12. LAYLA
Twelve
LAYLA
Three weeks after the wedding, Soren hosts a feast to introduce his “southern queen” to the northern court. The great hall is roaring with firelight, long tables groaning under roasted boar, the air thick with pine and mead.
I wear a gown of midnight-blue velvet that Soren picked himself, low-cut, hugging every curve. He said he wanted everyone to see exactly what he comes home to. I told him he’s a pig. He said I’m his pig. Then he bent me over the dressing table.
“Your Majesty.” A tall, blond woman approaches. She’s beautiful in that sharp, icy way. Silver dress, body like marble. “I’m Astrid. Of the northern house of Vane.”
Soren’s hand tightens on my thigh. Warning.
“Lady Astrid,” he says, voice flat. “You were not on the guest list.”
“Your steward must have made an error.” She smiles, but her eyes are on me. Assessing. Dismissive. “I simply had to meet the woman who… warmed your bed long enough to secure the peace.”
The table goes quiet. My blood boils. But I don’t snap. I smile.
“Oh, honey,” I say, popping a grape in my mouth. “Don’t worry. I’m not just warming it, I own the deed. And the mortgage. And the king’s cock, which is currently hard under this table because he’s staring at my tits.”
Soren chokes on his mead.
The hall goes silent. Then someone laughs. Then someone else. The tension breaks.
Astrid’s face turns the color of the snow outside. “How… crude.”
“And yet accurate,” Soren rumbles. He pulls me on his lap in front of everyone, his big hand spanning my waist. “Layla is my wife. My queen. And if you ever speak to her like that again, I’ll have you escorted from every palace in the north.”
Astrid flees.
Soren’s mouth is at my ear. “You just claimed me in front of my entire court, little queen.”
“Someone had to,” I whisper back.
“I’m going to reward that mouth later. With my cock down your throat while you tell me who I belong to.”
I shiver. He feeds me from his own plate, his thumb brushing my lip every time I take a bite. The court watches. Let them.
We don’t make it to our chambers. He pulls me into a side antechamber, locks the door, and bends me over the arm of a heavy wooden throne.
“That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he growls, pushing inside me in one brutal thrust. “My queen, defending what’s hers.”
“I’m yours too,” I gasp.
“Damn right.” He fucks me hard, the throne creaking. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours!”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours, Soren! Fuck, I’m yours!”
He comes with a roar, flooding me, his teeth sinking into my shoulder. I follow, clenching around him.
After, we stumble back to the feast, both flushed and disheveled. No one says a word. But they all know. And Soren can’t stop grinning.