The Golden Dynasty

Chapter Five Getting A Few Things Straight

I sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed waiting for my king to come home.

I had spent most of the day with Diandra.

That morning, I had gotten out of bed and Diandra had called for my robe, or my lornya, as they called it. It was long, had slits up the side, was sleeveless and was made of the finest light blue silk I’d ever seen.

While I ate (creamy yogurt, sweet dried fruit and some kind of grain all mixed together, it was actually quite tasty) and drank coffee (the only good thing so far, the savages had coffee, though the milk they had to put in it tasted slightly tangy), Diandra chatted to me about Seerim, her three sons (all, she bragged openly, in training to be warriors, her first, she bragged scarily, had already made his “first kill”) and her one daughter (“He would deny it, he is proud of his warrior sons, but Sheena is Seerim’s favorite,” she said), my women (I refused to call them slaves) carted in a big, oval copper tub with one side swayed back and filled it with buckets of steaming water. Then they poured some milky substance in it, some oil, swirled it around and dropped flower petals on top.

After I was finished eating, three of them guided me to the warm, fragrant bath and Diandra went to some trunks in the corner with the dark skinned woman (Teetru was her name and Diandra confirmed that, since she once had the charge of a Maroo princess (Maroo being Teetru’s homeland), she therefore had experience with serving “royalty” and she was their boss of sorts). I tried to protest but they refused to accept as they bathed me and washed my hair in a bath that smelled vaguely of spice, vaguely of musk and not-so-vaguely of orange blossoms.

I had to admit, it was nice. It was weird, but it was nice.

Once bathed, they clothed me in an outfit Teetru and Diandra chose. A sarong woven with gold thread shot with white and turquoise blue with a hint of silver. This was attached to a wide, braided belt of thick turquoise, white and gold threads with thin gold chains plaited through. My breasts were wrapped in a turquoise bandeau bikini top. Added to this were gold bands at my biceps, a necklace that was a fall of intricate gold chains with tiny, blinking aquamarine stones and chandelier earrings of the same.

Best of all, they gave me a pair of turquoise silk underwear. Actual underwear. They fit snug in the ass and the silk had no give but I didn’t care. I wanted to do cartwheels because I… had… underwear.

And, okay, it sucked to admit but there was no way around it. The outfit was freaking great. Everything about it was amazing. The material, the colors, the jewels, they freaking rocked.

And since I had nothing (so far) but coffee to be happy about, I was not going to berate myself for being happy about my cool-as-shit clothes.

I had to hang onto something, didn’t I?

They sat me down and put eye shadow and kohl on my eyes and a gooey, tasty stuff tinted pink on my lips. They also brushed out my hair, dipping their fingers in a clay pot with more goo and gliding it through my hair, twisting it in long coils then securing it back from my face with a succession of little gold pins with aquamarine stones at the end (almost but not quite like bobby pins) that went from ear, over the top of my head, to ear.

Diandra took one look at me when I was done and smiled with happy approval, stating, “Your king showers great bounty on you. This is very good.”

I stared at her.

Bounty. Right.

Whatever.

Then out we went into the camp.

And it was, mostly, a camp. A bunch of tents with firepits out front, some had tables at the side of the tent with primitive looking cooking stuff on it, big buckets resting beside them and other tools like axes and hatchets and the like. Some had smaller tents around them which Diandra told me were where slaves slept or where food and supplies were kept and meals prepared (around my tent, we had one of both).

There were a lot of torches stuck in the ground on the pathways which I knew from the night of the parade but also from seeing it hit the side of the king’s tent were lit at night. The only official area, as it were, was the dais which I noticed now was roughly carved from a huge, wide, long, cream slab of stone, the area in front of it deep and wide, made up of the same stone. A firepit did, indeed, run the length of the back with two pits at the top, though while we wandered the camp, these were not lit mostly, I guessed, because it was sunny and, I knew, it was stinking hot. The drums, incidentally, the big ones and small ones, were still set up.

And there were people. Lots of them. All of them looked at me and many of them smiled, many of them nodded, many of them looked happy to see me. Some of them, however, looked at me with interest or intensity, not exactly happy – cautious, I figured, undecided. And a few avoided my eyes.

