The Dawn of the End (The Rising Book 3)

by Kristen Ashley

  “Mars and Silence have not arrived in Fire City yet, but they’ll be there soon,” True told him.

  “And Mar-el?”

  True felt his neck muscles tighten when he shared, “Aramus abolished binding altogether. Those taken will work the remainder of the five years, but no more can be taken, and the others who are past that have been freed. There have been uprisings. Not many, but he’s been busy. I know no more as I suspect he does not have time to send many birds.”

  “He is doing right, it will settle, and then it will be past,” Alfie said quietly.

  He hoped so, but it was his experience it was never that easy.

  True nodded yet again.

  “In school, I was quite a keen student of history,” Alfie noted abruptly.

  “You had told me that,” True reminded him.

  “I do not think I told you that, at one time, I did not fancy becoming a soldier. I fancied going to the Go’Da to study history in order to return to Wodell to teach in one of our own universities.”

  “No,” True murmured. “You had not shared that.”

  “I do not know a single time in history where this much change swept Triton all at the same time,” he declared.

  True regarded him closely.

  “We have not had any quakes in some time, True,” Alfie remarked. “And I do not wish to add to your plate, but this change…”

  His voice trailed away.

  “We know nothing of the Beast. Not really,” True said. “But I see what you’re saying. It’s unprecedented, all that’s happening. And if there is some force that does not wish peace and prosperity—”

  “But feeds from war and greed—”

  “It will rise to put a stop to progress.”

  “It is a supposition,” Alfie said.

  “It is also a supposition to think the quakes have stopped because the last one was the worst and he no longer rises, he’s risen. And he lays in wait. But I must admit to my mind turning to that and doing it often.”

  True and Alfie stared at each other.

  The door opened and Bronagh bustled through.

  Alfie looked to the door.

  True kept his gaze to his friend, and thus saw Alfie’s face change instantly from speculative and concerned to inhospitable and annoyed.

  True turned to her when Bronagh stopped at the foot of the bed and put her hands to her hips, regarding Alfie while noting, “I see you’re your usual chipper self today.”

  “I see you unfortunately did not fall off a cliff since your last post,” Alfie returned.

  True drew in a sharp breath.

  Bronagh’s pretty face went stricken before it looked like it would crumble.

  “Alfie,” he whispered.

  But Alfie was looking like he’d give anything to rise from that bed on his own power, not to walk, not to ride, not to fight.

  But to take his feet in order to properly apologize.

  “That was—” he began.

  Bronagh quickly hid her emotion behind efficiency and interrupted him to query, “Are you in pain?”

  “Bronagh—” Alfie started gently.

  “Are you in pain, sir?” she demanded.

  “No,” he said.

  “You will call if you’re in pain. I’ll be outside the door.”

  And with that, she turned and scurried to and through the door, closing it behind her.

  “Fuck,” Alfie muttered.

  True considered carefully what to do next.

  And out of necessity, he made a quick decision.

  “That was not my captain,” he stated.

  Alfie looked to him. “True—”

  “I don’t know who that man was, but he was not you,” True informed him flatly. “I cannot begin to imagine the many things plaguing your mind and your body. But the Alfie Henriksson I know would never speak like that to a woman. Indeed, to anyone.”

  “She draws up ire in me, I know not where it stems,” Alfie admitted.

  True stood, looked down at his friend and shared it openly.

  “It stems from the fact you’re attracted to her. You feel the same from her. And you’re convinced it can go nowhere. Thus, you wish to drive her away. I think she is one of the very few who have some inkling of what you’re going through, and what your life could become, if you fight for it. And she comes here every day and looks at you like she looks at you so that tells me what your life could become, and who you could have in it, if you fought for it.”

  Alfie’s face hardened. “I haven’t been in this bed even a month—”

  “I don’t care,” True cut in. “The Alfie Henriksson I know wouldn’t care. He fought battles that were useless and unwinnable out of loyalty to me and the belief one day it would be over, and the future would be better. Now he has a battle that is crucial to win, and it’s winnable, and he falters.”

  “Fuck you, True,” Alfie spat.

  “Good,” True whispered and bent to him. “Shovel it at me, I can take it. But her,” he kept bent and pointed toward the door, “maybe she can’t, but you don’t want to find out if that’s the case.”

  He decided that was enough, straightened, and without another word to his friend, he walked out of the room.

  Bronagh did not meet his eyes when he was in the hall, and True gave her that, turning to make his way to his and Farah’s chambers.

  It was not late, it was not early. Not long ago, he and Farah had dined with a number of men and charmed folk, for even if True had an insurgency on his hands, the Beast possibly risen and lying in wait, his friends in their realms dealing with serious and dangerous issues, he had not given up on his idea for the future of Wodell.

  He could think of no other future than one where they quelled this Rising and defeated the Beast.

  Which meant there was a future, and he had to plan for it.

  And that meant, when (not if), they recovered the coin Carrington stole from them, he would utilize it to build a parliament building, adjacent offices for its members and staff, and to hold elections throughout his land.

