Torgan
Imake it to the armory before every claw on my right hand forces free.
I hook them through my left sleeve and rake once.
Leather tears. Four cuts open along my forearm because I hold the thumb clear. Pain clears my head for one breath.
Then her scent reaches me through the hall doors, and the ache in my fangs returns twice as hard.
Ghenn shuts the armory door behind us.
“You dismissed yourself.”
“Yes.”
“From your own audience.”
“I was there.”
He takes a roll of linen from the shelf and throws it at me. “What is happening?”
I wrap my arm.
Blood darkens the cloth at once.
Ghenn waits.
He has seen me with arrows in my back, a spear through my thigh, half my left horn broken at the root. The horn regrew years ago, leaving a faint ridge near the base. He did not look at me then the way he looks now.
“The old blood chose,” I say.
His face changes.
“Her?”
I bare my fangs.
Ghenn sits on a weapons chest. “Well.”
“Do not say anything foolish.”
“I had several things prepared.”
“Keep them.”
He rubs both hands over his face. “Does she know?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell her?”
“No.”
That brings his hands down.
“Torgan.”
“The treaty will be signed. She will leave.”
“And you?”
“I will remain king.”
He stares at me.
The fangs pulse again. Her heartbeat has quickened somewhere beyond the armory wall.
She is angry.
I can smell that too now. Not only her skin. The sharp green change in her scent when Callas speaks to her. The warmth that rose between her legs when she saw my claws.
I close my eyes.
Bad choice.
I see her at the black line, chin lifted, pulse beating hard beneath pale skin.
My mouth floods.
Ghenn’s voice comes carefully. “You know distance does not end it.”
“I know.”
“The bite is the only relief.”
“I know.”
“And she has to offer.”
I look at him.
He stops.
I saw what force makes of the bond once.
I was young enough that my horns had not finished growing. My grandsire brought an oath-breaker into this same armory. The lord had bitten the woman chosen for him while she fought.
She followed him without chains. She did not look at anyone. She did not speak. When he told her to smile, she smiled.
My grandsire killed him before sunset. His horns are over the gate. The woman lived for another year. Nothing in her returned.
I tie the linen hard enough to stop the bleeding.
“I will not do that to her.”
Ghenn nods once. No joke now.
“If she never offers,” I say, “I never bite.”
The words settle between us. My claws retract. One by one. Ghenn looks at the ruined sleeve. “You may need more shirts.”
“I need the treaty schedules.”
“Of course you do.”
He stands. “First session tomorrow?”
“Morning.”
“You usually make envoys wait.”
“I usually want them frightened.”
“And this one?”
I think of the heat in her scent when she watched me in the yard.
“She is frightened.”
Ghenn waits for the rest. I do not give it to him. He leaves to summon the council.
I stay in the armory until her heartbeat slows. It takes a long time.
After dark, I move through the hold because sitting still has become impossible. Her scent appears at the turn to the kitchens.
I stop.
She comes around the corner carrying a candle.
Alone.
Her hair is braided over one shoulder. She has changed into a plain dark dress, but it does nothing to hide the shape of her body. The flame throws light over her throat.
She stops too.
For one breath, neither of us moves.
Then her gaze drops to the linen around my forearm.
“That was your blood.”
I hear the servant’s mistake in the question.
“It was.”
“Did you cut yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I take one step toward her.
Her pulse jumps.
My claws press against the inside of my fingertips.
“Go back to your rooms.”
“I was looking for the kitchens.”
“Why?”
“Because your servants answer questions with their faces and then run away before using words.”
“That is sensible of them.”
“Is it?”
I take another step.
The corridor is narrow. She should retreat.
She does not.
Her scent warms.
The beast in me comes awake so fast my vision narrows. I put my bleeding hand against the wall beside her head before it can reach for her.
Claws strike stone.
She looks at them.
Then at me.
“Your claws,” she says softly. “They slide out.”
“Yes.”
“Can you control it?”
“Usually.”
“And now?”
“No.”
Her fingers tighten around the candle. Want sharpens beneath the fear.
I lean close enough to feel the heat of her candle against my chest. Close enough to smell the exact place beneath her ear where her pulse beats.
I do not touch her.
Her lips part.
“Great King—”
“Do not call me that when we are alone.”
“What should I call you?”
Nothing.
My true name is dangerous in her mouth. Any name is too much. I push away from the wall.
“Go back.”
She looks down the empty corridor. “Your guards let me pass. Not one offered to come with me.”
“They were wise.”
“Because of you?”
“Yes.”
That finally moves her. One step back.
It should help.
It does not.
“Tomorrow,” I say, “you stay at your end of the table.”
“Is that a treaty term?”
“It is the only one I care about tonight.”
She turns and walks toward the guest wing. I stay where I am until the sound of her steps is gone.
Then I look at the wall. Four fresh gouges surround the place where her head had been. Tomorrow I negotiate peace from the far end of a table.