Chapter 30
The end of a man was always his own lasciviousness.
Ragnar was more than aware of the consequences of such hedonistic delights.
As a follower of Ukhel, it was expected to keep one's emotions in check, to draw a line in the sand.
He could not love excessively; neither could he allow his rage to consume him.
A clear mind is necessary to appreciate death and life.
And yet, he had failed, again and again, in the last few months, to maintain his composure, especially after the moon had risen and he was left to his own devices, or just before the sun rose and he was forced to deal with the consequences of his thawed heart.
Ragnar's eyes opened slowly, consciousness returning in fragments.
His head throbbed—her eyes were too much, too overwhelming for him, even in his own imagination.
Her hands felt smooth against his skin, and his own whimpers had felt so pathetic that he struggled to differentiate his dreams from reality.
He blinked against the dim morning light filtering through the flaps of his tent.
He sat up, furs sliding off his bare chest, catching on something hard poking up from beneath.
He looked down, exasperation flickering in his eyes.
He was hard.
Painfully so.
Even in sleep, his mind had found a way to fixate on the woman he left at that shrine.
His mind suddenly felt hazy, thinking back to the night where she had sat on him, her body pressing against his thighs, hairpin to his throat.
He couldn't tell if he was angry, or afraid, or thoroughly ruined by the way she forced him to seem so vulnerable. His body reacted of its own volition then; now he couldn’t simply blame an unconscious response.
The numerous times it had happened since that night could not just be an unconscious response.
Ragnar's breath hitched as his hand finally found bare skin. The contact sent electricity straight through him, and he had to bite his jaw shut to keep from groaning. His cock was hard—gods, so hard it almost hurt—and the single stroke made his knees weak.
He imagined her eyes, the way they seemed to see right through him, to taunt him, to undress him.
"Fuck," he groaned, his other hand clenching as he stroked himself with increasing desperation.
His mind painted pictures he didn't have the right to imagine—her hands on him instead of his own, her lips parted, that same terrifying smile that nearly sent him to Tengri. Her individual traits were nothing he couldn’t handle, but for all of it to accumulate in just one woman, how could he be expected to resist?
The gods had given him temptation too great to overcome, and now she would be his wife in name only. They must have laughed at him, for they knew he was willing to cherish any woman Zephyr blessed him with, but this one was simply too much.
Ragnar had always wanted a wife, but this particular wife seemed to be the rib from his ribs.
His hand moved faster, but it wasn't enough. Nothing would be enough now, not after she had given him hope.
The hunger that controlled him remained insatiable; he needed more.
"Khatun," he groaned hoarsely; he couldn’t bear to call her her name; he could only call her her title.
One he hadn’t even formally given her.
Now it was a title reserved for her and her alone.
His emotions built quickly, and he came with a strangled curse that he swallowed down. His hand was slick with his own seed, and the reality of what he'd just done left a bitter feeling in his heart.
The stream ran fast and cold through the heart of the Igbele, its waters untouched by the morning sun that filtered weakly through the leaves above. Ragnar stood at its edge, stripped bare, his breath fogging in the chill air.
Bracing his body, he walked in.
The cold was blessedly violent. It stole his breath, seized his muscles, and drove the heat from his skin in an instant.
He submerged himself to the chest, then lower, until the water lapped at his shoulders and the current pulled at his body like it wanted to take him somewhere dark and quiet and forgetful.
He stayed under until his lungs burned.
When he surfaced, gasping, the world had gone still. The chirping of birds had died, and the wind had hidden, leaving only the sound of his own laboured breaths.
It wasn't enough.
He ducked under again. Held longer this time. Let the cold seep into his bones, his blood, and the places where heat had taken root and refused to die.
Disgraceful.
The thought surfaced with him, sharper than the cold.
He had woken in a tangle of sweat-damp furs, his body rigid with a fierce, aching tension that had become the bane of his existence.
The dream had been too vivid—he could still taste it, still feel it, the line between fantasy and memory blurred beyond recognition.
The scent of hemlock lingered in his nose, though she was nowhere near.
Could not be near.
Was days away, in a palace full of vipers; could his body truly not understand that?