  Emissaries from various provinces and clans of charmed folk were astonished by this idea, but receptive to it. Tremendously so.

  This meant there was much to plan, much to do, his people needed to be educated about this idea and understand that they were not losing their king. He was not shirking his duty. He would continue to be the last word in his realm and deeply involved in its governing.

  But they would have a say.

  He was pleased at the response to this idea.

  He was also tired just thinking of implementing it.

  Exhausted.

  He did not sleep well in the norm.

  But since his mother’s death, he had barely slept at all.

  If he could have his greatest wish, he would take Farah somewhere remote and private, maybe the Royal Cottage on the sea outside Welling Harbor and hole in. No meetings. No conferences. No summits. No strategy sessions.

  Just his wife and himself, a bed, perhaps a few books, the waves lapping the shores…and sleep.

  He could not do that.

  He might not be able to do that for months, or with all he had planned, even years.

  But he wanted nothing but to do just that.

  Helga had said she’d needed a word with Farah after dinner, therefore Farah had followed Helga, and True had gone to visit with Alfie on his own (and in the end, that had been a boon, for he would not wish his wife to see Alfie behave that way, and he might not have said what he needed to say after he did).

  Now, he hoped she was in their chambers and did not mind going to bed early, for he wanted nothing but to curl into her soft warmth and get as much rest as he could before the bad dreams chased it away.

  This was his thought upon entering their chambers, seeing their sitting room dark, but their bedchamber brightly lit.

  “Farah,” he called, making his way there.

  She didn’t answer.

  He called her name again.r />
  “Farah.”

  He took not a step into their bedchamber, for he stopped dead in the doorway.

  This, because his wife sat cross legged at the end of the bed.

  And she did it wearing naught but her wedding chain.

  Her dark hair was long and falling down her chest, mostly covering her bared breasts. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, covering her sex.

  Her eyes were on him.

  True was struck still, his mind scattering, his eyes not knowing where to go. Thus, they roamed the entirety of her, drinking in her beauty.

  That was, he was struck still, except one part of him which had been called to stiff attention.

  “I think,” she broke the silence, her beautiful voice floating across the room, “it is high time we truly became husband and wife, no?”

  In normal circumstances, he would shout his agreement.

  Her injury.

  The death of her mother.

  The death of his mother.

  “Farah—”

  “I am cold, True,” she whispered before adding a verbal invitation to the one she’d been issuing since the moment of his arrival. “Come and warm me.”

  The fire was blazing on its iron in the grate.

  The room was awash with light as every lamp was lit.

  But he could not have his wife feeling cold.

  He moved her way.

  She adjusted her position, coming up to her knees, exposing her slightly rounded belly, her bare hips, her sex.

  True moved faster.

  Her arms came out his way.

  He walked into them, watching her head tip far back, as his bent down…

  And he took her mouth.

  Her lips opened under his, her arms rounding him.

  He slid his tongue inside, diving both his hands into her thick hair.

  But at the taste of her, the knowledge she was bared to him, the invitation she had offered, the wanting of her for so long, and not having her, he could not hold himself in check.

  He leaned into her, taking her to her back in their bed.

  He was atop her, the scent of her all around, the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her softness squirming beneath him, all of this unraveling him.

  She started tugging at his clothes.

  He did not stop her, his hands roaming the silk of her skin.

  Some vague sense of chivalry permeated, and he tore his mouth from hers, murmuring, “Your shoulder.”

  “It has been fine for days,” she breathed, tugging at his frock coat.

  True shrugged it off and tossed it aside.

  When he dipped back in, he went for her neck.

  Gods, but her perfume was extraordinary.

  Spice and Farah.

  He ran his tongue along her neck as he ran his hand up her side.

  She was struggling with the buttons on his waistcoat.

  “Your clothes must go,” she demanded.

  She was right.

  They must.

  Immediately.

  He wanted his skin against hers.

  He pushed up to his knees, straddling her.

  She pushed up to her behind, and both of them went after the buttons on his vest, fingers bumping into the other’s.

  He caught her hands.

  Her hair tumbled all around her shoulders as she tipped her head to catch his eyes.

  “How about I do the waistcoat and you do the shirt?” he suggested throatily.

  She grinned and lifted her hands to the buttons on his shirt.

  He saw her hands were trembling.

  His hands were not.

  His were impatient.

  He had to stop to take off the vest, but he did not bother with all the buttons of his shirt. Once a few were loose, he pulled it over his head.

  And felt his cock kick when her heated gaze fell on his chest.

  “You are just…so beautiful,” she breathed before she pressed her lips to his skin, running her tongue along an indentation in the muscle there, on her way down.

  It would be later when he both wished she did not do that, at the same time he was glad she did.

  For he had thought, when this happened, when he had deemed she was ready, and that would be when it could be about naught but them, their touches, tastes, joining, with nothing bearing down on them, he had wanted to take his time in giving her pleasure.

  But when she touched her tongue to his flesh, he heard an odd sound in the room, like a gentle breeze moving through leaves.

