Chapter 54
Saga’s pulse thrummed as she waited for her husband to join her in the bedchamber.
Lying on Kassandr’s bed in her sheer dressing gown, she stared at the canopy, visions of spoons and honeypots flitting in her mind.
Saga wished she knew more of what, precisely, to expect of her wedding night.
True, she’d read many romantic tales, but the books from the Southern Continent tended to use flowery words to describe the act.
Arms folded over her stomach, Saga tried to ease her sharpened nerves. Where was Kassandr? How long would she have to lie here? And how long would the act take?
Male laughter had Saga jolting upright. That wasn’t Kassandr. Sounds of drunken singing met her ears. Good gods, was there a crowd of them? She gaped down at her transparent gown, then quickly fetched a pillow to cover her most prominent bits.
The singing grew louder, setting her teeth on edge. She could make out Rovgolod’s voice and—was that Oleg? Saga’s brows knitted together. How much medovukha had they consumed that even Oleg sounded jovial?
The door flew open, Kassandr’s broad back to her as he warded off a throng of wedding guests. By some miracle, he managed to slam the door shut.
“If any fools try to come into this room,” he shouted through the door, “I will cut off your leg and draw pictures with your blood!” The air vibrated with that strange, unnatural sensation that Saga now knew to be a sign of his beast.
“We must ensure consummation—” came Oleg’s muffled voice.
“Come, Oleg!” bellowed an extremely inebriated Rov. “Our duty is done. Kassandr is delivered to his bride. Let us find some fun. The horsemaiden they call Khiva looked much in your direction.”
Saga choked on a laugh, but then Kassandr was sliding the lock into place and turning toward her. She clutched the pillow tighter to her chest, staring at her husband.
Her husband.
“My wife,” drawled Kassandr, a lazy smile on his lips. He sniffed the air, then found the remnants of burnt birch sticks lying on a chest and nodded to himself. “What are you doing there?” he asked, his gaze landing on the pillow she clutched to her breast.
“I’m ready to consummate our marriage,” Saga announced, settling back on the bed and staring up at the canopy.
Kassandr strolled to the edge of the bed, and as he looked down at her, Saga watched him lose the battle against a smile.
“What is it?” she asked, cheeks flushing. Did he not like what he saw?
Kassandr reached for her hand and pulled her toward the edge of the bed. Saga clung to the pillow like her life depended on it.
“Scarcely have I seen you tonight.” He pressed a kiss to her scarred hand, sending heat jolting straight down her spine. “Come. Have drink with me. Bring pillow if you wish it.”
Kassandr strode to a table on the far side of the room and worked his armored jacket loose, revealing his wedding kaftan beneath. He draped the jacket over the back of a chair, then poured the contents of a clay jug into a pair of cups. Reluctantly, Saga padded across the room to join him.
Kassandr handed her a cup, those emerald eyes ever-burning as they dragged from her bare feet, along the pillow clutched against her sheer dressing gown, then finally landing on her face.
Flustered, Saga brought the cup to her lips and sipped what proved to be medovukha.
It went down smoothly, warming her stomach and softening her nerves just a touch.
“Tell to me what you are thinking,” said Kassandr, reclining.
Saga flopped onto her chair, the pillow still clutched to her chest. “I don’t know—”
“Do you regret the wedding?”
Her gaze slashed to his, and she caught the faintest traces of vulnerability there. Perhaps his casual air was not so effortless after all. “No.”
“Good.”
Saga studied his face. “Do you?”
Kassandr sipped his medovukha. “How can I regret a thing I have yearned for, for so long?” His words brought a flush to Saga’s cheeks, but her attention snagged on their subtle edge.
“You do not like how your father made it happen, then?” Saga guessed, watching him over her cup.
His jaw flexed, answer enough.
“Kassandr,” she said softly. “In case it isn’t clear to you, let me put it plainly: I chose this. I chose you.”
His green eyes heated, but they dropped and narrowed. “Then this—” He nodded at the pillow clutched to her chest. “—what is this?” A slow smile crept across his lips. “Is that clever mind of yours thinking too much, Winterwing?”
“Perhaps,” she breathed, the flush now creeping down her neck.
“Hmm. And what can I tell to you to put it at ease?”
“I—I do not know.”
Kassandr sipped his medovukha, his eyes never leaving hers. “Would it help if I told to you all that I want to do to you?”
Her heart kicked up a rapid beat, and damn it, but she hated that he could hear it.
