Tristan (The Tristan Trilogy #1)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

I 'm handcuffed to a large war Elf—an Elvish wedding tradition. The married couple must spend their reception attached to one another literally. I feel ridiculous. We are seated at the head of an elaborate table in the Dining Hall. Being linked together has done little to spur conversation and even if I wanted to, I wouldn't get a word in with the prince. People have been accosting us all evening under the pretense of congratulating us, but I think they just want a look at the massive wonder. I’m willing to give him away if they want him. It’s difficult having to move as a unit with someone I don’t know. Lucca and I could manage this with ease. We often moved as one thought, knowing each other well enough to forecast what the other would do next.

But the prince and I are hopeless.

We’ve had a few awkward instances where I’ve tripped forward, forgetting I’m attached to a moving land mass, and again when he’d forget, yanking me in whatever direction he meant to go. I’m not used to tripping. I’m fucking agile. It’s embarrassing as much as it’s frustrating, so I’ve succumbed to watching his lead, and allowing my arm and body to go along with whatever he deigns to do. I wish he’d let go my hand at least. He hasn’t released it since the ceremony. He has no compunction dragging my hand where he likes, but I'm remiss to do the same. I can't seem to work up the bravery to ask for a turn with our hands. I try to slice through my bison steak one-handed— impossible. I push my plate aside. I could pick it up and chomp through it, but Papa would have a fit—he’s taught me better manners than that. I’ll eat tomorrow. The Elven prince looks down at me, his features twist in concern. “Are you not hungry, Tahsen?”

I think he just said part of my new name. Why would he call me by my middle name over my first name, whatever it is? “No, sir. I’m hungry, just having a little trouble,” I say and glance to our linked hands, my cheeks heat. He chuckles like I’m an adorable puppy. I’m not adorable! I’m fierce, super fierce. I hide my scowl and eye my plate again.

“ You may call me Corrik," he says.

"But you're Elven royalty, I couldn't do that."

"We are also married now, you realize?"

"Yes, I realize," I say, my face heating. I don’t know why us being married should embarrass me, but I blush every time it’s mentioned.

"Then why aren't you doing it?" he asks arching his brow.

I don't know, maybe because you're terrifying?

"You may also ask for your hand back." He makes a show of releasing my hand. "But I want you to return it when you're done."

A little thrill goes through me as he says that and I feel silly—it's just a hand, but he wants to hold it. I accept his offer and use my hand, his dragging through the motions with mine as I cut my food.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Cutting up my meat." Can’t he see I’m trying to be efficient? I thought if I cut the whole thing into pieces, I could avoid this nonsense of asking for my hand every time I need it. Doesn’t he hate this as much as I do?

"Do you always slice it up like that? Into small child-size pieces?"

"No," I say. "But that way we can both eat in peace. I won't have to keep asking for my hand and therefore asking you to give yours up. It will be easier that way."

"And do you think a marriage is easy? That we can find shortcuts when our problems don’t suit us?"

"No." I see where he's going with this. I'll bet this lousy handcuff tradition is an exercise to illustrate to the newlywed couple how one must give and take in a marriage—blah, blah, blah. I don't need a lecture or this game to understand that . Besides, for the prince, er, for Corrik and I, it's different. We're not in love. This game is pointless for us.

"I know marriage requires effort."

"It's more than just effort."

His eyes look through me, trying to read my other thoughts but I guard them and force a pleasant smile. "Of course, Prince Corrik."

"Just, Corrik."

"Corrik." I can't say his name without shyness—like I'm doing something I shouldn't.

By Gods, really Tristan?

He opens his hand, the one cuffed to mine, as a silent order to return it to him. I’m reluctant, but I place my hand in his. What good is it having a hand I can't use anyway? I can barely say his name, I won't ask for my hand again. I'm surprised when I don't have to. He continues to take my hand at will when he needs his, but he’s careful to make sure to give me my hand when he can see I need it. I might call that sweet, but he isn't the sweet sort, not really. Sweet would be giving me my sword back.