This, I didn’t get. I also didn’t dwell. I had enough to dwell on.

Diandra chattered on and she tucked my hand in her elbow and kept me close as we walked. She informed me this was only a camp, not a settlement, The Horde was nomadic. They came to this location for the Wife Hunt every two years and the warrior selections, three times a year. They had homes, of sorts, in some Korwahk city but they visited them infrequently during their roaming although, she explained, they did settle in them for two months over the winter.

She told me tents were called chams. She told me shahsha was thank you. She told me poyah was hello.

“What does me ahnoo mean?” I asked after the words the king had spoken to the cruel warrior and she looked at me, her brows up.

“Me ahnoo?” she asked back.

“The king said, ‘Kah Dahksahna me ahnoo,’ to that warrior he threw off the dais during the wedding rite. What does that mean?”

She patted my hand in the crook of her elbow, looked forward and smiled. “It means, my dear, ‘my queen does not like’.”

“What?” I asked.

She looked back at me. “He told Dortak that you do not like… in other words, you did not like what he was doing to his bride. And, I will add, not many of us did. Definitely not the peasants, merchants, slaves or wives and, I’m certain, many of the warriors.” She bobbed her head at me. “You made that clear, even though you do not speak their tongue, it was plain for all to see you didn’t like what he was doing. He was challenging you by continuing to do it even though you told him not to. It is, in truth, not a woman’s place to command a warrior, even if that woman is queen.” She looked forward and I got the sense she was avoiding my eyes when she went on. “Sometimes,” she paused, “I will admit, the wedding rite can get lewd, the warriors get wound-up, if a battle is mightily fought to claim a bride, they need to expend some energy and sometimes do so in…” she paused again then finished cautiously, “unsavory ways.”

Fabulous.

Diandra carried on after looking at me again. “But you are not just any queen. You are King Lahn’s Lahnahsahna. But more, you are the Dax’s golden warrior queen. You made a command. It went unheeded. The king acted to make Dortak adhere to your command.” Her fingers squeezed mine. “It was a bold statement. This is not done. In saying simply that you do not like, but in punishing Dortak before all, he was telling his people you rule at his side.” She grinned at me. “It was very sweet and very uncharacteristic… of a warrior, of a king but especially of Dax Lahn. He, my dear, is not normally sweet. Seerim was even shocked.” She looked away and muttered, “A sight to see. A good one.”

I looked forward too and these words moved through me. I wasn’t certain I believed he was sweet, that would take a lot of convincing. But she had told me he’d bragged about me to his people and he had acted on my wishes to stop that girl from continuing to be defiled publicly.

Not to mention, he made it clear I ruled at his side.

I supposed that was nice.

“That warrior’s name is Dortak?” I asked because I needed a change of subject, pronto.

She nodded, didn’t look at me but her face lost its friendliness. I still saw it, even in profile.

“Dortak. A bad seed. As was his father before him and, as Seerim’s father tells me, his father before him. He covets the throne of horns. They all did. He will challenge the Dax.”

My body started at this pronouncement. “But King Lahn tossed him bodily down a flight of steps,” I reminded her.

She looked back at me. “I said he was a bad seed, Dahksahna Circe,” she leaned in and grinned, “but I did not say he was a clever bad seed.”

I knew what she was saying.

“The king will defeat him,” I whispered and she looked forward again murmuring, “Without doubt.”

“This Dortak tried to claim me, the Dax severed his chain and –” I stopped talking when she abruptly halted us and her eyes snapped to my face.

“He severed his chain?” she whispered.

“Uh… yeah,” I confirmed.

“Oh my,” she breathed.

“What?” I asked.

“Oh my,” she breathed again and her eyes had a faraway look in them.

I shook her arm and hissed, “What, Diandra?” and her eyes focused on me.

