My back arches as another flood of ecstasy hits, ten times more powerful than what he drew out on the terrace, rippling through me in crashing waves, my cries genuine and raw.
With a muffled curse, he slows, his shoulders tensing, his hands tightening. I feel his hard length pulse and my body welcomes his seed.
He collapses, bracing some of his weight with his elbows so he doesn’t crush me. His hot breath skates across my neck. Surely, he needs my vein. I’ll give it to him.
I’ll give everything to him.
“Impossible,” I whisper into the quiet dark as I stare up at the bed’s canopy.
Atticus’s heavy pants fill my ear. “What is?”
“It never could have felt like this with anyone else. Only with you.”
“I think you are right.” He releases my hands to pull my face to his for a kiss.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
ATTICUS
“Oh, to be a king.” Kazimir’s helm is tucked under his arm, his admiring gaze on Gracen. “Each one of them is more beautiful than the last.”
She sleeps soundly in my bed, her untamed curls sprawled across the pillow, the sheets strategically positioned to cover her mesmerizing body.
“Get out of here before she wakes and finds you hovering over her like a depraved soul.” I shove him through the doorway to my living area, following him out.
He chuckles. “But I am a depraved soul.”
I pull the door shut to not disturb her. “I know that, but she does not need to.”
“Do you not plan on saying goodbye before we head off to war?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, you are running out of time, my friend. We must go. The horses are ready.”
“Soon.” I peer out the windows at the dawn light.
“Have you not recovered?”
“I’m well enough.” I press a hand against my breastplate. The ache is still there, protected beneath armor, but it’s dull and healing, thanks in no small part to Gracen’s ready vein.
Rarely do I wake with a tributary in my bed and never intentionally. But this morning, when Gracen allowed me it, as well as another round of her supple body beneath mine, I was sure I wanted this—her—forever.
That’s not something she wants, though. A truth that stung more than I expected it to when she admitted it upon questioning last night.
“This caster who supposedly saved me last night, is there any hint of her?”
“None. She and Jarek have disappeared without a trace.”
I curse. “Jarek was Abarrane’s second and loyal to Islor without fault. He would not part ways with her, and she would not abandon Zander.” I could never understand that bond, and my brother swears their relationship never crossed boundaries.
“Those two were nowhere to be seen. But whoever this caster was, you can assume she is tied closely to your brother. And if that is the case, then why she didn’t let you die is beyond me, but she has my thanks.”
I don’t even know how to play draughts.
Did I imagine it? No, I’m sure I didn’t.
There is only one person that could relate to.
But it couldn’t be …
Wendeline might know, but it would likely take cruelty to get the answer out of her, something I don’t have time or an appetite for after she healed me last night, again. I’ve seen her weary before, but never unconscious.
I fish out the gold coin from my pocket and drop it in his palm. “Whoever she is, she gave this to Bexley.”
His eyes widen. “Where would this come from?”
“Ulysede.” Maybe I should have told Kazimir about the letter and its contents sooner, but I’ve charged him with enough already. Adding secret cities and prophecy to his plate didn’t seem fair.
A knock sounds on the outer door.
“I’ll fill you in on our journey.” Which we must begin, caster or not within my city walls, if I have any hope of taking back Islor from our enemies. “Enter!”
Corrin sweeps in with a fussing baby in her arms. “Someone is hungry,” she announces, strolling past us, her chin held high. “I assume she is in there?” She pushes through my bedroom door without waiting.
“Please, feel free.” I wave my hand with embellishment.
Kazimir shakes his head. “A royal tributary with a baby. Only you.”
“May I come in?”
Gracen looks up from the baby in her arms, shock splayed across her face. She wears nothing but the bedsheet, pulled up above the mounds of her breasts. “Of course, you may. This is your chamber.” She surveys my polished armor as I approach. I haven’t worn it since the night of the tournament, but it’s like sliding on familiar old boots. Far more comfortable than Islor’s crown. “You are leaving now?”