During dessert, I hear a ‘psst’ at my feet. I look to Corrik—busy with a guest—lift the tablecloth and poke my head under the table. Lucca’s there, on all fours. Of all the ridiculous nonsense. His smile schemes, eyes twinkling with the words he can't wait to say. “Lucca! What in the name of the Gods are you doing?” I whisper yell.

He dangles a key at me with a giddy grin on his face, the key to the blasted handcuffs. So that’s where he disappeared to . I should be mad at him, but all I can think is how I want that key. I consider the possibility for a moment.

“I can’t do it Tristan.”

It feels good to hear my name again. “I can’t live without you. Come, we’ll run away together.” He’s serious, and absolutely mad.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucca. Go put that key back where you found it.” I shudder to think how he got that key away from Fera. “And go sit with your father where you’ll stay out of trouble.” In truth nothing keeps Lucca out of trouble, but it will keep me out of trouble. I can’t accept his offer and he knows better. That’s not the way a warrior behaves; a warrior accepts his duty no matter how much he doesn't like it.

“I mean it Lucca. Go before—”

I don't get to finish my sentence; the prince only needs one hand to drag Lucca by his foot over to his side of the table. How will I get him out of this one?

“What do we have here?” Prince Corrik regards him coolly, and with a tinge of amusement as Lucca struggles to stand on his feet. His eyes narrow and zone in on Lucca’s hand and the key, which he snatches away from him.

“Prince Corrik, I can explain,” I say.

“Heasi!” he yells.

I don’t know what the word means, but it’s sharp, and I imagine ‘shut the hell up’ is a pretty decent guess. I think of Papa in this moment, he never argued with Father once I found trouble with him; he'd become quiet, and submissive.

I do my best to mimic Papa. Lucca looks to me for some inclination of what to do, but I've got nothing. I don’t know the prince well enough to predict what to say to him.

“Do not look at him, look at me.” I’ve never seen Lucca respond so quickly to an order, not even when it came from his father. “While I may be understanding, dear Prince Lucca, my father may not be. He might see your little ‘prank’ as a breach of this contract. This is serious, I don’t think you realize. ”

Lucca swallows. “I’m sorry Prince Corrik. Please forgive me. I’m going to miss my cousin. We will miss each other,” he adds, to give the prince something to think about. Corrik doesn't look to care about Lucca's jibe; his lack of empathy is etched clear on his beautiful, stony face.

“Do you think you can get this key back around my uncle’s neck without him noticing?”

I smile, I know he can. Lucca does too. “Does a dragon breathe fire?” He crosses his arms over his chest, his ego still intact.

“Go then. Before he realizes it’s gone.”

Lucca winks at me, and as always, leaves me with his mess to clean up. He’s lucky I’m chained to an Elven prince, or I’d clean his clock.

“He meant no harm,” I say.

“You should not be defending him, especially to me." He slams our joined hands on the table, and I freeze. I feel obligated to defend my cousin, but Corrik’s betrayed by my allegiance to Lucca over him. He’s my husband, my allegiance should be with him now.

With tremendous effort, Prince Corrik’s beautiful Elven face softens, and with his free hand, he turns my face toward him.

“Tahsen," he says. "I did not like that, yiah!" Using the hand joined to mine, he runs his fingers through his silky golden hair. It’s an off-hand gesture and I can tell he’s frustrated.

I have to fix this.

Since my hand is stuck going wherever his goes, it's in his hair too. I take over control of our hands for the first time tonight of my own volition and grab his. I’ve gotten used to holding his hand; it’s familiar now. Our joined hands move as one thought back down to the table and the gesture calms him some.

I haven't been able to look at him with the enduring stare I do now. He really is perfect, and had we the opportunity, I think I might have liked to date him. Maybe in an alternate universe, one where we'd get to know each other before we wed .

Maybe ‘alternate universe us’ knows how to deal with this situation.

I start when he reaches his hand up to my face and rubs his thumb over my bottom lip. I think he might kiss me again. My heart picks up its pace; I get ready to kiss him. I'm relieved when he pulls his hand back, picks up his wine goblet, and nods toward mine. I grasp my goblet with my free hand.

