Torgan #2
“I publish every page to every court and merchant house between here and the sea.”
I let him imagine the rest.
“If any named lord raises a private spear, I cross the border.”
“For Serath?”
“No.”
Iona’s hand tightens at her side.
“For her.”
Callas bows his head. “And if they comply?”
Iona answers.
“Serath keeps its sovereignty. Vessel keeps the grain terms already signed. The north road opens under joint tolls at spring thaw.”
Callas looks at her for a long moment.
“Peace is still cheaper.”
“Yes.”
“You learned that from me.”
“I learned the numbers from you. The rest I learned when you put me on the wrong side of them.”
He flinches.
Then Iona takes his hand.
Not forgiveness. The bond makes that clear.
Farewell.
Callas’s fingers close around hers once.
“I am sorry.”
“I know.”
She releases him. “Go.”
The guards escort him out.
Perr follows with the document cases. At the doors, Callas stops and turns back.
“Are you happy?”
The question is for Iona.
The whole hall listens.
She looks at me.
Through the bond, I feel the answer before she gives it. Warm. Certain. Entirely her own.
“Yes.”
Callas nods once and leaves.
The doors close.
Iona returns to the dais.
She sits on the cracked throne arm instead of taking her chair.
“You threatened a sovereign council for me.”
“They are not sovereign enough to price my mate.”
“Our treaty says otherwise.”
“The treaty is wrong.”
“It is not.”
The court has not left. Every face is carefully blank.
Iona notices.
“Out.”
No one moves.
I turn my head.
The hall empties in seconds.
Ghenn is last. He closes the doors behind him.
The latch falls.
Silence spreads through the hall.
Iona shifts on the broken arm. The stone grinds beneath her skirt.
Through the bond, I feel the pull between her thighs.
My gaze drops.
She goes still.
“Torgan.”
“You should not sit there.”
“Why?”
I come down one step. “Because the court has just left.”
“The doors are closed.”
“The throne is damaged.”
Her mouth curves. “Then stop talking about the throne.”
I reach her in two strides.
I hook one arm around her waist and draw her against me. A sharp thrill surges through the bond: being taken at the seat of my court while the last footsteps still echo outside.
“You are sore,” I say.
“Less than this morning.”
I feel the truth and the remaining tenderness together.
“Tell me if it changes.”
“Yes.”
That is the last measured exchange we manage.
I kiss her hard. I angle the fangs clear and bruise her lips with mine.
She grips my horns and pulls.
My claws slide out.
One hooks beneath the lacing at her knee and cuts it. The black skirt falls open.
Iona inhales.
I lift her from the damaged arm and turn her over the throne seat.
Her palms strike black stone polished by decades of judgments.
The bond carries her shock, then her delight.
“Here?” she asks.
I push the skirt to her waist. “Here.”
My fingers find her wet already.
She looks back over one shoulder.
“Useful?”
I put two fingers inside her.
Her answer becomes a gasp.
There is no long preparation. She is open from wanting and still tender enough that I take care with the third finger. My thumb works her clit while her hips press back against my hand.
“More.”
I free my cock.
I drag the slick head through her wetness. The ring catches at her entrance.
She braces on the throne.
I press inside in one slow drive, giving her all of me before stopping with my base hard against her.
Her head drops.
“Still?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I grip her hips.
Then I take her fast.
The throne does not move. I built it from stone because I expected enemies, not this.
My hips strike her. Every retreat drags hard through her. The bond gives me the exact flash of pleasure my shape produces and gives her the rough satisfaction in my body as I watch my mate take me over the seat of judgment.
She reaches back and grabs one horn.
I lose the last of my rhythm.
My claws gouge the stone beside her hands.
She comes first, quick and hard, biting down on her own wrist to keep the sound inside the hall.
The bond throws the climax through me.
I bend over her, put my mouth against the healed mating bite without piercing it, and come deep inside her. The swelling at my base deepens, enough to hold pressure but not lock us without the venom surge.
For several breaths, I remain over her with one hand covering hers on the throne.
Outside the doors, someone drops a metal tray and immediately pretends not to have done so.
Iona begins to laugh.
The movement tightens around me.
“Do not,” I say.
“That remains unreasonable.”
I withdraw slowly. The ring catches and pulls one last shudder from her.
Then I turn her, set her on the throne seat, and kneel long enough to clean what runs down her thigh with my tongue.
Her hand closes around the base of one horn.
“Torgan.”
I look up.
Her face is flushed. Her gown is open. My release is on her skin. The cracked throne surrounds her like evidence.
“That,” she says, “was a useful judgment.”
I stand and pull her into my arms.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“The old beacon tower.”
Her eyes narrow. “How many steps?”
“Four hundred.”
“That is an absurd number of steps.”
“You are not walking them.”
I carry her through the private door behind the dais. She counts every step against my shoulder, losing the number twice when I put my mouth on her neck.
At four hundred, I shoulder open the beacon-room door and carry her inside before the court dares follow.