“Warriors battle for their brides, as you know, my dear, and there are very few rules with anything to do with any fight, indeed anything to do with The Horde or the Korwahk nation, but the warriors of The Horde do honor their brothers. Although it is not unheard of for things to get out of hand and one warrior kill another for his bride, or, perhaps, deliver a wound that will eventually kill or one that festers and brings the warrior low. But this is very infrequent. Because of this, there are other whispers around the Daxshee, not just those about you. These other whispers are about Dortak and the Hunt. It is known that Dortak took the life of a warrior for the bride he was claiming. I just did not know it was you. Was it you?”

I nodded and whispered, “It was me.”

Her eyes went soft as she realized what I witnessed then she carried on. “This has not been taken positively as the warrior he brought low was well-liked and Dortak is not. Although the kill was not witnessed, because of his reputation many believe that it was not due to both warriors descending into bloodlust as the battle raged on but that he did not give the fallen warrior the opportunity to surrender before he delivered his killing blow.”

I didn’t know if this was true or not. I hadn’t been paying that much attention mainly because I was freaked right the fuck out.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know enough about this stuff to know if he gave that guy an opportunity to give up or not. And, I have to say, I honestly wasn’t taking much in, I had other things on my mind,” I told her.

She gave me an understanding smile and said softly, “Of course not, my dear.” Then she took in a deep breath and went on, “That said, although there are few rules, like I mentioned, there is also honor and you do not sever a chain. Never. It is a slap in the face. An insult. It says you hold no respect for the other warrior. If a warrior has attached their chain to you the other warrior battles until that warrior is beaten, surrenders or has fallen and only then can they detach their chain and hook their own to their chosen bride. To sever the chain is to say you feel the battle will be won before it is even started. It’s actually worse than a slap in the face. It is akin to spitting in it.” She looked away and started us walking again. “Another bold statement,” she kept talking quietly, “King Lahn is forcing a challenge, I see. He grows impatient with Dortak. He wants him defeated.”

“But, if that’s true, why didn’t he kill him when he challenged him for me?” I asked.

“Because, my dear,” she patted my hand again and kept walking, “that would bear no witnesses. He will wait for Dortak’s challenge so he can humiliate him before all. He wants that shame to be the last thing he feels before the Dax takes his head.”

Oh God.

Takes his head?

Oh God!

At that, I decided I was done talking.

Diandra didn’t and chattered away as we walked through the encampment then she walked me back to my tent. Then she spoke to my women who hurried off to do whatever it was that they did. Not long after, bunches of large, square pillows, some with fringe all around, some with tassels at the four ends, some with no adornment, all silk, satin or brocade and all in rich colors, were arranged on some thick hides on the dusty stone around our tent and we reclined in the cool (ish) shade of the tent as the women brought us flat bread, strong cheese, dried, spiced meat, almonds and crisp, fresh, deliciously cold (if it can be believed) fruit juice.

I couldn’t say I was comfortable being waited on while lounging and five women rushed to answer my every unspoken whim. What I could say was that that particular conversation with the Dax was for some future time, if I was still around at that time (which, God, I hoped I was not) and if I ever decided I intended to try to speak to the brute.

A lot of people passed our tent as Diandra babbled at me and I part listened but mostly I tried to figure out what to do next. After awhile, it occurred to me that it was unlikely that many people passed the Dax’s tent on a normal day and it was much more likely that they’d come to check me out.

This made me feel weird, on show and I didn’t like it but then again, I didn’t like a lot of things so I kept my peace, kept my lounge and listened to Diandra talk.

In late afternoon, promising to come back the next day and take me to the marketplace bringing her daughter Sheena with her, Diandra left me.

And when she did I realized I’d forgotten to ask after Narinda and the evil (and apparently stupid) Dortak’s unlucky bride.

And after she left, I lay on the pillows noting that my women were busy bustling around doing whatever they were doing. But whatever they were doing, they were doing it no longer looking anxious but happy, smiling at each other while working and chattering.

I watched them and smiled whenever they caught my eye. They smiled back.

They seemed like nice ladies.

Shit, if I didn’t wake up home soon, I was probably going to have to get to know them and figure out what to do about them. But one thing I knew, whatever this world was or my place in it, I was not going to own slaves.

