Warrior King: Warriors - Book 1, page 13
The curling pleasure in Draylon’s groin wanted more. He clenched his teeth against the temptation to cum before allowing Yarif to.
Once, twice, three times, Yarif bucked, elegant moves now letting go into something uncontrolled by lessons in how to be a suitable consort.
With a bellow, Draylon surrendered to the moment, every muscle straining as he came deep inside Yarif’s body. His arms strained with the effort not to crash down. He held the pose for several moments, breathing hard to regain his composure.
Withdrawing took more effort than it should, Draylon reluctant to leave the perfection he’d found. Would this night repeat in their marriage, or would he never taste this rightness again? He clutched Yarif’s head to his chest, heaving breaths cooling his skin. They lay together, neither saying anything, hearts pounding hard.
Lanternlight cast shadows over the ceiling, but nothing could intrude into the cocoon of their arms around each other.
Draylon wasn’t fool enough to believe in a viable relationship based on sex, but if they could put aside their differences tonight, could they do so going forward? As Yarif said, if you must do something, why not enjoy?
Yarif rose from the bed. No!
“I wish you’d stay, at least the night.” The words came out more desperate than Draylon intended.
Yarif chuckled. “I’m just going to the washstand. I’ll be right back.”
Draylon drifted on a cloud of contented bliss, coming to when Yarif ran a wet cloth over his cock. Yarif made another trip to the washstand, then returned, climbing back into the bed, lower lip caught between his teeth.
Draylon urged Yarif close, pressing a kiss to soft golden hair before lapsing into sleep. No telling what tomorrow held, but tonight, in this moment, they’d enjoy some measure of peace.
He awoke several times before dawn, once to moonlight through the window caressing Yarif’s face.
Draylon had never been jealous of moonlight before.
Chapter Fifteen
Draylon’s warm body beckoned, vast planes of muscles rising and falling with each breath. How beautiful he looked in the early dawn light. Could the fact that he slept while Yarif watched him mean, deep down, he trusted Yarif, even a little?
Yarif shivered, recalling the night before. In some ways it seemed like a stranger took Yarif’s place. Practice and training kicked in. Although the priests taught him the motions, how to read a lover’s body language and please them, their instruction had been clinical, never inspiring lust and never teaching him how to enjoy the experience or ask for what he needed.
Or what to do when his body demanded now, now, now!
Last night, he’d wanted, needed, and enjoyed. If the tangled sheets slipped down a bit farther, Yarif could ogle Draylon’s thick cock. Was what he and Draylon had enough to base their marriage on? Maybe not, but they were compatible in some ways. Perhaps they’d find common ground in others.
Either way, they were stuck with each other. Being married to Draylon might not be the death sentence Yarif initially feared. They both claimed to share the same goal of running the kingdom: caring for her people.
Perhaps now, with a wedding ring firmly on his finger, Yarif would be awarded more freedom. Hadn’t Draylon said he’d return Yarif’s rapier once they wed? With more freedom came more opportunities to run if need be. So far, Draylon had given Yarif no reason to.
If Draylon stood between Yarif and the emperor, provided the protection he’d sworn to… Well, time would tell.
Yarif sat on the edge of the bed, untangling snarls in his hair with his fingers.
One thing for sure: if he kept staring at his new husband, he’d end up back in bed, ignoring his duties. Staying might be nice, but he needed to bathe, dress, check on the children, and get to work finding where the missing grain stores and livestock went.
His wedding finery felt soft against his skin, and he dressed in the scant light from outside.
Draylon’s a murderer, Yarif told himself. Now wasn’t that a conundrum to work out in his mind? Yes, he’d done better than some abusive old duke who only wanted status or a pretty plaything. Who knew precisely what Draylon wanted?
The guards said nothing as Yarif slipped into the hallway. Had they heard anything through the door? Or were these even the same two as last night? Yarif didn’t recognize them, but then again, the whole previous day seemed a blur.
Yarif arrived at his rooms, wanting nothing more than to bathe, then see the twins. “I’m not to be disturbed,” he told his guards, quickly adding, “except for King Draylon.” As he didn’t see any of the men who usually stood guard in his room, perhaps he really could have a few moments of privacy. Yarif closed the door behind him, turned around, and stopped. The familiar woman he’d seen at the banquet waited in his sitting room. Commander Illa Trandores.
Yarif’s heart stuttered, every fiber of his being screaming, Danger!
He did his best to keep his voice steady. “Commander Illa? What are you doing here? How did you get in?” He’d given strict orders that no one except for the twins enter his room without his permission.
And now Draylon.
Illa rose from Yarif’s writing desk, not trying to hide that she’d been through personal papers—now scattered about on the surface. How dare she! “Took you long enough,” she sneered. “Did you have fun spreading your legs for the enemy?”
What? She invaded Yarif’s rooms and dared to take offense?
“Why are you here?” Yarif barely managed not to growl. He glanced above the fireplace. Oh, right. They’d taken his rapier, and though Draylon said he’d give it back, he hadn’t yet. Yarif didn’t carry a single knife on his person. He’d even lost his boot knife somewhere along the way. Probably when he yanked his boots off and tossed them across the floor last night. Who knew where he left his hairpin? All other weapons were hidden away.
