Page 151 of Given to the Black King

I bend over her, put my mouth against the healed mating bite without piercing it, and come deep inside her. The swelling at my base deepens, enough to hold pressure but not lock us without the venom surge.

For several breaths, I remain over her with one hand covering hers on the throne.

Outside the doors, someone drops a metal tray and immediately pretends not to have done so.

Iona begins to laugh.

The movement tightens around me.

“Do not,” I say.

“That remains unreasonable.”

I withdraw slowly. The ring catches and pulls one last shudder from her.

Then I turn her, set her on the throne seat, and kneel long enough to clean what runs down her thigh with my tongue.

Her hand closes around the base of one horn.

“Torgan.”

I look up.

Her face is flushed. Her gown is open. My release is on her skin. The cracked throne surrounds her like evidence.

“That,” she says, “was a useful judgment.”

I stand and pull her into my arms.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“The old beacon tower.”

Her eyes narrow. “How many steps?”

“Four hundred.”

“That is an absurd number of steps.”

“You are not walking them.”

I carry her through the private door behind the dais. She counts every step against my shoulder, losing the number twice when I put my mouth on her neck.

At four hundred, I shoulder open the beacon-room door and carry her inside before the court dares follow.

IONA

Aweek after the bond, the high tower no longer looks like a beacon room.

It contains six stolen cushions, three furs, a wine jug, two treaty drafts, and a bed Torgan claims is temporary despite having personally tested every joint.

The sunrise reaches it before the rest of the hold.

So does the wind.

I wake with my back against his chest and one of his hands spread over my belly.

His claws are retracted. The broad tips of his fingers rest against my skin.