Then I sighed, fiddled with the tassel of a pillow, tried to sort my head out and smiled at anyone who passed by who smiled at me. I also nodded to anyone who caught my eye. And I took the lovely, pink flower from a little girl who dashed up and handed it to me, murmuring, “Shahsha, honey,” as I took it. She giggled and rushed back to her beaming mother.

It was after a dinner of roasted, spiced meat, more flat bread and potatoes cooked in onions that I took at the table in the tent when I decided what I was going to do.

And it was after my women – Jacanda (petite, chubby and seemingly outgoing), Packa (also petite, not chubby and somewhat shy), Gaal (tall, thin and quiet but not in a shy way, a careful, watchful one that made me slightly uneasy) and Beetus (tall, skinny, the youngest I was guessing, mostly because she looked it but was also extremely giggly in a way I almost, almost found infectious) – washed my face, slathered it with heavenly smelling stuff they gouged out of clay bowl, stuff that made my skin feel divine, took off my jewels and clothes and ran their fingers through my hair to pull out the gunked up twists. Then they helped me don an actual nightgown made of pale pink satin (no joke, a nightgown, it, like the robe, had slits up the side, thin straps, the skirt to the ankle, it fit snug at the boobs and hips but it, like the outfit I wore that day, was awesome). They tried to take my turquoise undies but I flatly refused and after a brief verbal tussle that made no sense to any of us, they gave in, murmured words that I took as goodnight and left me alone.

So I climbed in the bed, sat cross-legged in the middle of it, pulled the silk sheet up to my lap and waited for my warrior king to come home so I could carry forth my plan to get a few very important things straight.

And I waited.

Night had fallen and I was usually asleep by the time he returned so after I waited for awhile I figured I was in for a long one.

So I looked around the tent, having been in it for days, I was seeing it for the first time.

The bed was smack in the middle on a painted blue wooden platform that was probably one foot tall. There was a mattress, I knew, what it was made of, I didn’t know but it was thick, tall and soft. It was covered in heavy hides that were also soft, warm and comfy (the day was hot, the sun shone brightly, but when it dropped, it got cold). This was covered in a heavy, light blue silk sheet (which didn’t do much to ward off the cold, I had discovered, so it was lucky we slept on the fluffy hides). The pillows didn’t have cases, they were square or rectangular and, like the big cushions the girls had set outside for Diandra and me, they were silk, satin and brocade, no tassels or fringe and not in rich colors but in pastels.

There were heavy-looking trunks lining the circular tent on one side, all wood, all carved, all with latches with strong looking locks hanging from them. Some of them were inlaid with what looked like mother of pearl. Some of them surrounded by sturdy-looking black iron.

On the other side of the tent, a narrow, rectangular wood table, also carved, two chairs at each end, ladderback, cushions on the seats with tassels. There were silver and copper candlesticks with candles (now burning) of all shapes, sizes and widths that scattered the top. And against that side of the tent beyond the table, two short, square chests with latticework doors and brass latches. In one, I could see a variety of small to medium-sized clay pots and in the other there was what looked like pottery or enameled clay plates, bowls and jugs plus silverware that I already knew was used at the table.

At the back of the tent, a three panel screen made of wood with a light green gauze hiding what was behind it from view. This was where the chamber pot was.

Close to the entrance flaps, a small bed of hides that was at least three feet tall, one hide stacked on top of the other, a bunch of cushions at its head, a squat, carved, small round table also at its head, also covered in candlesticks of all shapes and sizes. A place, maybe, to read (if they had books in this hellhole) or lounge.

There were more tall candleholders, dozens of them; these wrought iron, scrolled, all holding thick candles and dotted around the room, lit. A number of them circled the bed, not close, not far and at what seemed like random places.

The stone ground was covered with thick, woven rugs with rough designs on them. They were, I’d experienced, slightly abrasive on your feet but they were a heckuva lot better than the stone.

I studied the space.

With night having fallen, the candlelight dancing, the silks and satins gleaming, the torchlight from outside glowing against the sides of the tent, I noted that in my world, this would be an exotic and romantic setting. Comfortable. Inviting you to relax, lounge and, if you were lucky enough to be with someone who mattered, engage in other activities that were a little more energetic and a lot more fun.

