Page 46 of Given to the Black King

I can smell both.

I can smell the faint trace of my release beneath her nails, though she has washed. I can smell the two climaxes I drew out of her on the map table. My claws push against my fingertips.

She stops beside the empty chair. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” I say.

Ghenn says, “No.”

Vess smiles. “Only the king.”

Iona sets the schedules down. “Good. I need the western road figures.”

She reaches across the table.

Her sleeve brushes my hand.

One claw snaps out and pins Osk’s ledger to the wood.

Nobody speaks.

Iona looks at the claw. Then at me.

“Still sensitive?” she asks.

Ghenn develops a sudden interest in the pass map.

“Sit,” I tell her.

The command comes out in the old voice.

Her pupils widen. Heat rises in her scent at once.

Vess slides off the window ledge. “I have learned all I can here.”

“You have learned nothing,” I say.

“I have learned that the envoy follows orders when she likes the tone.”

Iona sits.

Vess leaves before I can throw her through the window.

The war council lasts another hour. Iona listens while Ghenn explains Osk’s likely route. She asks about food, contracts, and how long hired companies will stay without pay.

Cost before troop numbers. Cost before honor.

“Men who fight for silver can be bought twice,” she says.

“Or killed once,” Ghenn says.

She glances at him. “Your method is faster. Mine may be cheaper.”

Ghenn nods. “I begin to see why he keeps you at the table.”

My hand closes around the edge.

Iona’s eyes flick to it. “Claws, Torgan.”