“Las, nah! Lucca will put the key back. All is well.”

I notice more Elvish slipping into his sentences. I'm probably going to have to learn that Gods forsaken language. We clink our glasses together, and I am thankful for the wine to calm my nerves. He resumes his austere composure after that and it's easy to figure out his toast to clear the air has cost him in some way. We don't say another word to each other, nor does he look my way—yet I know he's cognizant of me. He doesn't offer my hand back to me anymore, securing his grip on it; I'm certain I won't get it back at this point even if I ask.

The music and dancing begin, and the prince and I are expected to start the evening off. Without a word, he pushes out from the table, and with a hard tug to my hand I'm up too. All eyes are on us; my breathing quickens. I don’t know why this is nerve racking. I've performed in front of people before; Lucca and I are complete hams. I suppose it’s got something to do with what I am now. I am not Tristan the great son of our admirable Markaytian warlord, but cowed Elven husband and concubine. I don't want to be judged like that. I'd run for it if I weren't chained to a massive war Elf. We are in the center of the floor now, and the prince pulls me around to face him in a wild swoop. I gaze into his stony eyes—predatory eyes. By the Gods, is he still angry over the whole Lucca thing? I swallow. Quite possibly, but the look in his eyes isn't about Lucca, not exactly. Lucca's actions stirred whatever emotion is charging through him, but he's not thinking of Lucca.

He wasn't kidding when he told Lucca his actions may not be seen as a prank—but he wasn't talking about his father, he was talking about his own feelings. Lucca challenged his hold on me and won, that’s what angered him more than anything else. He fights to control the rage within him like he’s been doing since he discovered Lucca under the table, but it’s not going well. We take frame, and the prince automatically assumes the dominant position; the hard lines of his unyielding body only know how to dance lead.

The orchestra begins soft, but our dance is a rigid, dour thing. I decide to get through this horrid moment by submitting to the Prince’s hard turns and abrupt footwork. He still manages grace, but I fumble unable to keep up with his changes. I catch sight of Father, he looks disappointed, yet when doesn't he? I remember his words at breakfast, it's like they were a prophecy for now. If the prince would just slow down a half step, I am a good dancer. I’m considered as agile as Father; fumbling is not something I’m used to.

"I'm sorry," I say.

Nothing.

"Corrik, I didn't mean to choose him over you—I’m just used to defending him."

He spins me, it's fast enough to centrifuge the food I've just eaten, but my words have effect.

"Then it's good you shall be apart if you can’t control this habit—it's a bad habit. How do you expect your cousin to grow if he's not left to suffer the consequences of his actions?"

I... I haven't thought about it quite like that.

"I'm not sorry, you know. I'll never be sorry for taking you away from here—you belong with me Tristan. You’re mine." His directness is startling. I don't like his words, but I appreciate his honesty. I still hate him for it.

Wait. Tristan. He used my Markaytian name.

He’s trying to calm himself. His fingers dig into my shoulder a little harder; it hurts. I need to do something before he loses the careful control he’s constructed around his anger.

"Corrik, you have me." He spins me away then back to him dipping me severely, my nose is inches away from his .

‘Y ou're damn right I do,' he says without words. That didn’t go how I thought it would. I need to think of something better. We continue to dance. He continues his graceful, yet rigid float across the dance floor, while I'm dragged along like a rag doll. During another death spin, I catch sight of Papa, he looks concerned—he knows I'm a formidable dancer, and that something’s wrong. He and Father look good together. Much as Arcade Kanes is a cold-hearted bastard, he loves Papa. Their relationship is a flawless fairytale. When I was a little boy, I often asked Papa to tell me the story of their wedding—I may be a fierce, sword-fighting Markaytian, but I'm also a bit of a romantic.

Wait a minute— their wedding —I know what to do. I know how to demonstrate to the prince, to Corrik , that I'm willing to be his. My alliance will be with him from now on.

The song ends, and thankfully so does this Godsforsaken dance. If we have children, I certainly won’t be recounting for them our first dance as a married couple—as any couple at all. I stop him from dragging me back to our seats by the stupid handcuffs chaining us together—the only time they’ve come in handy all night.