He hadn’t even slept with one under the pillow.
“Looking for these?” Illa asked in mocking tones. One by one, in motions nearly too fast to track, she threw Yarif’s knives with deadly accuracy. They whizzed by his head, embedding in the door in a series of thunks.
Yarif inched toward the door. “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, so what do you want?” If he screamed, would the guards come running? No. They weren’t his regular guards and likely the commander’s men. Yarif shifted toward the hidden panel instead. He’d played there as a child. He’d quickly lose any pursuers in the warren of passageways even without a lantern.
“Oh, not much,” she said, tones oozing smug satisfaction. “To start a war, win fame and glory. Go down in the annals of history as the one Emperor Soland depended on to get things done.” Her tone sounded casual. Too casual for someone discussing the deaths of innocent people.
War. She wanted war, like many of the nobles the emperor recently executed.
Like Father. Where Yarif had seen Commander Illa before snapped into place. “You met with my brother. He said you were a foreign noble.” Though he’d never said from where.
Illa switched seamlessly to Delletinian. “Even if I weren’t an amazing actress, I could have fooled that lump of a brother of yours. Your father too.” She cocked her head in a thoughtful gesture. “Hmm… I actually did, didn’t I?”
Yarif narrowed his eyes. “You convinced my father to betray the emperor.”
“It didn’t take much convincing.” Illa grinned, advancing a few steps. “But then a thought occurred to me. Why settle for a dried-up old king of a minor kingdom when I could have an emperor’s backing to gain one of my own? Once your waste of a father gave the emperor just cause to seize Renvalle, no one faulted him for defending the empire.”
“Then what do you want with me? I’m no longer king.”
“You know, Emperor Soland considered keeping you on the throne, giving you to me as my plaything. At your untimely death, I would have been queen.” Her sinister grin gave Yarif chills. “Oh, you’re going down in history too. As the reason the emperor invaded Delletina and brought the dogs to heel. After all, why be the queen of this backward place when I can rule all of Delletina, as should have been my birthright?”
Birthright? Years ago, when Delletina fought to resist the empire, a king had been deposed, and his family either murdered or scattered. Was this woman with a maniacal glint in her eyes part of the former line?
If so, small wonder they’d been overthrown.
Keep her talking, keep her talking… Yarif continued backing toward the hidden panel.
“Oh, don’t even think about escaping.” Illa glowered.
He jumped when the panel slipped open. Frida emerged, the governess he’d fired. Frida looked right past Yarif. “All is ready, milady.” She smirked in Yarif’s direction.
Illa laughed, the sound sending cold chills down Yarif’s spine. “Good. Now to get our victim.”
Victim? Yarif crouched, assuming a fighting stance. He’d do damage even without knives.
Illa yawned. “Don’t even think your little dances will help you.”
Soldiers poured into the room from the hidden passageway and the door to the hallway.
Yarif would not go down without a fight. He struck, kicking the closest soldier straight in the gut. Two more came after him. He ducked below the first’s arm, neatly grabbing a knife from the soldier’s belt. Not a sword, but better than nothing. Besides, it looked like they wanted him alive.
For now. He couldn’t say the same for them.
He dove and rolled, coming up behind his second opponent. Another kick sent a table flying to bang against the door. Other guards had to overhear. However, they’d heard Yarif practicing before. The current ones were likely the commander’s soldiers anyway.
A blow to the head sent Yarif staggering. He rolled, regaining his feet, still clutching the knife and wiping blood from a split lip with his free hand.
With the door and panel blocked, his only choice for escape was the balcony. Or to hope for his husband to check on him. But what help would one man be, even one as impressive as Draylon? Oh, deities! What if the children came?
No. Yarif lunged, knocking a soldier’s feet from under him. The solder fell, taking out a comrade and loosening his grip on his sword.
“Thank you!” Yarif grabbed the sword, whipping the knife toward another soldier. The man screamed, collapsing to his knees while gripping the handle of the blade now firmly embedded in his shoulder.
Damnation. Yarif had aimed for the bastard’s throat.
Maybe he could make his way to the balcony to shout for help, provided he took Commander Illa hostage. He kicked the desk, driving back three soldiers. More took their places.
“I want him alive!” Illa shrieked.
Yarif slashed his way through the men standing between him and escape, the blade unfamiliar and unwieldy in his hand. He needed his rapier.
Armor slowed the soldier. While Yarif’s filmy garments offered no defense, they allowed him free movement. Parry, thrust, attack, he heard his old mentor coaching.
Outnumbered, outmatched. Weariness tugged at Yarif’s arms and legs. Panic sank its hooks into him. He wasn’t going to win.
Another man screamed as Yarif scored a point. He wouldn’t win, but he wouldn’t go easily either. His arm ached from the efforts of such a heavy blade. After this, he’d practice. Get Draylon to teach him.
If he ever saw Draylon again.
A crushing blow cracked against Yarif's skull, sending him staggering toward the wall. He swayed, then dropped to his knees. Where? What? Crash! Another blow. The sword slipped from his numb fingers.