He tried to deal with the physical manifestation of his weakness. A few passes of his own hand spilled into the darkness with a stifled groan that was equal parts relief and self-loathing.
It solved nothing.
He submerged again.
This time, he stayed under until his body screamed for air, until his vision darkened at the edges, until desperation clawed at his chest demanding release. Only then did he surge upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.
He was the Great Khan of the Valthorne. A blade of Ukhel's will. His focus was to be on conquest, on the security of his people, on the wars that waited for him beyond this quest.
Not on her.
He rose from the stream, water streaming from his hair, his shoulders, and the hard planes of his chest. He braced his hands on his knees, head bowed, breath steaming into the cold air. The heat in his blood had been subdued forcibly by sheer physical shock.
But the deeper craving, the one too deep to dig out of his heart, burned undimmed.
"Nine lashes."
Two lashes for the night past. Another for the morning's humiliating surrender. Nine in total, and counting. The debt to his god was mounting into an unpayable sum.
How many strokes of the horsehair cord would it take to flay this new, wretched need from his spirit?
The forest gave its answer in the form of an exquisite pair of golden eyes looking up at him from underwater. Ragnar stilled, the image rippling and translucent, simply a reflection of a woman who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t sure what else to do but laugh. From dreams to reality, she continued to haunt him.
Her appetite was simply ravenous, unwilling to leave him even a moment’s rest.
Nyraxa Varkesh lounged on a pile of cushions, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, her kohl-rimmed eyes gleaming with amusement. She had removed her bō?, as she always did in private company, and her sharp features were arranged in an expression similar to boredom.
"Great Khan," she drawled as Ragnar made his way into the central tent. "You're late. Did the stream prove more entertaining than our company?"
Ragnar ignored her, crossing to the map table where Caius Zarnok stood, examining their position with mild irritation. The white-haired Khanvaari glanced up, his pale grey-blue eyes flickering with contempt.
"The water here is cold, I trust?" Caius scoffed. "I suppose it must help, but Kemet is a better place for a bath."
Thane stood near the tent's entrance, arms crossed. He had not spoken more than necessary since their arrival, and the set of his shoulders suggested he was still waiting for his Khan to come to his senses.
Ragnar looked at the three of them—his Khanvaaris, his council, his most trusted weapons. Four of the eight, gathered in one tent, waiting on General Varok.
"How many this time?" He asked.
"I killed thirty-five men this time. You have too many enemies, Great Khan." Nyraxa mused. They could try to kill Ragnar as much as they wanted, but the women of the Varkesh banner were not easily beaten.
"The situation," Nyraxa continued, abandoning her lounging to sit up properly. "The Borjigin are in chaos. The Igwe is dead as of last week. The details are... creative. The First Prince was also reported dead to the public. He was apparently killed in Orda Naiman's camp while negotiating."
Ragnar's jaw tightened. "How?" he asked.
"Someone in the Borjigin court is working with Naiman. They never planned to accept the negotiations; they were just fucking with them." Nyraxa's eyes were sharp. "The same someone who's been feeding Naiman information for months, who wrote those letters. The viper—well—one of them."
Caius spoke up. "Which raises an interesting question, Great Khan.
Why are we still here? This is not our war.
The Borjigin are not our people. If someone on their end has been allied with Naiman all this time, this is not something we can easily extract ourselves from once involved.
It means we are in his territory. We should be on our own horses, riding in the opposite direction. "
Thane nodded, his first movement in minutes. "He's right. This isn't our fight."
"The Khatun is our business," Ragnar stated.
Caius's eyebrows rose. "The Khatun. A woman you've known for—what—months? You're willing to drag us into a war for her?" This wouldn't end with just one battle.
Ragnar met his gaze. "Yes."
Thane made a low, frustrated noise; he’d run out of patience. "Great Khan, with all due respect—"
"With respect, General, you've made your position clear." Ragnar grunted. "Multiple times. I've heard you. I've considered your words, and I've made my decision."
Thane choked on his words, his body shaking from anger. Nyraxa exchanged a glance with Caius, something passing between them.
"You're certain she won't betray you?" Nyraxa asked. "Certain enough to put us against Naiman this early? You know we aren’t ready for a full-blown territorial fight, It would take us another five years before we can challenge him."
"Yes."