We've had plenty of Elvish traditions tonight, time for a Markaytian one.

"Corrik."

Slow and deliberate, I get down on my knees in the same way Papa did on his wedding and recite the same words he did. "I honor you. I trust you. I am yours." I try to give him the eyes Papa described giving to Father, it's harder than I thought it would be—my parents were in love, it was easy for Papa to look at Father like he was his whole world because he was: he is.

Corrik is the man taking my whole world.

I realize my eyes are closed when I have to open them. When I do, I see that the large war Elf has the most amazing expression on his face. I've surprised him. This isn't quite like Papa's story. After he pledged himself to Father, he buried his face into Father's thigh. Papa's a large man, but Father is larger and stronger, and was able to pick him up. Papa wrapped his legs around Father's waist, and according to Papa, they kissed the kiss of a thousand kisses. I’ve never had any clue as to what that means, but Papa always says that part with such a wistful gleam, I never questioned him. Some things are better left to wonder.

In my story, I have an Elven prince shocked to hell, looming above me. This is stupid. I shouldn't have done it. You're a foolish man, Tristan Kanes!

I want him to know I'm serious about this, about us. I’ll work hard at our marriage because as much as this union was decided without my say so, it is now up to me to maintain the union honorably. He can never doubt my loyalties— Markaytia’s loyalties.

"Tristan," he says my Markaytian name, his free hand slides through my braided hair to my cheek. "This is a gift I hold in high regard."

The crowd is quiet until Corrik gets down to his knees in front of me, gasps and whispers fill the silence. He's so large, he still looms over me, and I have to turn my face up to see his. I can’t believe he’s on his knees before me—it seems wrong—this isn’t a man who kneels, yet here he is kneeling before me: his concubine. One hand still on my cheek, he pulls my face to his, and our lips meet—it's like lightning all over again. I don't know if it's the kiss of a thousand kisses like Papa's story, but I know I'll remember it till I die.

The crowd claps and cheers when we part. Corrik smiles as much as Corrik smiles, and I'm glad I've managed to thaw the ice mountain a little. I look over to my fathers, they are both smiling—my father seldom smiles—and it's not just any smile, it's one that beams with pride. He nods minutely; no one sees it, but I have. Corrik stands us up, and we both give a bow to our onlookers.

"Please join us for more dancing," he says.

The music starts again, but we return to our seats, thank the Gods. I don't think I'd like to dance after that performance. "That meant a lot to me, Tristan," Corrik says rubbing our joined hands with his thumb. He bends in for another chaste kiss. “I like kissing you.”

I pull back. “I like kissing you too.” And Gods, do I . “But Corrik, there are so many people—it’s inappropriate.”

“Oh yes, I forgot about your Markaytian sensibilities.”

He’s mocking me.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting intimacies kept private.” I don’t know where my sudden boldness comes from. I probably shouldn’t speak to the prince like that.

“What makes you think you will have any say over what ‘intimacies ,' as you call them, will be in private, or not? I think I’ve demonstrated that I hold the key to those practices.”

He’s teasing me, pulling on the chain around his neck, revealing the key to the chastity belt I wear.

“Because you seem like a decent man. Am I wrong?”

“Indeed, you are. I am in no way decent when it comes to intimacies .” His eyes sparkle on the word and his mouth smirks. He means it, he’s proud of it even and he’s still making fun of me. It would appear that he has more confidence talking of these matters than I do.

Markaytians are open with our bodies, but private about what we do with them, unless your name is Lucca Kanes of course. He is the exception, not the rule.

I think the prince is flirting with me—I’m not sure. He’s hard to read. “Then I’m left with no choice, but to bow to your mercy my Liege,” I say hoping it will further our playful banter, but I don’t think I should’ve said such a thing. His breathing gets heavier, and he’s restrained again, his hand tightens around mine.

Thankfully the Elven king and queen interrupt us. “That was beautiful, Kathir,” she says.

