by Ruby Dixon
“Did you get no pleasure tonight, then?”
“My pleasure was entirely in pleasing you, my love.”
She pulls her hand from my grip and slides it down my chest, then moves to the waist of my pants. “Can I…touch you? The way you touched me?” And she boldly cups my cock.
The breath leaves my body. “You want to touch me?”
“Is it allowed?” She hesitates, starts to pull her hand from my groin.
I push it back there, because I want her touch more than I want air. “Anything you wish,” I tell her.
Halla’s lips part and then she caresses my cock with a bold stroke. I close my eyes, because her touch is making me desperately close to losing control.
“You’re bigger than I imagined,” she whispers, all the while her fingers tracing and outlining my length, learning it with a touch. “Are you sensitive here?” When I nod, she gives me a fascinated look, continuing to stroke me through my pants. “What feels good? How should I touch you? You knew how to caress me, and this is all new.” She leans in close to me, her lips near enough to brush over mine and whispers. “And I want to learn.”
With a groan, I grip her hand and show her just how to touch me. I don’t use the same gentle touches she does. Mine are brutal and swift, and the sight of her lips parting in wonder as I use her hand to rub myself to climax is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Her name is on my tongue as I come, swift and hard. I spill into my leather breeches with an almost-painful joy and then fall back onto the blankets, utterly spent.
Halla caresses my face, fascinated. “That was pleasing?”
I huff out a laugh. “Pleasing” seems too simple a word, too benign. “Completely.”
She burrows into the blankets against my side and rests her cheek on my shoulder. “What now?”
I pull her close and stroke her hair, caressing her everywhere I can. I’m not ready to give her up yet, though I know I must. One more day, I remind myself. One more day and she’s truly mine. “Now you must tell the witnesses if I pleased you or not, and then we must be separated until the ceremony.”
“Oh.” Halla frowns and presses her face against my shoulder. “I’m not sure I’m ready to leave yet.”
I love that she says that. “It is only one day more and you will be secluded until the wedding, as will I. This is to allow either of us the opportunity to refuse the marriage at any time up until we are brought before the priests.”
“Ah. And if I decided to refuse to marry you?”
Even thinking of such a thing pains me, but I promised I’d give her a choice. “I would tell everyone that you met an unfortunate death the evening before our wedding and would have you taken to the temple of your choice. If the peacekeepers do not suit you, we will find you another home.” I stroke the hair back from her lovely face. “I meant what I said when I told you that you would always be safe with me.”
A frown mars Halla’s face. “But if I am supposedly killed the evening before our wedding, won’t people assume you have done something terrible to me?”
“Let them assume what they like. It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me! The Yshremi people don’t trust you as it is. If you hope for any sort of peace…”
If I do not have Halla, all of Yshrem can burn for all I care. I do not say such a thing, though, because I do not want her to feel obligated. I want her to come to me because she wants me. Because she enjoyed my mouth on her cunt. Because she wants more kisses and caresses.
Because she wants me.
I know that what I ask might be impossible. That her feelings toward me will always be colored by her father’s death and the conquest of her kingdom by my father. But I have always seen her as Halla, the lovely girl who saved me when I was a child. I want her to see me as more than just King of Cyclopae.
So we will see.
I sit up and help her straighten her clothing. I want to lie in this bed with her for hours on end, but I know that will not be wise. I am king, but even a king must bow to custom every now and then. I help her to her feet and then cup her cheek one last time. “I will see you tomorrow, my love.”
“You keep calling me that,” Halla murmurs.
“So I do.” I don’t explain myself. Let her determine what she will. I know how I feel.
She gives me a tremulous smile and then smooths her hands over her hair. As she does, the regal, distant expression moves over her face once more and Princess Halla is back, shy virgin Halla retreating inside her. She gathers her skirts and heads for the door to the room. Ishera and Pen flank her on the way out. They will get her answer privately and then reveal it in the court before those who have arrived for the feast. Not many grooms are humiliated by their future brides before those gathered before the wedding—and that is because every cyclops warrior does his best to ensure that his woman is well pleasured before he leaves her.
I do not think Halla’s answer will be a poor one. However, that doesn’t mean she won’t change her mind before the wedding. For a moment, I hesitate, wondering if there was more I could have done. If I should have pleasured her longer, made her come three or four or ten times. If that would change her mind, if it can even be changed at this point.
But no amount of licking and pleasuring will change Halla’s mind if she decides she cannot marry a cyclops.
10
HALLA
I’m still numb with shock as the two female Cyclopae return me to my rooms. They didn’t smirk when I gave them my answer—that yes, Mathior pleased me in bed. I like them immensely for that. Then I’m sent back to my chambers and I’m alone. I sit down on the edge of the bed and stare out at my room, dazed.
Even though this is the same room I left just a short while ago, I feel like a different person. The blankets and bedding are fine Yshremi weave, but I pick up the fur-trimmed cloak at the foot of my bed and touch the soft edging, because the white of it reminds me of Mathior’s cloak. I gaze up at the banner on the wall. Once upon a time, my father’s family crest hung there, and a tapestry of Yshremi legends covered the other wall. Those are gone, and in their place, the banns hang as if reminding me that the ruling house of Yshrem will be united with the Cyclopae king tomorrow.