So it sucked that for me this tent, this whole world, was my torture chamber.

On that thought, the flap to the tent slapped back. I jumped and my determination to get a few things straight slipped as I watched the Dax bend low and enter the tent.

I sucked in breath.

He straightened, walked in two steps and stopped, his dark eyes on me.

Gone was the paint, he hadn’t painted himself since that night.

But still, he scared the shit out of me. I forgot how dark he was, how sinister, how savage and how huge. It couldn’t be said the tent was enormous but it was the biggest tent I’d ever seen and there was room to move, room to breathe.

With him standing in it, his forceful energy invading, his huge, powerful body on display, his brown skin gleaming in the candlelight, the tent seemed tiny.

Another direct hit to my determination.

He moved toward the foot of the bed and as he made it there, I threw up a hand and stated firmly, “Stop.”

He stopped. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me as he moved and he didn’t then, not even to look at my hand.

“You and me,” I went on, pulling up the courage to speak to him, the first words I’d said to him since that awful night, I gestured between his big body and my own, “we need to talk.”

He stared at me.

I pointed between us again then lifted my hand and flapped my fingers in lame sign language to indicate talking, “Talk. You and I are going to talk.”

He looked at my hand then back at me but he didn’t speak nor did his impassive expression change.

All right, moving on.

I pointed to myself. “My name is Circe.”

Nothing.

I leaned in and repeated slowly, “Cir… ce.”

More nothing.

I pointed to him, “You are King Lahn. Dax Lahn.” I pointed to myself. “I am Queen Circe. Dahksahna Circe.”

His hands went to his hips and I tensed but they just rested there. He still did not speak nor did he tear his dark brown eyes from mine.

Hmm. I had to assume he got that and sally forth.

“We,” I gestured between him and myself again, “have to get a few things straight.” I had no gesture for that and knew he would have no way of knowing what that meant. Then I pointed to the bed. “Here and…” I pointed to the flaps of the tent, “out there, you and I have to sort our shit out.”

His hands moved at his hips, my eyes dropped there and I saw he had yanked some hide ties loose.

Oh shit.

My body tensed and my eyes flew to his. “You and me,” more gesturing, “need to find a way to come together.” I clasped my hands together in front of me.

His hands moved lower down the sides of his hips and he pulled more ties so his hides loosened at his waist.

Shit!

“Okay,” I said softly, scooting back, “this is exactly what we have to get straight.”

Another set of ties loosened and his hides fell to the ground.

He was already ready to take me.

Shit!

I scooted back to the pillows at the head of the bed and lifted a hand up toward him. “Before we… carry on, we have to find a way to talk. Understand each other.”

His eyes dropped to where I was kneeling on the pillows then he turned, stepped free of his hides and calmly strode around the bed.

Fuck. Fuck. Shit!

He made it nearly to the corner of the bed at the head, completely casual about his erect nudity, something which I was not casual about because the man was huge and this meant all of him and I was not liking where any of this was going.

I scuttled to the foot of the bed and kept trying. “Please stop, sit and try to listen to me.” I pointed at him then cupped my hand at my ear and then pointed at myself.

He changed directions and strode back around the bed.

I scampered to the middle of it, my arm out, palm up to him. “Please,” I begged on a whisper.

Mistake. Colossal mistake.

His arm snaked out so fast it was a blur. His fingers wrapped around my wrist and with a forceful tug that wrenched my shoulder and made me cry out, I was across the bed and up, my torso plastered to his, my legs dangling, feet skimming the bed and his arms were around me, caging me in.

I tipped my head back to look in dark eyes that were gazing down at me. Then I curled my fingers into the hard, warm muscle at his shoulders, exerting enough pressure hopefully to make my point and I whispered over my hammering heart, “Please, Lahn, listen to me.”

He didn’t listen to me. Oh no. He didn’t do that.

He shifted his torso so my legs swung to the side then he fell forward, his mammoth weight landing on me.

I was winded but I was not beaten.

That, that right there, was why we needed to get things straight.

I arched my back, shoved at his shoulders and shouted, “Seriously, big guy, we need… to get… a few things… straight!”