Ka-what? Oh yeah. My name— my Elvish name.

“Yes, my dear it was,” the king agrees with her. They both smile radiant smiles and I wonder how such a rough character like Corrik could come from these two—I would think their son would emit the same sunshine .

“Thank you,” I say. Corrik is still in the grip of whatever madness possesses him, his hand tightens further still; it hurts. If he squeezes anymore, he’ll break something. The king and queen seem to understand what Corrik is going through and what he needs. “Ahhhhh, yes my son, after such a powerful display of devotion on both your parts you will need—"

Corrik shakes his head at his father, the king stops speaking, getting his meaning; I do too. There is something Corrik doesn’t want said in front of me. I look to the queen, though I don’t know why, it’s not as if she’ll tell me their secrets.

“It’s time for the two of you to go upstairs,” she says. They depart, and I’m left alone with an Elf that’s gone stone silent and the vibe he’s sending says he wants to sink his teeth into me.

Finally, he speaks. “They’re right, we must go. Now .”

He doesn’t drag me this time, my human speed too slow for him. Instead, he heaves me over his shoulder—without any effort—and carries me out of our wedding reception like I’m nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

“ C orrik! You let me down now! This is undignified!” I’ve screamed at him and pounded on his back the whole way up to our rooms to no avail. He won’t speak, nor will he pay any heed to what I’m saying. He doesn’t need to ask me where to go, it seems he already knows where our rooms are.

“Put me down this instant you lout!”

Okay, so I’ve gotten a little braver on the way up here. I couldn’t get away from him so I fought back in the only way I could: by shouting obscenities at him. Inside our rooms he puts me down and shuts the door while I let loose.

“Just what did you think you were doing carrying me throughout the palace like that? Of all the embarrassing—"

He waits with his free arm crossed over his chest until I stop my rants, which I do, but only because the way he’s focused on me is unnerving. What’s he going to do? When he still doesn’t speak, I divest myself of the ridiculous rabbit fur cape and throw it on the floor. I’m still not over being carried through the palace, my home , slung over his shoulder. I could be forgiving, but I’m not in the mood.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself? No? Then I’m going to bed—you can consummate the marriage yourself.”

I turn away knowing full well I can do nothing chained to him, but it’s the gesture that counts. I make my best attempt at dragging him with me, but it’s like trying to drag a large block of granite and I go nowhere. Yet with just a tiny flick of his wrist, I find myself pressed against the large Elf’s chest. He nuzzles his mouth into my neck, and I shiver and freeze as his soft lips press themselves down my neck leaving a wet trail. It feels good, and for a brief moment I forget I’m mad at him.

But then I remember. “Corrik, stop .”

He does and considers me angrily. I’m in this now so I put on my brave face and solider on.

“Corrik, explain.”

“I should think it obvious.”

It is obvious. He carted me off to fuck me, fine, that’s what we’re supposed to do, but I thought there would be a little more romancing. “Is that how this happens in Elvish Tradition? Cart your husband off and have your way with him?”

“Yes,” he says. It’s clear he just wants to lick my skin again.

“Well, you’re in Markaytia now. We don’t do things like that.”

In truth, I don’t know what it is Markaytians are meant to do on their wedding nights. I mean, I know they, well, they make love, but I’m not familiar with the details. I’m making things up as I go along because I don’t want my first time to be with an angry Elf.

My words have an effect. He smirks. “And just how do we do things here my little Markaytian?”

“With the truth. Something happened downstairs, Corrik. Even your parents noticed. It caused you to act like a barbarian. I want an explanation. I want to know who I’m letting have me.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you—you’re not getting an explanation and you will let me have you anyway,” he says certain of himself. He scoops me up, I kick wildly, but it does nothing to deter the Elf from his goal. He sets me down on the bed, hard, his angry eyes indomitable.

“Fine, take me if you must. But I do not consent to this.”

I’m lying on the bed now, staring up at his beautiful form and I dare to cross my arms. Will he still go through with this, even though I’ve said no?

“I shall never force you into sex with me, Tristan.”

So, I finally have one power.

