Chapter Forty-Four
FORTY-FOUR
“This way,” Bishop says, holding my hand as we run like children through the darkened castle courtyard.
My brain spins from celebratory whisky, but it spins even more from seeing his giddy joy and relief that has nothing to do with alcohol.
The last time we walked through this courtyard, it’d been at Bishop’s lowest point.
His Pack had been massacred, their home destroyed, and he’d come to the Caledonian Alpha for help and thought he’d received it …
only to have Hamish attach a stipulation that not only endangered but humiliated Bishop.
And even if he’d done it, he’d never have seen that help.
Instead, he’d have found himself overthrown and exiled from his own Pack.
And now?
Now he has achieved success beyond even his ambitious imaginings.
Bishop never planned to kill Doyle and assimilate the Cambrian Pack. He never planned to initiate a coup against Hamish and win over the Caledonian Pack.
But if Bishop learned anything from what happened, both at Trevelyan and here, it was to stop fashioning stone bridges to his goals. Instead of locking himself into a single path, he had surveyed the landscape and mapped all possible routes.
Before we departed for Glasgow last week, he’d spoken with Edwin to get a sense of what the brothers wanted.
Then he left Kenric behind to get a sense of what the Caledonian wolves wanted.
Bishop had let Hamish think he was doing his bidding in Wales.
Then he’d met with Doyle and listened to him, but also observed and investigated and, when he thought he saw the true state of affairs, he’d opened a dialogue with Jesse.
Be ready. That’s what Bishop learned. Be ready for anything and don’t be afraid to launch small plans, regardless of whether they’ll be needed or whether they’ll succeed.
Even before Trevelyan fell, Bishop dreamed of uniting the British Packs.
He presumed it’d take years, but he foresaw a day when the British werewolves would stand together, a true force to be reckoned with.
Even then, he presumed he’d be a junior Alpha, forced to listen to his elders until they acknowledged his power and potential.
And now three of the four Packs stand together, with Bishop being beholden to no one.
He orchestrated this, and the Campbell brothers know it and they will work with him as equals.
The four of them already plan an envoy to the Hibernians.
While the Irish werewolves keep to themselves, they should be apprised of the situation with Beryl.
They should also have the chance to join the alliance.
The current concern is Beryl, and they all recognize it. The Campbell brothers know the value of a strong Albion Pack, guarding London, a bulwark between the other British Packs and the rest of the world.
All that will come later. For now, my husband is relaxed in a way I don’t think I’ve seen him before. Even in our best moments, he’s never been able to fully shake the chains of responsibility that seemed to grow heavier with everything that went wrong.
We run through that courtyard, and he is grinning like the boy he must have been once, a boy with schemes and dreams and the confidence to think he can pull them off.
He leads me into a strip of forest, and we emerge in front of a stone structure, half in ruins.
“Was this the original castle?” I ask.
“Part of it,” he says. “Edwin brought me here to talk the last time. They tore down the ruins around it, but left this part because it’s … significant.”
He takes a heavy key from his pocket and unlocks thick oak doors. A few seconds later, he throws open the doors and stands there, grinning so wide I’m dazzled, as if I’m caught in a binding spell.
He tugs me into a cavernous room lit by candles in sconces. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust but when they do, they immediately land on two massive chairs at the other end of the space.
“Is this … is this a throne room?” I say.
“The castle was once used by the Scottish king, when there was a Scottish king.” Bishop leads me over to a cabinet, which he uses another key to unlock. The door swings open. Inside are only two items on a shelf.
Two crowns.
He takes one and holds it out. It’s very old and little more than a hammered gold circle, all the more beautiful for its simplicity.
“That’s … that’s…” I can’t even find words.
“Fit for a queen?” He takes it in both hands and puts it onto my head. “It is indeed.”
He takes my hands again, standing in front of me.
“What you did today…? I’m not even sure I can find the words.
You were magnificent. I’m terrible at relinquishing control, as you well know, and I feared if I let you speak for me, I’d find fault, think of how I might have said things differently, and I would have hated doing that. ”
He moves closer, lifting my hands. “But the only thing that went through my head was that I couldn’t have said it better. I couldn’t even have said it as well.”
His hands slide up my arms. “You stood on that field, and you said everything that needed to be said, while I did what I needed to do. And then you did what you needed to do. Proved that you are so much more than my wife. You are my mate. You are my partner. You defeated an Alpha. Do you know what that makes you?”
He leans to my ear. “An Alpha.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he puts a finger to my lips.
“You weren’t challenging him for his Pack, but you still won an Alpha challenge, and I want you to know that.
I want everyone to know it, even if you stopped me from saying it tonight.
” His lips twitch. “Which would have been, yes, impolitic. It’s their Pack.
But you won it for them. And you won this alliance for me. ”
He adjusts the crown on my head. “My queen.”
With that, he scoops me up and carries me to the throne. He seats me on the larger of the two. Then he bends to one knee.
“My Delia. My mate. My queen.” He meets my eyes. “My Alpha.”
His hands slide down my skirts, and he catches the hem and pushes it, ever so slowly, up over my calves and then my thighs. As his hands move, the tips of his fingers tickle up my bare legs. I close my eyes to savor the sensation.
He takes his time touching me, fingers first and then tongue and lips, tracing kisses with excruciating slowness up the inside of my legs.
As he travels lower, he glances up, the briefest of pauses, making sure he’s not doing anything I don’t want.
And I love him for that. I absolutely adore him for it, so much so that tears prickle my eyes.
I’ve spent the last two weeks having choices ripped from me. Being shown how little I matter after a lifetime of my mother and aunt showing me how much I matter. Bishop gives me back that power, every last bit of it.