His hand trailed my side then went between our bodies.

I lost it.

On a frustrated, furious cry, I struggled.

This surprisingly worked. I managed to push him back, slide out from under him and nearly gain the side of the bed before I was caught at the waist and pulled back.

I whirled and fought.

I managed to use my nails to score his skin, opening up two thin, short streaks that beaded instantly with blood just under his shoulder and that shoulder rocked back as I froze in shock that I’d managed to wound him. Then he gave me his full weight, tipped his head down to look at the scratches and, fuck me, when he looked back at me there was something in his eyes I did not like and whatever that something was made him grin like he was supremely pleased.

Shit!

I unfroze and again gave it my all, just like that heinous night, grunting with the effort.

The problem was, even with the bastard knowing he was bigger than me, stronger than me, he gave it his all too and it became clear that if I wasn’t smart, and fast, he’d break bones if he had to.

God, I hated him.

And when he’d maneuvered me to my knees, my back to him, my wrists held in one of his fists pinned unmoving to my chest and I knew what was next, I reared back my head and shouted it.

“God, I hate you!”

His free hand slid along the silk at my belly and his mouth went to my neck.

“Kah Lahnahsahna,” he muttered.

I jerked (to no avail) in his arms, and screamed, “Stop calling me that!”

His fingers curled in, fisting the material at my belly, bunching it up and when he had it all up, his hand moved down.

I froze.

“Kah Dahksahna,” he whispered against my neck.

“Fuck you! I’m not your queen!” I snapped, my hips finally moving to avoid the path of his hand.

“Kah rahna Dahksahna,” he murmured and his hand slid into my panties.

My hips stopped moving.

“God,” I whispered on a jerk of my arms that did nothing to loosen his hold, “I freaking hate you.”

His fingers glided between my legs.

And that was when it hit me his touch wasn’t clinical. It wasn’t removed. He wasn’t shoving me face first into the bed and taking me from behind like I was nothing but a warm vessel to receive his seed.

His touch was gentle, light, soft.

Oh shit.

His finger glided light as a whisper over my clit.

Oh shit!

“Lahn,” I whispered.

“Lahn,” he repeated, pushing his hips into my back as his finger started to circle in what was very clearly a caress. And dear God, I couldn’t believe it but it was a nice one. It was a sweet one. And my body, damn it all, recognized it as such.

What on earth was happening?

“Please.” I kept whispering.

“Please,” he repeated after me again, still circling his finger with a gentle touch.

“Don’t,” I begged.

“Don’t,” he repeated and my eyes closed slowly.

God, was this happening to me? After all he’d done, was this really happening to me?

His finger asserted just a wee bit more pressure.

My head automatically fell back to his shoulder as a tiny spiral of pleasure unfurled in my belly.

Yep, this was happening to me.

I jerked my hands again, whispering, “I won’t.”

“I won’t,” he whispered back and his deep, rumbling whisper spiraled through me too.

His finger started circling faster, a little harder, a lot better.

God.

I turned my head, his lifted and I pressed my forehead into his neck and I fought against that spiral of pleasure that was unfurling. But I didn’t win. It unfurled, then it grew, then it spread.

“Lahn,” I breathed as the continued workings of his fingers forced the last bits of tension from my body.

“Lahn,” he murmured and circled faster.

Oh, that felt nice.

“Circe,” I whispered.

His hand at my wrists tightened, pulling them into me as his finger pressed deeper.

“Circe,” he whispered and my hips bucked.

Yes. I liked that.

“Circe,” I said again and he pressed his hardness into my back and circled even faster.

“Circe,” he repeated softly and I whimpered as that spiral in my belly whirled out-of-control.

“Yes,” I breathed.

I felt his lips a whisper from mine.

“Yes,” he muttered.

Oh God.

My hips moved with his hand, grinding down, seeking more from his finger and he didn’t keep it from me. He gave it to me and I took it, I reached for it, and it started coming.

My eyes flew open and when they did, his dark ones, not looking detached, not blank, not impassive, but heated and turned on and God, could it be? Totally freaking sexy.