“If you don’t answer my question, then I suppose we will both be unhappy men.”

“You don’t mean that,” he says. “You take your duty seriously and you know you must do this whether you want to or not.”

My one power begins to crumble at the edges, but I won’t give in yet.

“Well maybe you’re wrong. Maybe I think my kingdom has abandoned me in giving me over to you, and I no longer feel I owe them anything.”

To that the prince does something I do not expect; he bursts with booming laughter. It’s beautiful despite its lack of mirth. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You practically ooze patriotism. Markaytia could gut you and leave you for dead, yet you’d use your last bit of saliva to spit on anyone walking by who dared breathe a bad word against Markaytia.”

Damn him. How does he already know me so well?

It’s childish, one might call it brattish behavior, but I roll away from him as much as I can with the handcuffs keeping us together. I don’t want to look at him; I hate him and his mocking. Silence reigns for a time before a hand cards through my braids. It feels good and soothes me despite being attached to someone I loathe. I can’t believe I was beginning to think he would be an all-right companion, prickly as he is. We were having a spot of fun downstairs—I thought I could like him.

“I can’t tell you,” he whispers, his voice soft now. “Can I promise to tell you some other time?”

What am I supposed to say? I turn back to face him and his expression twists with concern.

“Oh, Tahsen.” He uses his thumb to wipe away the stupid tears of frustration I’ve been ignoring. Why does he look to care anyway? “Maybe we should just go to sleep,” he says. “It is not my wish to hurt you.”

That’s what gets him to forgo sex? Tears? No way. I’m not a child—it’s just been a long, trying day. I will lose my virginity tonight damn it. He’s right and I take my duty seriously—I will consummate this marriage for Markaytia. “Don’t be ridiculous, we will finish the requirements for the marriage,” I say in a business fashion and look him over keenly. “Whatever possessed you before, it’s gone from you now.”

“How do you know that?” he says.

“I’m not sure. Something about you has changed.” It’s an energy in the air and it’s shifted. It’s something between us.

We are quiet again for some time, his hand is still in my hair like he needs to touch me. I look at his sword to distract myself. He’s still wearing it and I wonder if he’s noticed how many times I’ve admired his stunning weapon throughout the night. Its hilt is gorgeous with its simple design and the grip is wrapped in some type of leather with a gleaming pommel sticking out the end. The cross-guard runs perpendicular to the large, wide blade, which is inlaid with more of the same Elven designs, matching the upside-down clover on our crowns. I miss my sword all the more.

“Do you find my sword pleasing? Would you like me to wear it while I bed you, my fire-breathing Markaytian?” he teases.

Huh. Fire-breathing? I do have the blood of a dragon coursing through me. I crack a half-smile at his compliment; he’s trying to patch things up between us.

This argument is ending with a bittersweet resolution, but I’m proud at how I’ve handled myself.

It’s time to move on. We must consummate the marriage. The moment is getting closer to where I must lose my virginity. That thought begins to dominate over all others and my breath picks up the pace. His free hand begins to smooth over my chest, undoing buttons and pushing aside layers of material—I hardly notice until I feel his hand, warm against my bare skin. I gasp, but my pleasure is short-lived.

“What is this? Why was I not told of this marking?”

His hand traces over the large black, dragon tattoo on the left side of my body. The head is nestled into my neck with its mouth over my collarbone and the open wings flared over my left deltoid. Its body snakes down my left chest muscle and over the nipple—that part had hurt second most when the artist inked it into my flesh. The worst of it, was its tail that whips down over my ribcage and ends halfway down my abdomen. All warlords in Markaytia are marked with such a tattoo at their coming-of-age ceremony. It just so happened that Mr. Control-Freak decided to rip me out of that life, not long after I was named and marked. I wasn’t very well going to peel my skin off—once a tattoo is on it’s on for good.

“This will have to go.”

“I’m not ripping my skin off, Corrik.”

“Rip your skin off? By Ylor, no. I can remove it another way.”

“Elves have ways to remove a tattoo?”

“Yes, and not to worry, it’s completely painless.”

