Page 87 of Given to the Black King

“You may tear the gown. You may pin me. You may carry me. You may use your hands, mouth, and cock. You may leave marks.”

“How deep?”

“Deep enough to show. Not deep enough to need Sera’s sewing kit.”

A rough breath leaves him.

“My claws?”

“The flat sides anywhere. The points on the outside of my thighs or across my back, lightly. No face. No throat. No belly.”

His fingers flex once.

Dark points slide free.

I keep talking.

“If I fight you, it is part of the hunt. If I say no without the word ash, you stop long enough to look at me.”

“I stop.”

“You look. If I tell you to continue, you continue. If I don’t, it ends.”

“Yes.”

“Once you catch me for the final time, you do not have to ask permission for every thing we have already agreed to.”

His gaze drops over the cut sleeves, the old gown, the riding boots.

“Iona.”

“That is what I want.”

“I know what you think you want.”

“No.” I step around the table. “Every Serathi border ballad says the woman begs the horned creature for mercy. I am telling you what I want instead.”

He does not move.

I stop close enough to feel his heat.

“I want to run hard enough that I forget this is a court. I want to hear you behind me. I want to try to get away.”

His claws lengthen another inch.

“I want you to catch me,” I say. “I want to know I cannot move you. I want your marks on me tomorrow where your whole hall can see them.”

The old blood enters his voice.

“And if you become afraid?”

“I may.”

He draws one slow breath, sorting fear from want.

“That does not mean I want it to stop. Want and fear can live in the same body. You taught me that.”

His gaze fixes on my mouth.