His brow cocked up. “Ah. I see you are curious.”
Saga scowled into her medovukha as Kassandr’s amusement wafted across the table and rankled her further. It was unfair that he had this effect on her, and even more so that he could hear her body’s response. She had the sudden urge to do something to bring the scales back into balance.
Impulsively, she released the pillow. It landed on the floor with a soft thunk.
For a single, weightless moment, Saga felt unmoored from her body.
Swallowing, she crossed one leg over the other, then reclined in her chair in an attempt to replicate her husband’s nonchalance.
And then she boldly locked eyes with him.
Kassandr grew preternaturally still as his gaze roamed over her transparent dressing gown. The black pupils in his too-bright eyes spread wide, his grip on his cup tightening until his knuckles whitened.
“Perhaps I am curious, husband,” she managed. Victory flared in the pit of her stomach, but Saga soon felt a moment of trepidation—rather than rebalancing the scales, she felt suddenly like prey.
A wolfish smile curved his lips, and Kassandr ran a hand along his jaw. “My delightfully wicked wife. I like this thing, Saga. It makes me want to—” He exhaled, shaking his head.
A mix of curiosity and anticipation prickled through her body. She tried to maintain her nonchalance, but her eyes betrayed her, falling to Kassandr’s mouth. “What?” she asked. “Makes you want to what?”
Green eyes met hers, sending heat spiraling through her body. Those eyes transfixed her. Enthralled her. Commanded her to rise.
Who was she but to obey?
As though in a dream, Saga rounded the table.
Whereas before the table had concealed her lower half, now Kassandr could see all of her.
A look of feral intensity filled his eyes as he took her in, sending warm, pulsing heat all through her.
Saga closed the distance between them before sinking down on his thick, sturdy thigh.
This near, she could see the soft hairs curling at his nape; a faded scar running at the edge of his temple.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
For an instant, Kassandr held himself rigidly still, as though he were on the very knife’s edge of snapping. But then he let out a low, dark chuckle and leaned closer, until his breath tickled her ear.
“Why don’t you use your imagination?”
A soft sound escaped her as Kassandr brushed a tentative knuckle up her spine.
“You want to kiss me,” Saga guessed.
He shook his head slowly, gaze fixing on the hollow of her throat.
“You…want to touch me.”
His fingers stilled just below her ribs, and he dipped lower to scrape his teeth along her earlobe. Saga gasped with sudden understanding.
“You want to bite me.”
Kassandr drew back, running his tongue along his teeth. “Does that frighten you?”
“Yes.”
“But it excites you.”
She swallowed.
“The thought of my claiming bite makes your pulse flutter. I can see it. Right…” His tongue slid along the hollow of her throat. “Here.”
Saga’s head tilted back as she felt the wet heat of him all through her body.
“And the same thought makes me harder than steel.” He tilted his hips, and it was impossible for Saga to miss the proof of just how much he liked this idea. “But do not fear it, Winterwing. Tonight is not time for such things.”
Kassandr suddenly stood, effortlessly lifting Saga into his arms. She placed a steadying hand on his chest, blinking as a low rumble from deep within vibrated her palm—the delightful purr of his beast. And to her great shock, the sound made desire pool sharply inside her.
Kassandr set her down on her feet near the bed. The emotions and sensations swirling in her body were disorienting, and Saga gripped his kaftan to keep her balance. And then his lips were coming down on hers. His mouth was hot and slick, yet his hands were tender as they cradled her hips.
Touch me, his kiss seemed to say, and she did.
As Saga’s fingers began to explore, the low, pleased sound from the back of Kassandr’s throat was the sweetest praise. A heady sense of power filled Saga. She’d drawn that noise from him—had made his heart race with such speed. How could she get him to make that sound again?
As her fingers slid up his chest and around his shoulders, they brushed against his nape.
A shudder ran through him, and Kassandr groaned, deepening the kiss.
Saga had the sudden impression that Kassandr’s two sides were at war, and that his humanity was hanging by the very finest thread.
And as she had back in Askaborg’s gardens, she wondered what might happen when his control snapped clean through.
“Do you like that?” she whispered. Her fingers skimmed along his nape once more, and she was rewarded with another tremor. Confidence bloomed inside her chest. “What else do you like?”
Kassandr’s grip on her hips tightened, and he buried his nose in the crook of her neck with a growl. Her head fell back, the sensations swirling inside her building with each heartbeat. “I want—”
Want. It was the only thought she could name. Pure, visceral, unrelenting want.