The first pulse of my seed floods her, and she whimpers against my throat, her inner walls milking me through anorgasm that rolls on and on without end. I gather her against my chest and roll onto my back, settling her weight over me, keeping her impaled on my cock where she belongs.
Sleep claims us both, her body still joined to mine, her breath warm against my throat.
The summons arrives before dawn. A formal notification on my personal comm, my father's seal marking it as a command rather than a request. I read it in the grey light while Maeve still sleeps, her face soft against my pillow, her dark hair spreading across linens that carry both our signatures.
I dress without waking her and leave her in my bed. In my space. My father's office occupies the highest level, a position that commands a view of the canyon's depths and the holdings House Draven has ruled for generations. I enter without announcement, as is my right as heir, and find Lord Vorath Draven standing at the window with his back to the door.
He does not turn when I enter, does not acknowledge my presence beyond a slight stiffening of his shoulders.
“You claimed the female despite my warning.”
Not a question. Not an accusation. A statement of fact.
I do the same. “Yes.”
He turns then, and the weight of his gaze settles over me with a pressure that has not diminished since my childhood. Black eyes in a face carved from the same stone as the canyon, holding no warmth, no softness, nothing but calculating intelligence.
“Your mother was brilliant.” The words fall into the silence. “She made me believe I could have both power and love. She used that belief to betray everything I built.”
“Maeve is not my mother.”
“No. She is a human with a brother in your holding cells and a debt she cannot repay without your indulgence.” He moves toward his desk, each step controlled, unhurried. “She has lived in your territory for eight days. In that time, you have given heraccess to restricted areas, brought her into an investigation that should have remained within the house, and now marked her in a manner that every Draveki in the territory can identify.”
“She has skills we need. The investigation requires...”
“The investigation requires nothing but your attention and the resources of House Draven.” My father's words cut through my words. “You have convinced yourself that her presence is practical, but we both know the truth.” He sits behind his desk, steepling his fingers in a gesture I remember from a hundred childhood lectures. “You would not be carrying her signature upon you if she were merely an asset, and you know exactly what that means.
“If I were your enemy, she would already be in my hands. The Syndicate Council would pay generously for leverage over House Draven's heir. House Korvan would find her useful in their ongoing efforts to expand into our territory. House Sethrak would enjoy the irony of using sentiment to destroy a family that prides itself on ruthlessness.”
“I understand the risks.”
“Do you?” He leans forward, and the intensity in his gaze sharpens to a point. “Then you understand that the appropriate response is to eliminate those risks. Clear her brother's debt. Put her on a transport off-world. Do it before sentiment costs you everything this family has built.”
The predator in me snarls against the cage of my control. Send her away. Remove her from my territory, from my bed, from my life. The rational part of my mind recognizes the logic in his words. The claiming instinct recognizes only threat, only the suggestion that I should surrender what I have marked.
“No.”
My father's expression does not change. He expected this answer, perhaps hoped for it, wanted confirmation that his heir has compromised himself beyond recovery.
“Then you force me to act in your stead.” The words carry no anger, no disappointment, only the practical calculation. “I will not allow your sentiment to endanger House Draven. The human will be removed, one way or another. The only question is whether you will make it easy or difficult.”
“Touch her, and you lose your heir.”
The air between us thickens with the particular tension that precedes violence. My father studies me for a long moment, his black eyes giving nothing away. Then he nods once, a small motion that carries more weight than any words.
“So it has already gone that far.” He rises from his desk, moving toward the window, presenting his back to me in a gesture that might be dismissal or might be trust. “I warned you, Drazex. When you were twelve years old, with your mother's blood still wet on the platform, I told you what love does to males like us. You chose not to listen.”
“I chose to be more than what you made me.”
“You chose weakness.” He does not turn around. “And weakness, in this family, has consequences.”
The threat lands flat. No anger beneath it. No tension in his shoulders. My father delivered his ultimatum with the calm of a male who has already acted and is waiting for the world to catch up.
He's too calm.
“What have you done?”
“I have protected this house. Protected you. In ways you've never had to see.” Now he turns. The satisfaction in his black eyes answers before his mouth does. “I gave you the opportunity to handle this yourself. To send her away and let her believe it was your choice. You could have preserved whatever sentiment exists between you while still protecting this house.”