His finger pressed deeper and circled faster.

Oh yes.

I gasped, “Lahn!”

“Circe,” he whispered against my lips, I drew in a ragged breath and moaned against his as I came. Hard.

And while I was doing this, he let me go and shoved me down into the bed, ass in the air. He pulled the panel of my nightgown up, ripped my panties away, separated my legs with his knees and drove inside.

My head flew back.

Oh yeah. Hell yeah.

“Yes,” I breathed, without a thought, my body thinking for me, I reared back into his thrusts.

He leaned forward, reached around and cupped my breast in a rough hand as he pounded into me, jerking my hips back with his other hand.

“Kah Lahnahsahna,” he growled.

“Oh yeah,” I moaned.

His fingers found my nipple and tugged, that hard tug slashing through me like a hot knife, trailing fire. “Kah Lahnahsahna.”

“Kah Lahnahsahna,” I whimpered, pushing back, meeting him thrust for thrust.

His hand left my breast and both spanned my hips, hauling me back, giving me all of him and I took it, invited it, stretched for it.

Amazing.

So amazing, my head flew back again and my arms reached out straight.

He saw it, reached forward, his hand circled my throat, he pulled me up to my hands and kept driving into me, his hand gliding up to cup me under my jaw. The hold was gentle, tender even. And it was possessive, claiming.

King Lahn was fucking his queen.

Oh shit, fuck me, but I liked that too. All of it, every inch of him pounding into me, his hand at my jaw, me on my hands and knees before him.

I liked it so much, my back arched, my head tilted further back and I came again. Harder. Crying out loudly, it was that fucking good.

I heard him growl then his hands went to my ribs, yanking me back, pounding savagely now, he kept at me until he drove in deep and his groan of release was nearly as loud as mine.

Shit. Holy shit.

Shit!

He moved slowly, in and out, as his hand slid around my ribs. He kept moving, leaning forward, his hands moving up, cupping my breasts. Then carefully, he lifted my torso up so I was straight, impaled on his cock, he was so long my knees didn’t hit the bed, only his cock and hands supported me.

Dear God.

One hand crossed over to the other breast and held on while his other hand went to our connection where his fingers slid in, his palm cupping my sex.

Then his mouth was at my ear.

“Circe, kah rahna Dahksahna. Circe, kah Lahnahsahna,” he growled in my ear, his voice a fierce rumble, his words a declaration.

“Um…” I whispered, “okay.”

Shit! What else could I do?

He emitted another growl that slithered across my skin like silk then I felt his tongue move from the back of my ear, down my neck to my shoulder.

At this, my body trembled in a full on shiver.

Then he lifted me off him, turned me roughly, shoved me to my back in the bed and then he came down on top of me.

I barely got a chance to adjust to my new position before he twisted, reached down, yanked the sheet up to our waists then came back to me. He hauled me nearly fully under him, tangled his heavy legs with mine, his arm curving almost fully around my body, his face at the side of my head, his mouth at my temple.

I felt his weight settle into mine and I lay immobile, waiting.

Um. I wasn’t sure. Did we get things straight?

When he said nothing and his breath evened out, I called, “Lahn?”

His arm gave me a powerful squeeze. “Trahyoo,” he ordered firmly but softly.

Definitely an order though I had no idea what he said.

“Uh… okay,” I whispered and got another arm squeeze that took the breath from me.

Time to be quiet.

I stared into the candlelit tent.

All right, did that just happen?

I felt his breath stir the hair at my temple, his heavy weight, his body’s warmth.

Yep, it just happened.

I needed to go somewhere and think. I needed to figure out how in the hell I let a man I didn’t know, a man who had raped me seven times (essentially), a man I didn’t like, make me come twice.

I needed to get away from him.

His weight settled more firmly into mine at the same time his arm tightened.

He was asleep. His arm tightened around me in his sleep.

Damn.

Okay, I wasn’t going to get away from him.

So, I needed to wake him up and find some way to communicate there was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep with his weight on me.

I figured he wasn’t going to like being woken.

And I was figuring that the second before my eyes drifted closed and I fell asleep with his weight on me.