"I could have." His mouth curves against my temple.
I feel it, the shape of his almost-smile pressed to my skin. His hand on my stomach shifts, fingers spreading wider, pressing flatter, and a tremor runs through them. Behind me, his breathing has gone slow and controlled. He’s keeping himself very, very still. His heart is hammering. I know because it's beating against my spine. Every thump says something his mouth will not.
"My legs work," I say.
"I know." His voice has dropped into the lower registers, rough-edged, like something scraped raw. He holds me one breath past the point I need holding. His jaw grazes the top of my head, a touch so light it could be accidental. His fingers on my stomach press once more, then release, opening slowly. I step forward in the pool, putting distance between us. When I turn around, his hands are underwater and his expression has smoothed, but his chest is still rising too fast and his eyes track me across the pool. He watches the bride mark on my finger. It lights up, white and bright, the light visible even under the surface.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
I flex my hand. The mark pulses, but there’s no pain. Just heat, and the constant sense of being watched by something.
“No,” I say.
He leans in, his mouth at my ear. “The mate bond sings in my heart. It says you are ready.”
“For what?” My voice shakes.
His teeth graze my lobe. “For mating.” The word should sound clinical. From him, it doesn't.
I bite my lip, hard. The water does nothing to hide the way my body reacts. My nipples go tight, my skin flushes with need. I’m shocked at how quickly I want him. If I feel the mate bond this strongly, he must, also.
He moves behind me, the heat of him pressing close. His hands drift up my arms, careful, mapping muscle and bone. He’s huge, and the water does nothing to soften the impression. My body wants to melt back into him. I make myself stay upright.
“What does your heart say, my wife? Does it answer the mate bond? Or reject it?” He tips my head to the side, exposing my neck. His breath is hotter than the steam, and when he nuzzles the spot just below my ear, I shiver so hard the water ripples.
One of his arms goes around me, cupping my breast gently.
I turn to face him, and the look on his face makes my knees weak.
His hand slides down my back, settling at my waist. He pulls me in, barely touching. His cock is rock hard, more than the tip jutting up out of the water, so close that I want to take it in my hands.
I wouldn’t have to bend far to take him into my mouth. I lick my lips, staring at it. I don’t know where the thought came from.
Rythar groans as his cock twitches. “Elena. I promised this would not be quick. It is hard to concentrate on pleasuring you when you stare at my cock like that.”
I look up at him, wide-eyed.
His eyes are heavy-lidded, but there’s a curiosity to them. “You want to taste me.”
I step onto one of the steps, and he turns, his eyes following me.
I look to the side, avoiding his gaze. “It wouldn’t make a child. It’s not what we’re supposed to do.”
“We areexpectedto do many things. Are you afraid you would not like being my wife?”
I rest my hands on his chest. His skin is hot, rough with scars. I trace one, and he makes a sound—almost a purr. “I think it’s more that I’m afraid I’ll end up wanting to be your wife, but it won’t work out. Maybe I won’t like it, or maybe we just can’t have children together. Most couples don’t conceive.”
“We will conceive,” he says, voice low and precise. “But I will be honest with you, Elena. Xytheos is not a forgiving place. Mistakes are deadly. But there are also many pleasures.”
The sight of him—scarred, perfect, impossibly hard—makes my throat close. I can’t answer him.
I nod, but my skin prickles. “And if I don’t want it?”
His jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly. “I will offer you the choice.” He watches my face without blinking. “There are other ways. You can conceive without the bond. Without sex.” The words seem to scrape his throat. “It would satisfy the Council,” he says. “It would silence questions about my control over you.”
I stare at him, numb. Silence questions, he said. Not answer them. “I would just be a breeding vessel.”
His eyes darken. Something shuttered moves behind them — pride, maybe. Or hurt.
