If she wanted him to fuck her, he was likely to oblige, soon, but first...
“Come here.” Drake pulled her up and gathered her to him, wrapping his arms around her.
When she sighed and buried her head against his chest, it felt like the most wonderful thing ever to happen to him. He was getting soft.
“Today, I can’t bear to hurt you. I was going to cage you and tease you forever, which would’ve been nice, but... it will wait. My heart says you’re mine, and my claws.” He dug them into her, treadling. “I cannot hurt this ass or any part of you. Not today.” He was repeating himself, but it was true. “Two strikes are enough for me, and they are for you. I command this.”
She hiccupped and he wondered if that was a laugh. Her breathing slowed and synchronized with his. The scent of her lulled him. “Wherever you are, my dream girl, I am home.”
“That’s so beautiful. Poetry. I should teach you to play my guitar,” she murmured. “And to sing.”
Sing? “Hmmm.” After a while, a long while, he began to stroke her hair.
Until she raised her head and he guessed she was looking at the cage, then she whispered something.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Tomorrow? You can put me in there tomorrow and do whatever you want to?”
He squeezed her and laughed silently. “Of course—tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Children’s Hill
A year later
The city was well-lit but quiet up here. The sun was gilding the building-studded horizon and casting long blue shadows. Dusk was upon them.
Drake’s hand covered hers where it lay on his thigh.
So much had happened since her brothers had died, yet it seemed both long ago and yesterday. The method with which Vass had gained initial control of the kingdom was exposed in all its putrid glory. He’d killed her brothers with a bomb, claimed he was a savior, then used a cryo-preserved finger from Roarke to steal the diaries her brothers had written—the latter had been a terrible blow. The diaries were lost, though practice examples of the letters he’d sent her had been found. The palace guard had been cleansed of traitors after one of those assigned to guard her had declared his guilt.
All of this was written into the history books.
Two days ago, the crowning ceremony had been held.
She was declared queen and Drake was crowned and made king. It had been a formality. The kingdom knew they were reigning jointly and any protests about a mauleon sharing the throne and her bed had long ago languished and died away. She’d been surprised but people had accepted them. According to Drake it was due, at least in part, to her own popularity.
Eye-opening really.
“I think you’ll make a good king, Drake Gessfangen.” She nodded in emphasis.
“Do you?” He pulled his hand away and began lightly stroking the strings of her guitar.
“Yes. With practice, same as that guitar work needs practice.”
“I’d say it’s time to chain you up, hoist you into our cage, and tease you. Want to rethink your words?” His tone was mellow, as if the guitar had most of his attention.
She smirked. Baiting him was an interesting hobby. They both enjoyed the results when he punished her in a fun way. “I am sorry, sir.”
“Good. Very good.”
Sassi was behind them somewhere taking care of the children. The squeals and galumphing sounds made her turn to check.
For sure, Tybolt, Jane, or Uther had convinced the bot to be a pretend florsie, again, and were riding him all about the hill.
She’d reverted the bot to his quieter, less violent self soon after the day of the street ambush. His body had changed back to what she thought of as his normal boxy shape. She’d decided he was safe enough to be a babysitter. If ever they needed him again, he’d vowed he would help. She had permission to call on him to assassinate someone, as long as they were evil.
Evil would be difficult to judge.
He’d made her vow not to wake him after the Quarantine ended. After... not if.
She still wasn’t sure his theory about the Quarantine was true. There was no way to tell.
In the meantime, he was doing fine sorting out the knives and spoons, cleaning, and being a pretend florse. His reputation would keep away the bad men by itself.
Tybolt waved to her, grinning somewhat madly, then went back to clinging to Sassi’s head as they jolted along. Trailing behind, running and jumping, were Jane and Uther. Born small, after only six months’ gestation, already they were past her knee height and little terrors.
She smiled then looked back to Drake.
“They fine?” He was peering at where his fingers were on the strings.
“Very. I have to carve something on this streetlight. To commemorate this occasion.” She stood and drew a small knife from the pocket of her dress.
“You’re vandalizing our property? I planned to sing to you. Remember, I’ve been learning.”
“Ohhh.” Tongue tucked into cheek, she began to carve. “I knew you could do it.”
A heart took shape beneath the point of the knife, entwined with the heart with her C inside of it. Curls of paint fell away. Last of all she added a D in the middle and blew away the specks of dry paint. Done.
A late season flower-bug cruised into the light, turned to gold by the illumination on its fluttering wings. It hovered by the hearts, as if inspecting her work, then zipped off.
She smiled.
Now she and Drake were truly a part of this city, of this hill, of the world. In twenty years, maybe all the Overwatch sats would have fallen and they’d be free as their ancestors had been.
“I found an Old Earth song in your records by someone called Cass McCombs. The song is ‘Dreams Come True Girl.’ So here goes.”
Drake began to sing and play, and the sound wrapped around her and drew her to sit beside him and listen—to listen and marvel. The lyrics brought tears to her eyes, wonderful happy ones.
Her mauleon king could sing, and such a beautiful singer of a beautiful song.
She waited until he was done before she climbed into his lap, put her arms around him, and kissed him, and kissed him... maybe she’d kiss him until forever, or until the sats burned up and fell like pretty decorations, across the sky and into the sea.
The End
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About Cari Silverwood
Cari Silverwood is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling writer of kinky darkness or sometimes of dark kinkiness, depending on her moods and the amount of time she’s spent staring into the night. When others are writing bad men doing bad things, you may find her writing good men who accidentally on purpose fall into the abyss and come out with their morals twisted in knots.
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Ruled: A Dark Sci-Fi Romance Page 13