He can play games of control, because he certainly likes to take it, but I never for one moment doubt that it is a game, and I can say I don’t want to play. And that might be the most attractive part of it. That I choose. I always choose.
I ease down in the throne, hips moving toward him as they lift in invitation. As his tongue slides up my inner thigh, I glance toward the door.
“Should we lock the door?”
“No,” he says, and his tongue goes in, making me gasp.
He takes his time. His tongue works and when his fingers slide around the back, his thumb running over that other hole, it startles me, and he stops and focuses on what he’s doing. But then I twist toward his hand, telling him he can try again, and when he does, that is a whole new sensation.
I writhe, moaning, as his tongue and lips and teeth and finger work magic that brings me to the brink over and over before pulling back, making it last until I put my hands on his head and keep him there.
Even then, as I lie on the throne, panting, he only starts again, kissing my thighs and then teasing with his tongue, working back into me and bringing me to another climax.
After that one, he scoops me up, and I make a little noise of protest as he lifts me off the throne.
“You want something else?” He arches his brows. “Wasn’t that enough, woman?”
“Enough for a woman.” I reach to adjust my crown. “Not enough for a queen.”
“What more do you want?”
“You.” I slide my hand down his stomach and squeeze the very prominent bulge in his trousers. “Put me back on that throne.”
“Is that an order?” He kisses me. “Let me lock the door first.”
“I thought you were fine with having it unlocked.”
He grins. “Am I fine with someone walking in, seeing me pleasuring my queen? Yes. But not this part.”
“Agreed. However, before you lock it, I need something from over there.”
I point, and he detours to the cabinet, where he’d found my crown. I wriggle from his arms, and his brows arch in question, but he lets me down.
“Is the crown too heavy?” he asks.
I smile at him and quote, “Uneasy is the head that wears the crown?” I put my arms around his neck. “No, it will never be too heavy for you, and therefore it will never be too heavy for me.”
“As long as we wear them together, they will always be lighter,” he says. “I hope you know how much I appreciate that. Sharing the burden that wasn’t yours to take.”
“I want to share it, and thus it becomes ours.” I lift the king’s crown from the cabinet and reach to set it on his head. “That was my goal. Not to remove mine, but to give you yours.”
He kisses me lightly, and I back up to admire him.
“It suits you,” I say. “A proper crown for a proper king.”
I half kneel, as if bowing. Then I lower myself to my knees as I undo the top button on his trousers.
“My lord,” I say, looking up at him with a wicked smile.
His gaze flicks to the door, but I notice he doesn’t mention locking it first, and I smile to myself.
I tug down his drawers just enough to run my tongue across the tip of him. He groans and his hands go to my head, but I shake them off, and he chuckles but lets his fingers undo my hair instead.
I unfasten another button, and then another, working down as I lick and then suck.
He took his time, and so I do the same, continuing my tutelage in this particular art, paying full attention to the cues he gives me, whether he realizes it or not, and being far too pleased with myself when his soft moans turn sharp and frustrated each time I slow.
A noise sounds outside, as if someone’s in the forest, and he tenses, but his breathing also quickens, making me smile again, and when his hands go to my head, I let him.
He thrusts into my mouth, hands in my hair, “Delia” on his lips over and over until he must realize I’m not going to stop this time, and he pulls back.
Without a word, he scoops me up and strides to the door, which he firmly locks. Then he carries me to the throne and sets me down, and before I can inhale, he has my skirts up and he pauses only that split second to check before he’s inside me.
As always, those first thrusts are so glorious that it’s all I feel, swallowing every other sensation.
Then I realize my knees are drawn up, and it’s not the easiest position for him, so I raise and shift my legs in front of his shoulders, resting my calves against them, and when he thrusts again, it goes so deep that I gasp.
“You like that?” he says.
“Very much.” I reach to clasp the back of his head. “I’m very greedy. I want all of you inside me. Every last fraction.”
He grins. I grab the sides of his shirt and pull him into me as hard as I can.
He takes hold of my legs, bracing me, and gods, this is incredible, him so deep inside me, the friction new and exhilarating and perfect.
When release comes, it seems to rock through me endlessly, so intense that I don’t notice he’s also finished until I realize he’s lowered my legs and he’s shifting to slide into the big throne with me, pulling me against him.
He kisses up my throat to my ear. I smile and reach to adjust his crown. “You promised me a Pack, and you gave me a kingdom.”
“Because you deserve it. I still have a great deal of work to do before it’s fit for my queen.”
“We have a great deal of work to do. Before it’s fit for us. And for them.”
He smiles then, and it’s the most beautiful thing, the glow in his eyes as he realizes that I truly do understand what he wants. A kingdom for us, but also for his Pack, for all werewolves who want and will accept what he’s offering.
“I love you so much,” he says. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
“And I couldn’t even dream it without you.”
His mouth opens just as someone tries the door. A soft growl as his gaze turns that way.
“Who is it?” he snaps.
“You’re needed,” Rufus calls. “We have a lone wolf at the gate. He heard what’s happening, and he wants to join one of the Packs. Edwin would like both him and you to meet with the fellow.”
Bishop groans, which Rufus must hear, though his apology is carried on a soft laugh.
“I shouldn’t have told my enforcer where I went,” Bishop mutters to me.
“You have to.” I pat his shoulder. “Go and settle this. I’ll head back to our room.”
“I’m here to escort you,” Julius calls, clearly hearing that. “Ann’s here as well. She’s in need of some fresh air after that whisky.”
“I am not,” Ann says sharply.
“We’re coming out,” Bishop says. “Give us a moment.”