  And he lost his mind.

  True had no memory of the loss of his boots, his socks, his trousers. He did not know if he removed them, or she, or the both of them.

  But he would never forget the first time he drew her nipple into his mouth, feeding it there with a sweep of his tongue, and the sound of her whimper, the pucker of her hardening flesh against his lips, when he suckled it deep.

  He would also never forget doing much the same to the other.

  He would further not forget her nails raking through his scalp and down his back.

  And he would not forget the whisper of her lips on his throat or the moist trails of her tongue along the boxes of his stomach.

  He would not forget the smell of her sex tingeing the air.

  And he definitely would not forget the cast of the room turning green before he closed his eyes when he first tasted the nectar between her legs.

  She writhed against him as he took her with his mouth, thus he wrapped her legs about his shoulders so she would be able to find purchase.

  And he drank from her.

  Deeper and deeper, until her movements grew needy and her noises desperate, her fingers that were fisted in his hair alternately pushing him closer and tugging him away.

  He wanted to bring her to climax in that manner first, to assure it and to prepare her to take him, but the pushing at his head became tugging as she breathed, “No…I can’t…I don’t want to be…not before you, without you. True,” a fierce tug, “come inside.”

  He should have fought it, but in that moment, the want in her tone, the desire in his body, he could not.

  He swept over her, hazily taking in the beauty of desire softening her features, heating her amber eyes, and he covered her, careful of his weight even if she’d assured him her wound was healed.

  “I am not small,” he had the presence of mind to murmur.

  “I noticed and I don’t care.” She had strength in her tone, and in her fingers, which were clenching greedily at his arse.

  Gods, his beautiful wife.

  “Farah—”

  “Make me yours.”

  He dipped closer, gliding a finger along her hairline, it coming to him that they should slow this, be present in it, not lost to it.

  “Farah—”

  “I want to belong to you,” she whispered, and he grew still. “I yearn to belong to you, True. Please, il mia vita, it seems I’ve waited eternity. Please, my husband, make…me…yours.”

  This was her wish, and his, he would give it to her.

  To them.

  True took hold of his shaft, found her with the head, and slowly, he eased inside.

  He watched as her eyes closed in ecstasy when they became one.

  And his body locked as her slick heat tightened around him.

  She rounded him with all four limbs.

  He stared at his wife, his queen, now his lover, just his love, her hair all over the pillows, vines of ivy creeping through the locks, and he did not notice this oddity.

  He moved inside Farah, finally making her his, finally giving himself to her.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he grunted, struggling not to climax, she felt that good, smelled that good, her pleasure looked that good.

  She tightened further around him…everywhere.

  He gritted his teeth and moved faster.

  “Gods, yes,” she whimpered, her hips finding his rhythm.

  “Look at me,”
he demanded, his voice guttural.

  He watched as she forced her eyes open.

  “You’re mine,” he declared, the movement of his hips slipping out of his control, thus they hammered into hers, fast and hard.

  “I’m yours,” she gasped.

  “You’re mine forever, Farah,” he growled.

  Her nails dug in at the base of his spine and the back of his neck.

  He gloried in the bite of her claiming.

  “I’m yours,” she whimpered, her movements frantic, her sex grasping, clutching, seizing.

  Gods.

  “And I am yours,” he told her.

  Her dazed eyes focused on him and they grew wet.

  “You are mine.” Her voice sounded like it would break.

  “Forever, my beloved,” he said.

  “Forever, True,” she whispered, her arm wrapping all the way around, her fingers holding tight to his side, her hand at his neck cupping it.

  He bent to kiss her as he shifted a hand over her hip, between them, over her belly and down.

  He pressed at her nub as he thrust deep inside and slid his tongue in to claim her mouth.

  His wife instantly climaxed against it.

  Giving her that, True let himself go, continuing with finger and tongue to offer her more, take her higher, make it last as long as he could, until he had to clamp on her hip to hold her steady as his world went a dense green, his balls drew up and he shot inside his bride.

  Glorious.

  He had his face in her neck and felt her fingers trailing the small of his back, just above his arse, when the climax released him.

  He managed to ascertain he still had his weight in his forearm, but that was it.

  He could not move.

  Which was fine, for he did not want to.

  “That was a terrible trick, but I could not wait any longer.”

  Farah’s words made him move.

  He lifted his head to gaze down at her in confusion.

  “Pardon?”

  “Sitting on our bed in the nude in hopes of seducing you,” she explained.

  He nearly burst out laughing.

  In his effort to contain this, his body started shaking violently, so much, his cock almost lost its place.

  He liked where his cock was, therefore, he got a handle on himself.

  “I do not believe I’ve complained,” he pointed out.

  “I should have had a conversation with you. But you’ve been very busy. So distracted. I thought when the sling was gone, we would…and then we didn’t. For days. And it was meetings. And you going to Crittich Keep. And visiting with Alfie. And behind closed doors with Bram and Wally and Florian and Luther. And—”