As if I could possibly forget.
I squeeze my thighs together and tremble. I’m still damp and throbbing from where he touched me. If I close my eyes and think hard enough, I can almost feel his tongue there, exploring my folds and doing things I’ve never dreamed of. It was just like in the book, and it felt better than I ever imagined. My nipples tighten at the memory and I resist the urge to run my hand over them. If this “tasting” was so good, I cannot possibly imagine how wondrous the marriage bed will be.
I’m actually…excited about the prospect. I can’t stop blushing, either. Mathior doesn’t seem to care that I’m eight years older than him and probably past my best childbearing years. All he cares about is…me. Kissing me. Talking to me. Tasting me. He calls me his love. I’m utterly dazzled by him. I know I should be thinking strategically about how I can use the throne to push for Yshrem, to ensure that they are not completely overrun by Cyclopae wars and customs, but all I can think of is Mathior. His smile. His kiss.
His tongue.
Gods above, but I am utterly infatuated with him. I fling myself back on my bed and sigh like the young girl I no longer am.
“Whore,” someone spits at me.
I sit upright on my bed, glancing around my room. I thought I was alone. Fear hammers through me and I go stiff as an elderly woman emerges from my private garderobe and into my chambers. She doesn’t carry a knife, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t here to do me harm. “Who are you?” My voice is calm and steady. “What are you doing in my rooms?”
“I am one of your people.” She scowls at me as if I am dirt beneath her feet, her lip curling in disdain. She pushes into my room as if she owns it, storming toward me to point one age-withered finger in my face. “And you should be ashamed!”
“For spreading your thighs for that cyclops! He and his people murdered your father! Stole our lands!” Her eyes shimmer with tears. “Destroyed everything our people stood for. My sons died in that war. Sixteen years and we’ve hated the cyclops invaders with every beat of our hearts. Imagine how it felt to hear that Princess Halla, last of the royal line of Yshrem, would be marrying the beast that killed her father.”
“Mathior didn’t—” I whisper, but she cuts me off with a baleful glare.
“He’s the spawn of King Alistair, is he not? You might as well coat your bed in your father’s blood.”
I flinch, because her words are cruel. “It’s not like that.”
“Is it not? Do you think he wants you because you are young and nubile?” She gives me another scornful look. “Because you are rich? Or simply because it’s an easy way for him to quell any sort of uprisings? And you are foolish enough to fall for such a thing!”
Her words are like daggers. I lean away from her as she looms over me, and I feel like a naughty child. “It’s not like that,” I say weakly. “He loves me. He told me.”
“Of course he said that. You would have to be a monumental fool to marry him if he treated you as if he hated you.” She lifts her chin and gives me another scowl. “I hope his mouth is worth the lives of your people.”
I’m shocked at the vitriol in her voice. I simply stare at her, aghast, until she crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you going to call the guards on me? Have me executed for telling you the truth?”
My mouth works silently for a moment. “No,” I say finally. How can I when she’s one of my people? She doesn’t understand how it is between myself and Mathior. How kind and caring he is. How much he loves me and makes me feel pretty.
You would have to be a monumental fool to marry him if he treated you as if he hated you.
Am I a fool? As I remain on the bed, silent, she harrumphs and returns to my garderobe and shuts the door behind her once more. I hear something that sounds like the scrape of stone. A secret passage, then. Castle Yshrem is filled with them. I get to my feet and lock the door, then press on the side of the large wooden trunk against the wall until it’s in front of the door.
I return to my bed, my happiness draining out of me instantly.
Am I falling for pretty words and a talented tongue simply because it’s an easy way to subdue the budding Yshremi uprising? Is Mathior truly that devious?
Can I marry him? Should I? I pick up the cloak with the white fur edging and pet it, but it no longer gives me pleasure. All I can think of is Mathior and his smile…and I wonder if I am betraying my people.
I have a day to decide.
11
The Next Day
MATHIOR
The wedding ceremony will be held in the Hour of Storms, at sunset. That is the hour devoted to the god of battle and patron of the Cyclops, Aron of the Cleaver. I spend the afternoon in prayer, offering up gifts and the promises of many future battles if only I get what I want this day.
And what I want is Halla.
But Aron, if he is listening, has always known this. My prayers have not changed in sixteen years: I want a long life full of glory and battle, prosperity for my people, and Halla at my side. I never make demands of the gods, but on this day, I send a fervent thank you to Aron of the Cleaver for granting me at least some of that. Hours from now, Halla will be mine. I will kiss her lovely face, take her to my bed, and make her my wife. No one will take her from me ever again, and she will be at my side, always. I do not care if we live in Cyclopae in tents, or if she wishes we settle in Yshrem. There are initial visits to be made to my other lands, of course, but after that I do not care where we go. Let her choose. I will be content as long as she is in my bed.
