11. Ivy
F or all Lucernia has in riches and splendor, I’ve never experienced anything quite so grand as a Namarian feast. The banquet hall is positively bubbling over with festive spirit. Boisterous music rings out around us, and the roar of excited chatter is well above the polite din of a banquet in my home country. It’s a good indication of how the court feels about their new king, as they celebrate him with such jubilation.
When the ceremony first ended, Cillian and I received many of the nobles while they offered their congratulations and expressed hopes for our future heirs. The fact that they felt so comfortable speaking about such a private matter did have me blushing at first. But as I’ve witnessed time and again, the Namarian people are much less repressed than my countrymen. I welcome their candor and how it allows for more sincere connections to be made between us all.
As the hours passed the reception has taken on a life of its own. My growing need to be alone with my husband has similarly intensified. Discovering our scent match so publicly without being able to discuss how we feel was already difficult enough to contend with. But the heated glances he sends me and the headiness of his sea-soaked scent is driving me mad with desire.
A certain nobleman—who has yet to show his face— also comes to mind. How am I meant to put my racing thoughts to rest when I can’t confirm or deny my suspicions? I once thought a scent match between Cillian and me couldn’t be possible; he hadn’t responded to me so viscerally when we first met last year. Clearly, given his reaction earlier, I was wrong in that assumption. Perhaps my perfume hadn’t fully developed until my birthday, and he was only now able to perceive it.
Could the same be true of Lord Oran?
“To the king and his bride!” is shouted, and then echoed, somewhere in the hall. It shakes me from my muddled musings and sparks warmth in my belly. I fear I’ll never tire of hearing myself referred to as such.
Cillian’s bride.
My new husband sits to my right, grinning around the rim of his chalice at the toast. It’s a proud, triumphant thing, stirring excitement deep within me. To see him revel in our union is far more attractive than I could ever have imagined. Against my will, I perfume for what feels like the hundredth time today.
Cillian groans low and aching, turning to regard me with fire and promise in his eyes.
“Dance with me, wife?” The gentleness with which he takes my hand and brings it to his lips is so at odds with the rough desperation in his voice.
When I look to the dance floor, I see more of the same unfamiliar steps I witnessed earlier. In my country, the dances are precise and practiced, with no room for improvisation. Here, it seems, everyone is happy to move freely about the room so long as they don’t collide with others. Beyond our first of the evening, I haven’t been brave enough to try another.
“I’m not familiar with these dances. What if I step on your feet and scare you away?” I ask, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself in any manner that could dull the sparkling way Cillian looks at me.
“Little terror, you could never frighten me enough to leave,” he says with a playful roll of his eyes. “I’d gladly take ten broken toes if it meant feeling you against me.”
Little terror.
It’s not the first time he’s referred to me as such, but the endearment is shockingly adorable. My inner omega seems to agree, letting her appreciation be known through yet another cloying wave of perfume.
“Omega.” Cillian’s pupils dilate as he leans in to grasp the back of my neck. With swift precision, his fingers slide into my hair and tug just enough to close the distance between us. Pinpricks of pulsating pleasure radiate over every inch of me, settling between my legs so I’m aching for more.
Feeling this alpha’s desperation is more intoxicating than anything else I’ve experienced, and I have little doubt of my impending addiction to such a sensation. With his mouth so near to mine, he strokes the pulse point on my throat, coaxing a whine from my now-dry lips. If he doesn’t kiss me in the next second, I fear I’ll devolve into a fit of hysteria.
“Darling,” he purrs, “we should at least have one more dance together before I lose all semblance of control and steal you away to our bed.”
Gods.
This alpha, his marvelous mouth, and the lustful lilt of his accent make the words falling freely from his lips far too appealing. Heat flushes every inch of my skin pink, licking up my spine as slick all but slides down my thighs. It’s so indecent, and yet so natural, the way I need him.
Is this inextinguishable ardor part of the magic of scent-matched pairs? Perhaps it will become more manageable once he claims me. It’s likely expected for us to bond tonight, and though my omega nature yearns for it, the rational part of me wonders if we’re ready for such a thing just yet.
If we’re truly fated, what harm could come from waiting for our hearts to catch up to our instincts?
Perceptive of my stalling, Cillian sighs and rubs his cheek against mine. This scent-marking is a much more subtle claim than the firm grasp he has on my hair.
“You alone determine the pace of our coupling. Your comfort is far more important to me than whatever expectations others have placed on our wedding night.”
I’m certain my heart can’t skip again without fatal repercussions. The king’s soft heart is as alluring as his broad, beautiful body.
“Must we dance, husband?” I ask, letting my voice dip into a foreign, flirtatious timbre. “You’re not the only one eager for bed.”
Wide-eyed in surprise of my forwardness, Cillian’s smile turns damn near predatory. Hunger swells the tides of his sea-kissed scent as he preens under my admiration of him.
“ Fuck ,” he exhales. The king’s eyes roll back for the briefest of moments, his hand straying below the table to adjust himself in his trousers. Had I known how satisfying it would be to unravel him, I would have attempted to do so much sooner.
Before I can protest, Cillian stands and takes my hand to tug me toward the thrum of the dance floor. I was certain my propositioning would save me, but it seems my husband is keen to show me off one last time before we retire.
“Just one more. Trust me,” he pleads. And I do. Whether it’s the tether our souls have to each other, or all he has shown me of his heart, I do trust him. Cillian is a good alpha who wants only to care for me.
One who doesn’t need to lie to win my affection.
His hand goes to my waist, pulling me tightly to him, before he leads us through the steps with unwavering confidence. Even when I stumble through a few, my alpha never falters—never loosens his hold on me or calls attention to my mistakes.
His earlier efforts to conceal his excitement were for naught; the thick length of his desire remains trapped between us. Each subtle movement is a torturous, teasing reminder of what’s coming once our turn about the room is complete. And while I may be inexperienced in the ways of carnality, what I can feel tells me I have no need to doubt this alpha’s capability to bring me pleasure.
When the music swells into its final crescendo and the need for release has become near unbearable, the king dips me. He swiftly chases my body with his own and buries his face against my throat.
The position puts me at the perfect angle to feel the weight of a watchful stare on my skin—one I’ve felt many times in my dreams. Warm, hazel eyes appraise the king and me together, and I swear I can smell fresh earth mixing with Cillian’s briny sea.
The massive alpha with dark russet brown hair tied up in a knot is practically salivating as he watches on. He isn’t of noble birth; of that I’m certain. But, like the last time we crossed paths, his attitude speaks of his right to regard me with such brazen appreciation. His smile is downright devious, as if he’s proud of how the king handles my body with such sensual care.
Though I should be properly appalled that another alpha looks upon me with such open lustfulness, the thundering of my heart indicates a far more salacious emotion.
Before I can explore why this stranger’s mere presence is so exhilarating, Cillian pulls me upright. His frenzied panting when he whispers against my ear turns my body molten hot.
“I need to be alone with you now, darling. Need to touch you— please you. Would you like that?”
Gods, yes. I would indeed.