Page 48 of His King Enslaved

Ardor dug his fingers into the mattress as his bloom drew his consort’s hand inside him, hating the vulgar, wet sounds his body made. “Mindeh,” he managed. It meant “Everyone’s Daughter,” in Amari. It was Eminence Heavenly’s last wish, lovingly carved into her son’s genetic code at the cost of her own lifespan.

“Ardor!” Leya dropped the saucer of tea and ran to his side. She went to her knees, drawing the beads out, and prayed. Her soft, fervent chanting was order in the chaos. Prayers had never done much for him before, but now that familiar sound was a lifeline, and his breathing naturally fell into a steady rhythm.

A foul musk rose, and Ardor’s stomach turned. Birthing musk. The scent was repellent by design. It was supposed to discourage humans from coming close during the birthing process. Even he found it raw and unsettling.

“Mindeh,” Sindar murmured, his voice growing thick. “That’s a perfect name.” His voice was perfectly steady as he reached deeper into the flower’s shivering, oozing womb.

“Do you feel the egg sac?” Jain asked. “It will be firm but pliant. The outer membrane should be sticky to the touch.”

Ardor smothered a moan of pain. His face burned with humiliation and was slick with sweat. His nose brushed Sindar’s. He’d craved intimacy for so long, and now his consort was wrist-deep in his churning, broken body, doing things no consort should ever have to do, seeing things no consort should ever have to see. The humiliation threatened to break him in two.

“I have her,” Sindar said, his voice tighter now.

“Pull her out. The pressure of the sac pushing against the inner wall should force the bloom to open wide enough for delivery. If it doesn’t--”

“It will,” Sindar said shortly, as he dragged the egg down. “Stay with me, Beloved.”

Ardor panted as the muscular channel pulsed and squeezed, working the egg sac down and out. Oh, Goddess, it was coming. He could feel it, like a low tide slowly rolling in. Inescapable. Unstoppable. Inevitable.

“Get your hand out,” Ardor managed, grabbing the front of Sindar’s jacket. “Before—“

The egg sac ruptured, and fluid gushed everywhere. Every fluid Ardor had. Blood, lubrication, amniotic fluid, and mucous covered Sindar’s arm and the birthing table. The gore was relentless.

And amid it all, the baby sputtered and began wailing.

Ardor’s heart constricted, and he immediately looked for Hara, but the Wraith was nowhere to be found. Within seconds he was consumed by the squalling, slimy, bloody, beautiful, glorious baby, who flailed her little brown feet as Jensen peeled away the remaining egg sac.

Sindar stared at the baby for a long moment, then down at his arm covered in gore.

“Your Majesty, you must step outside,” Leya said hurriedly, quickly steering him out. “The baby needs to bond with His Eminence’s scent… It’s very important…”

Sindar briefly snapped out of it. He looked to Ardor for confirmation.

“Yes,” Ardor said, pulled in all directions. His baby, his duty, his relief at surviving, his horror at Sindar seeing his body and what came out of it, his anger at his consort’s disobedience, his gratitude at his consort’s disobedience… all were at odds. It was too much. He could only focus on one. He pulled the baby close to his chest, to the swell of his burgeoning breasts. “You must go, I’m fine,” he said.

He couldn’t interpret the look on Sindar’s face, and he was afraid to. Instead, he cuddled his baby close, and the rest of the world stopped existing.

DEAL

AS SOON AS Sindar was away from the birthing chamber, and escaped the heavy, fetid stench of afterbirth, he could breathe again. He leaned against the wall, staring at his hand. It was covered in warm, thick, pulsing effluence. He’d read everything he could find about this process, but no textbook could have adequately prepared him for it.

Only now did he fully appreciate Ardor’s gentle compassion. When Sindar insisted his Flower was a man, his Flower declined to correct him. What he’d seen in that room had no basis in human biology. What he’d seen…

He gazed at the streaks of mucous and blood coating his fingers, slowly turning his hand over, still not quite certain the strange green, red, and gray fluids were real. This was why consorts were barred from attending the birthing chamber. This was why the Flowers exuded a malodor during delivery, a scent horribly and appallingly opposite the sweet perfume of their pheromones, to discourage their consort’s presence. This was why Ardor, in his grace and wisdom, spurred his consort’s unrelenting advances. Even now, Sindar could not fully process what he’d seen. His lover’s body was utterly alien, different in a way that bordered on monstrosity.

“Your Majesty,” Ambani said, touching his arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’ve had an ordeal.”

He stared at her, unseeing. “I love him,” he said. “Bani, he’s not… But I love him. I love him so much.”

“I know,” she said gently.

She deposited him in the infirmary to wash up, and she departed, leaving him in an unexpected and rare moment of solitude. Champion Hara, Dr. Jain, and all the nurses and staff were busy attending the Flower and his daughter. The King of Kysan was alone.

Or so he thought.

Sindar stopped rinsing his hands at the faint click of the lock. Champion Hara stood before the door. What was she doing here? Why wasn’t she with her prince?

A small blade materialized in her palm, and as Sindar stared at her, realization slowly dawned. He was looking at a Pavarian Wraith. A strange calm descended upon him. He was still in shock, no doubt, but the fact she hadn’t killed him yet meant there was still hope, if he kept his wits about him.