The strongest offerings are those of blood, though, and I pull out my knife, say a prayer to Aron once more, and then cut a deep slice into the meat of my bicep. Not my sword arm, because only fools would do such a thing. Aron wants no fools worshiping him, I imagine. I set down the knife on the altar and raise the prayer bowl to my arm, watching it fill with blood. When it is done, I bind the wound and leave the room to dress for my wedding.
Soon, I tell myself. Halla will be yours soon.
I return to my chambers and the advisors flutter around, trying to give me advice as I dress. I put on my leatherwork leggings that are decorated with beaded tassels down the legs, one for each kill I’ve made in battle. I shave the side of my head, and then my jaw as the advisors prattle on about treaties and borders. I let them talk themselves into circles without interrupting, since I figured out long ago that it was arguing for the sake of arguing more than needing advice. I rub a hand over my jaw to make sure there’s no stubble, thinking of Halla’s soft thighs and how sensitive they were. I don’t want to scrape her skin.
Two advisors argue over the printing of coins in Yshrem and whether or not they should have my profile or a symbol. That is easy to answer—one side shall have my Halla’s face, and the other will have mine.
“I do not like that you give her so much power, First Warrior,” one of the advisors begins.
“Then it is a good thing I did not ask you,” I tell him easily and find a mirror on the wall. It is tradition for a father to paint his son with the Cyclopae symbols before his marriage, but my father is dead and I am surrounded by fools who try to tell me not to marry my woman. I will simply do it myself. I paint Aron’s cleaver over my breast in bright red, and then remove my eyepatch, regarding my face in the mirror. When Halla knew me, I had two eyes. Does she find this ugly, I wonder. Or does she understand that tradition goes deep with my people? The eye-scar has always been seen as one of pride and honor amongst my people.
But…I want Halla to enjoy looking at me, as I enjoy looking at her.
Bah. I am being a nervous fool. Irritated at myself for worrying over such things, I smear a dark red line of paint down my scar, from brow to cheekbone, mimicking Aron scarring from his battle with the Great Dragon One-Tooth. I paint the symbols of my father’s line down my arms and across my stomach, and then sit cross-legged on the floor and do my best to meditate while I wait. Once the ceremonial paint is dry, I will put on my white fur cloak and descend to the throne room, where my bride will be presented to me.
“First Warrior,” one particularly noxious advisor says, a hint of whine in his voice.
“What?” I do not open my eye or shift in my repose. “I am busy.”
“There is a, ah, problem, First Warrior.”
I bite back the impatience I feel. “Can it wait until after my wedding?”
There’s a long hesitation that fills me with uneasiness. “It’s about the wedding,” the advisor says eventually. “I’m not sure there will be one.”
I open my eye and glare at him. “Speak freely and tell me what you mean.”
The man swallows hard and gives his fellow advisors an uncertain look. After a moment, he steps forward and clears his throat. “I have, ah, been notified that it is past time for your bride to participate in the ceremonial bathing and she has not arrived. Nor will she answer when anyone knocks at her door. She will not open for anyone.”
I get to my feet slowly, my heart thudding in my chest. “She has refused me, then?” The world has turned to gray ash in an instant. “She will not become my queen?”
A drop of nervous sweat rolls down the man’s nose and splashes onto the front of his robe. “We-we-we don’t know, First Warrior,” he stammers. “Princess Halla does not answer at all.”
I storm out of my chambers. “Take me to her at once.”
12
HALLA
I s
tare out the window of my room, down at the courtyard below, and think about sixteen years that have passed. Sixteen years ago, I was young and arrogant and thought nothing in the world could change for me. I knew my father had gone to war with the Cyclopae, but I lived inside a sheltered cocoon and thought it would truly not affect us. Even when the cyclops warriors camped outside our walls, I did not think it would end badly. Up until the very end, I knew with certainty that my father would win.
And then they brought me news of his death and everything changed.
I am not that same Halla, but I wonder if perhaps I have still been too cocooned. That I have been so sheltered from the world—first by court, and then by the peacekeepers of Riekki—that I cannot see a lie when it is in front of my face.
I am terrified of making the wrong decision, because this is final. Once I choose, I cannot un-crack that egg, as the saying goes. I will be Mathior’s Yshremi bride, and I will either be the betrayer of my kingdom or a beloved bride.
I do not trust my own judgment to determine which one I will be. Ever since Mathior returned to my life, I have been completely besotted with him as any young woman would be. I am thirty-three and yet I find myself giggling over the thought of him when I am alone. He haunts my dreams. He is the first thing on my mind when I open my eyes and the last thing when I go to bed at night. When I touch myself in my bath, I think of him and his hot eyes and the confidence in his grin.
Sixteen years and I am not any wiser than that foolish princess who held a crown for an hour. I could not see my future then, and I cannot see it now.
I still have time to back out of this marriage, if it is the wrong thing to do. I am too taken by Mathior to think clearly. I don’t know if he is playing me for a fool or if he truly cares for me. Because oh, I want him. I want him so badly I ache with it, and I worry I will destroy what is left of my kingdom if I pursue my heart.