I know I can do it because he won’t expect it. I jump up grabbing his sword with a mighty heave (it’s a lot heavier than I expect), as I force him to flip around, or be stabbed. I won’t kill him, but I am going to make myself heard on this point. “You will do no such thing, Corrik Cyredanthem. This tattoo is mine . If you remove it, there will be trouble between us.” I aim the sword at his throat, my hands shaking with its weight. I doubt I’d be able to do more with it than this. It’s too heavy for me to wield.

Corrik is stunned.

“Promise me.” I know I don’t have much power over him. This is no more than a reckless show. He can grab the sword and have me pinned on the bed in an instant; this may even anger him to the point he will abolish the marriage and the treaty. I don’t think sometimes, I just act, but it’s too late now and I must follow through.

“For now, but you don’t understand.”

“That’s not good enough.”

There’s something in his eyes. He looks scared, not scared because I’m going to hurt him, only scared because I’m holding the sword in the first place—he’s frozen with fear and I realize I do have control, at least in this one moment.

“Fine. I promise. Now put that sword down, before you hurt yourself.”

Hurt myself? He’s just seen my tattoo, the one I earned for a reason. I may have been born with the requirement: the blood of a dragon flows through me as it does my father, but my father would have a new son, before he would hand the title over to someone unworthy. I don’t flash his sword around carelessly, but with purpose; there’s no way I could hurt myself. The very thought is absurd. It is heavy, much heavier than the swords I’m used to. I wouldn’t last with this sword in battle, but my anger is ample fuel for this.

But he’s promised me and that’s enough, so I slide his sword home to the baldric on his back. When I’m unarmed and am facing him again, I can feel the violence peeling off him as he breathes hard.

“That was a mistake.”

“You are trying to tame a dragon Corrik. You best take care or you might get scorched.” He’s the one making the mistake.

He grabs me roughly and flips me on my back; I let him. His mouth attacks mine and he tugs hard at the nipple under my tattoo, intending to place his own mark there. He rubs, tweaks, and squeezes it between his fingers. I arch my pelvis toward him .

Lucca always told me sex was the best after an argument with someone. I didn’t understand it then and couldn’t even fathom how that would work, but now, in this moment, I understand completely. I’m still fired up inside, the aftermath of my anger courses through me as it looks for a physical outlet: my husband.

Corrik is an infuriating, dominating ass and I hate him, but he’s a sublime creature. His beauty is otherworldly—I’ve never seen anything like him and I’m certain I never will again. He’s hard and supple and dreamy.

Since when does sex require love? I have a supreme specimen before me; it’s enough to please my cock. His tongue prompts my lips open and I let him inside, allowing his tongue to seek mine, tangling with it. He doesn’t bother with anymore of the buttons on my wedding attire. The thing I’m wearing is a gown after all, and he simply pushes it up to reveal the gleaming silver chastity belt.

I forgot about that. I know he’s expecting to see it, but I’m embarrassed anyway. My cheeks heat and I can’t kiss him anymore. I pull away to watch with morbid fascination. He lifts the chain with the key over his head and dangles it before me. “You’ve remained chaste just for me,” he says. I lost count over how many times he asked me that in the strange book he left me. I don’t know what good it does to continue to state the obvious or is he mocking me? I’m not sure. I haven’t grasped an understanding of the Elf yet. “More than that you’ve taken pleasure only when I’ve allowed it.”

Is this a speech? The kind like when a new building is opened, and a ribbon is cut?

“You’ve been good, haven’t you Kathir?” It’s my Elvish name again. It has a harder edge to it than the other one he’s been referring to me by.

…have you been good? By Gods, his voice. Arousal sings through my groin of another kind. It’s not sexual and yet it’s amazing. I like being asked that more than I want to admit to.

And fuck I remember .

Moments before I put on the chastity belt, I had some fun. I’m sure my wide eyes are what give me away.

“Tell me what you’ve done. Tell me how you’ve disobeyed me.”

The best shiver goes through me, similar to before. Not arousal exactly, maybe something better. “Nothing. Well not nothing, but not something either—I only touched him!”

