Until she jumped.
FOURTEEN
At least one of us can sleep. After about half an hour, the sorceress had passed out—while he sat back against a wall of hieroglyphs, watching her.
She seemed to have blocked him out, ignoring him so totally that he might as well not be here. In a way, ignoring him was precisely what she’d been doing for the last several centuries.
Because he didn’t rate. To her, he mattered not at all.
Positioned as she was, her ridiculous excuse for a skirt was riding up. Any higher and he’d be able to see the cleft of her ass. Recalling the feel of those shapely curves in his palms made his shaft stiffen with a swift heat.
Though he hadn’t slept in weeks, he wouldn’t with Melanthe near, for fear of what he might do to her. Over his adult life, every single one of his dreams had featured her—him doing things to her.
Sometimes he’d wake to find himself thrusting against the sheets, the pillow, his fist—anything to ease the pressure his body continued to struggle with.
Culminating like that was considered a disgrace for a mated male. Releasing anywhere outside his mate’s sex was taboo, a waste of a precious resource.
Soon he wouldn’t have to worry about such things. Once he wed her, he’d wake to find himself thrusting between her thighs.
In mere days, they’d be back in the Skye. Within his home, he’d take her to his bed—a Bed of Troth.
Craftsmen had begun carving it for him on the day of his birth, a practice that wasn’t unusual among the more stable Lorean species. For Vrekeners, this lifelong bed was considered hallowed. By law, it was the one place he could claim her.
Just that act would marry him and Melanthe. They’d be officially bound, and—with the gods’ favor—expecting.
But now he had another urgent reason to return to his home. If what she said was true and his knights had acted outside his specific orders not to hurt either sister, Thronos was going to rain down punishment.
Melanthe had once sent Thronos crashing to his doom. Years later, had they done the same to Sabine?
Not for justice. But for vengeance. The master I now serve.
Sabine had killed the sovereign of their species, his own father; Thronos could almost accept the idea of assassinating her, their vow notwithstanding.
But to target Melanthe?
It made no sense. In one thing she was correct: if he accepted Melanthe’s version of events, then his beliefs would be turned inside out.
He would investigate thoroughly, keeping her under close guard. For her safety. And ours.
How was he going to control her powers without that collar . . . ?
Thronos rolled his head on his neck to loosen the knotted muscles there. Though he should be exhausted, he was wired. Yes, he was alert to danger, feeling less than secure in this place, but it was more.
That weird feeling of expectancy hit him then, along with an easing within him. Even as constant desire for Melanthe racked him, he was feeling more nonchalant about consequences. He found himself less concerned about missteps and offendments.
Which could prove ruinous with the temptation sleeping not ten feet from him.
Were these changes because of her or this place? Both?
So what would happen to him after six more days here with Melanthe? Perhaps he should head out tomorrow and scout for an alternative portal.
He heard her sigh in sleep. Without waking, she turned on her side to face him, displaying ample cle**age.
When he could drag his gaze from her br**sts, his eyes followed the seam of her lithe thighs all the way up to the shadow beneath her skirt. He shifted uncomfortably as his length grew even harder.
Conclusion: the decision to wed her is sound.
He recalled that Feveris comment she’d made earlier. Thronos had been startled by his reaction. He’d imagined them bespelled with lust, and he’d longed for it.
In Feveris, he would be incapable of denying her, unable to follow the Vrekener law of marriage before touching, kissing, or claiming. They’d have no urge to leave that place, content just to mate . . . and mate . . . and mate . . .
He barely stopped himself from stroking his aching member. He knew better than to entertain these imaginings—because Vrekener law left him no recourse for his condition.
Not yet allowed to touch her body, or ever to pleasure his own.
Despite this, he wondered what would happen if he woke her with another forbidden kiss.
At the thought of her opening up to him—her red lips and smooth thighs parting—his shaft began to throb for relief.
Though inexperienced, he believed he could move her past any hesitations—because so many males had done so before him. And more, she’d admitted to a year of celibacy. For the duration of her imprisonment, he doubted she’d enjoyed any release whatsoever, just as he hadn’t.
She’d likely melt for him.
Plus, if he wasn’t mistaken, his mate was in season. At his earlier mention of children, he thought her eyes had briefly softened. Might his mate truly yearn for her own brood?
And thus his seed?
The idea of planting himself deep inside her sheath and breaking his seal put him into a lather. Especially now when she was fertile and needing. He had to bite back a groan.
Must get her to a Bed of Troth.
He turned from her to ram his horns against the wall. He grunted in pain; when had they become so sensitive? His vision briefly blurred, and he could swear he’d read words among the incomprehensible glyphs:
SACRIFICE THE PURE, WORSHIP THE MIGHTY, BEHOLD A TEMPLE UNEQUALED.
He jerked back. No, that wasn’t possible. Though Thronos knew several languages, Demonish—especially primitive Demonish—was not among them.
There must be something in the air, making his vision play tricks on him. This place is getting to me. Even now the reasons he couldn’t touch his mate grew dimmer.
He shook his head hard, attention easily returning to her. Her eyes darted behind her lids, her shoulders twitching. Was she always this fitful a sleeper? His first impulse was to take her into his wings. His second impulse was to take her into his arms, into his hands.
But he wouldn’t. Though he now believed she was innocent of the worst of the crimes at Castle Tornin, she was still a liar and a thief who’d bedded scores of men. Already she had him doubting his own knights, who were epitomes of honor and forthrightness.
How could Thronos desire someone he’d long detested? He’d be damned if he valued her when she didn’t value herself. He knew one thing that would cool his need like an ice storm, a memory that made his hatred seethe.
