widen. The back rises higher, curving upward, the smooth pale wood thickening and broadening until the carved chair isn't a chair anymore.
It's a throne. A living throne grown from the Verdance itself, high-backed and wide, vines curling along the edges with pale blossoms that pulse in the low light.
He stands, lifting me with him, then sets me on the edge of the throne. He steps back and strips.
Slowly.
He shrugs the open shirt off his shoulders. Unclasps the locket and sets it carefully on the desk. Unbuckles his belt and pulls it free. The pants follow.
He stands before me in the dim light, fully bare, and the sight steals the air from my lungs.
Corruption marks trace the length of him. Down his arms, across his chest and stomach, branching over his hips and thighs. Lean and hard, every line sharp. Abs carved, obliques defined, power in every inch.
He’s fully hard, thick and flushed, and he doesn’t hide it. He just stands there and lets me look.
Then he walks forward, takes my hand, and brings my fingers to his chest.
"Feel this," he says.
He guides my hand down. Over the hard plane of his chest. Down his stomach, my fingers tracing every ridge of muscle, every corruption line. Past his navel, down the dark trail of hair, and lower, until my fingers close around him. He wraps his hand around mine and holds it there.
"Do you feel this body?" His voice is low, rough, stripped bare.
"This is the body of a male who is enslaved by you.
Enraptured by you. Every scar, every mark, every mile was for you.
" He grips my fingers tighter around him, and his breath shudders.
"This body will worship you, protect you, and take you apart as many times as you need for as long as you'll have me. "
I stroke him. His whole body shudders. His eyes close, his jaw flexes, and the sound he makes is raw and broken.
"Sit down," I tell him.
He sits. Back on the throne, I climb on top of him, straddling his lap, positioning myself above him. I reach between us, guide him to my entrance, and sink down in one slow, devastating slide.