He becomes murderous. “Him?”

It takes me a moment to reason out why he’s so angry about my referring to my penis as a ‘him.' He thinks I’ve touched an actual him. “My penis! I touched him—it! I touched my penis.” I’ve gotten used to referring to my penis in the third person, now I’ve given Corrik the wrong impression. “What I’m trying to say is, I touched my own penis—not another man’s—without your permission.”

I can see it’s taking him a moment to process what I’ve said, his eyes narrow and his pretty face twists as he finally comprehends. “You refer to your cock as a ‘him?'”

“Yes.” I have something new to be embarrassed about. No one was supposed to know that.

His laughter this time is a gorgeous, deep, tone, the smile it brings to his face making him so beautiful it’s hard to look at him. But I am looking at him as I realize that for all his negative qualities, I do like something about him, and it’s his laugh. In fact, I’m in love with it. I want him to keep laughing. “I used to talk to him when you’d let me pleasure myself,” I blurt out the first thing I think of. He laughs harder; I continue.

“Mostly, I’d apologize to him—on your behalf—for making him miserable for so long.”

His laugh continues, and his eyes—the dark violet ones—have happiness flooding out of them. I didn’t think something so dark could look so bright. It’s like magic happening.

“He talks to me too.”

Corrik loses it—he’s laughing so hard there are tears he has to wipe away—and I can’t stop myself, I’ve lost it too. I’m entranced by his gorgeous laughter. Something that beautiful has to count for something. The Gods wouldn’t bless someone horrible with a gift like that, would they?

“He complains half the time, and the other half, he just cries, w hy do you never want to play with me, Tristan? Why do you ignore me when I ache? I’m magnificent —oh yeah did I mention? He’s quite the arrogant bastard.” I go on like that until Corrik is gasping for air. I’ve managed to thaw the Ice Prince some more. I stare in wonder at him as he catches his breath.

“So, you touched him when you shouldn’t have?” He still smiles and plays along with my game, but I know it’s a serious question. “Tell me about that.”

I’m quick to defend myself. “Just the once, and it was his fault. He convinced me I should do it—I wanted to obey you, but he’s incorrigible.”

“What did your penis say to you then, that was so convincing?”

“Well, it wasn’t so much what he said but the way he looked at me."

“He gives you looks, too?”

I nod. “I’m sorry, Corrik. I have been good—I only touched him the once, today—and he may have got me to stroke him a bit, but I stopped before it got out of hand.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t like that very much.”

I don’t answer. The moment has died off, and I remember why I stopped; I didn’t want to disappoint my father, it had nothing to do with the prince. It’s probably best he doesn’t know that. Especially since it would probably sound strange me telling him my father popped into my head mid-wank. Besides, the topic of my father is a heavy one. I don’t want to go there amidst our already strange pre-coital conversation.

It’s anti-climactic when he pokes the key into the lock and frees the comedic wonder. My penis doesn’t care that he’s been laughed at, he’s got too much confidence and energy; he’s ready to party. Corrik tosses the chastity belt along with the key on the floor.

“I can see why you had such a hard time. He does look like the kind to win a debate.” He looks to my penis. “I’m sorry Mr. Kanes, I shall spend a great deal of time making things up to you.”

“You will not nickname my penis Mr. Kanes,” I say.

“Why not? He’s mine now. I’ll call him whatever I like.”

I would say something clever back, I really would, but Corrik swallows my cock, and I may never speak again. His mouth is warm and wet and slick. As quick as he’s sucked me down, he spits me out, kissing the head and then bringing his lips to mine immediately so I can taste the flavor of my own cock.

“This must be the part where I get to ravage you? Markaytian tradition can’t be so very different from Elvish?” he says with softness, fast regaining its edge. The way he looks at me—I could pretend that he loves me. Love may not be necessary for sex, but it does make it more .

“Aren’t you upset I’ve disobeyed you?”

“I probably will be tomorrow,” he says, like it’s an inevitable thing he has no control over. “But right now, I just want to make you mine.”

“Then make me yours, Corrik.”