He’d been eighteen, closer to finding her than he’d been since the fall. Accompanied by his brother, Aristo, the new king of the Territories, Thronos had followed her sorcery to a hamlet, one sitting low between mountains, nearly hidden from the skies.
Though that night was centuries distant, he remembered each detail as if they’d been branded into his mind.
FIFTEEN
Lanthe woke, going from deep sleep to instant awareness.
How long had she been out? She tested her tongue . . . almost healed.
Even as weary as she’d been, she was surprised she’d slept. The siren call of gold still plagued her. Not to mention that a Vrekener hovered nearby.
He was presently limping/pacing. Had he rested at all?
Feigning sleep, she cracked her lids like the sneaky sorceress that she was.
His gaze was distant, eyes flickering silver. What was he thinking about? Perhaps he had lowered some of his blocks, and she could probe his thoughts.
Delving, delving—
In. His blocks were down!
Thronos was recollecting some distant memory from when he was a teenager. He’d been walking with another Vrekener, one around the same age who resembled him somewhat.
Oh, yes, she’d seen that male before, had a long and storied history with him.
She swallowed, spying as Thronos’s memory played on. . . .
Anticipation burned inside him. After years of searching, he’d scented his mate the minute he and Aristo had arrived in this valley. Hastening down a winding lane, he glanced up at every window.
“I still don’t understand your eagerness to reunite with her,” Aristo said, following him. “Every limping step I took and every league flown in agony would fill me with rage. How can you forgive her?”
Because Thronos had put himself in her shoes to understand that night. “She was only a little girl. Her parents had just been decapitated, her beloved sister killed.”
“As they should have been. The parents threatened Lore secrecy with their palpable sorcery outlays, and the sister murdered our father the king!”
Aristo thinks exactly like him.
“Why do you believe your mate will forgive you?”
“If I tell her how Father truly found out about the abbey, she’ll know I was blameless.” When they passed a tavern with a large window, Thronos spied his reflection, scowling at the scars.
Aristo caught his reaction. “She’d promised to be a little beauty, hadn’t she?”
“Yes. So?” Thronos knew she would be the most comely female he’d ever seen. She had already been. He’d spent endless hours imagining what she would look like now.
“Sorceri are fickle creatures, brother. In addition to all the pain between you, it might be that she forsakes you for your looks. Have you thought of that?”
Of course. Every time he saw his reflection. “She’s my mate; we’re fated, and she felt it too.” That last day, when she’d turned to him so sweetly and sighed—
“Mayhap you merely need to copulate?”
He did. With Melanthe. Gods, how he did! But Thronos had waited this long; somehow he’d wait the two more years until she turned eighteen and could be claimed. Twenty-four more months by Vrekener law. It seemed like an eternity, especially with the way his curiosity and lusts had been building.
He wondered if any other eighteen-year-old male could possibly think about intercourse as much as he did.
“I fear you set yourself up for disappointment,” Aristo said.
“So you think I should give her up, without even trying? Just forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”
His brother hadn’t found his mate, and likely wouldn’t for decades, if not centuries. Thronos had been an anomaly to find his so young.
“Then explain it to me.”
“Melanthe is”—everything missing from my life—“my ideal female.” She wasn’t thus because she was faultless, but because he adored even her faults. He didn’t just want her; he needed her. They were each halves of a greater whole.
Why was that so difficult for others to understand? “She’s mine,” he said simply.
“We’re at war with them,” Aristo couldn’t resist pointing out.
“Then mayhap we shouldn’t be. . . .” He trailed off, homing in on her. “The building at the end of the lane,” he said over his shoulder, already hurrying forward. “There’s a dwelling above.”
Heartbeat pounding, he alighted on the windowsill. Melanthe! She was in a bed asleep. Holding his breath, he crept inside.
A sharp exhalation left him. Melanthe was a woman now.
He greedily took in every new detail. He’d known she would grow to be lovely, but she was beyond his wildest fantasies. Her lashes were thick against her pale face, her black hair a silken cloud around her head. The sheet gathered at her waist, allowing him to see the swells of her br**sts beneath her filmy nightgown.
The generous swells.
Her ni**les strained against the thin material.
To see her like this made his heart twist in his chest—and blood pool in his groin. He no longer felt his old injuries.
To see her like this, he could forgive her anything.
How am I to wait two years?
He’d had no idea what to say or do once he finally found her. Now the answer was startlingly clear: sit beside her on the bed, wake her with a caress, and explain the truth of that night to her.
He hated the pain he was about to bring her, knew she would feel guilt for her actions. But he had to clear the air between them—
An older vampire traced into the room, carrying bottles of wine. Thronos tensed to attack, to protect his mate.
“Lanthe, I’m back,” the male said, unaware of him, gone motionless in the shadows.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes with a smile. “Marco.”
The vampire Marco smelled of her. And she . . . of him.
Thronos was frozen, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Melanthe was too young to be bedding anyone!
His senses were mistaken.
The vampire caught sight of him then, eyes going wide. Both males leapt for her, but the leech traced, reaching her first. He teleported Melanthe across the room.
She blinked in astonishment. “You?”
“Who the hell is this?” the vampire demanded.
Thronos found his voice. “Melanthe, I need to speak—”
“He’s an enemy,” she interrupted. “One I’d hoped never to see again.”
“As you wish, sweet.” The vampire traced them away.
“Nooo!” Thronos bellowed.
To be this close! Frenzied, he scanned the room for some clue to where she might have been taken. He would find her again!