A leering man’s face grew closer. Move! Why couldn’t Yarif move?
One more blow and the world went black.
Chapter Sixteen
Draylon felt the dip in the bed as Yarif rose. Last night went better than expected. Yet how much had been real, and how much had Yarif fallen back on training, like steps in a well-rehearsed dance?
No, Yarif’s pre cum on Draylon’s tongue didn’t lie. Yarif had enjoyed.
But until he knew what Yarif planned, Draylon lay still, keeping his breathing steady. It would be nice to snuggle in bed a bit longer. Yarif fit so perfectly in Draylon’s arms. Was there a chance last night could be more than a single occurrence?
Yarif quietly dressed and slipped from the room. Why the sudden heaviness of Draylon’s heart? They weren’t a love match. Each had been forced into this situation, so why suddenly crave a few more precious moments?
Several times during the night Draylon had awoken to find himself wrapped around Yarif, or Yarif wrapped around him. Sometimes they both woke, made eye contact, then resumed their wedding night.
After all their intimacy, though, Yarif simply rose and walked away. Why? These were now his rooms too.
What had Draylon expected? They’d done their duty, married, consummated the marriage, and would now go back to living relatively separate lives, save for the occasional required public appearance.
Yarif had promised to help with the running of the kingdom. Maybe Draylon and Yarif could form a good working relationship, if not a marital one.
Draylon excelled on the battlefield, had defeated many a foe. Had gone against a stubborn emperor but now found himself afraid of making a misstep with his king consort.
Respect. Yarif wanted respect. He’d already earned some measure of admiration even in a short amount of time. Draylon should let him know.
Yarif seemed to love the gardens. Maybe the two of them could take a walk there. Draylon could ask about the charities started by Yarif’s mother. Or plans for outings with the children. Being relieved of his position as commander left Draylon with time he didn’t know how to fill. Running a kingdom had to be a busy job—just look at the number of Father’s secretaries—but where to start?
By asking Yarif.
Draylon bathed, shaved, and once more felt awkward donning civilian clothes, even simple trousers and a tunic. The embroidered garments were a bit much. He’d ask if Yarif and the children wanted company for breakfast.
Yes. A good enough place to start.
Draylon strapped on his sword and tucked a knife into his boot. Being king didn’t prevent those loyal to the old regime from planning his demise.
“Good morning, Your High… Majesty,” one of his guards said as Draylon emerged from the rooms he hoped to share with Yarif. Guards? Did Draylon need defending in what amounted to his new home, however unfamiliar? Another matter to discuss with Yarif.
Yes, Yarif would know. Unlike some rulers, Draylon planned on listening to his consort’s advice. Of course, Yarif seemed interested in continuing in the day-to-day running of the kingdom, unlike most consorts of Draylon’s acquaintance who spent their days socializing, shopping, or idly lazing.
Father’s people hadn’t found any evidence of faulty recordkeeping or any hint of wrongdoing on Yarif’s part. Perhaps he was innocent of the transgressions of his kin, or maybe he merely hid his tracks better.
Draylon traversed the stairs with an extra spring in his step, cautiously approaching Yarif’s door.
“We heard him practicing again this morning as we came on duty,” one of the guards said. Then he growled, “There were no guards outside the door when we arrived.”
No guards? Draylon would have to report the slight to Rufe. Now that they were wed, even if Yarif chose to stay in his own rooms, having a man inside the rooms should no longer be necessary. If Yarif had planned to act against Draylon, surely he’d have done so by now.
He didn’t strike one as a patient man.
However, Yarif was practicing his fighting skills. A good or bad thing after the wedding night? “He’s finished now?” Draylon had no intention of interrupting Yarif’s schedule.
“Apparently, Your Majesty. All quiet for a while.”
Draylon tapped on the door. No answer and no sound from within. Maybe Yarif napped after their exertions last night and his morning exercise. Maybe better to try again later.
No. Draylon needed to see Yarif now. If he slept, Draylon would apologize—and maybe ask to join him. After the third time Draylon knocked, he tried the door handle. Locked.
“Unlock this door,” he commanded. The guards hurried to comply. The eerie sense of wrongness he’d long ago learned to listen to urged Draylon on.
He pushed the door open…
Broken vases, an overturned table, and blood on the floor. Blood? Had Yarif hurt himself? Where was he? Draylon darted into the bedroom, then peered into the wardrobe. Nothing.
He whirled on the guards. “You’re sure he didn’t leave this room.”
“Positive, Your Majesty. At least, not by the door.”
Draylon dashed to the balcony. The doors were locked from the inside. Yarif couldn’t have left that way, even though a drop from the third floor into the bushes below likely wouldn’t kill him.
“Find Captain Rufe,” Draylon snapped. “Send him to me. Check the children’s rooms, but don’t say or do anything to alarm them.”
One guard left. The other took up a position inside the door.
Draylon dropped down to investigate the blood, some droplets, some spattered, and a few larger pools, smeared by boots.
Rufe stormed through the door, then stopped, swiveling his neck to take in the wreckage of the room. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. Yarif is gone, and there were no guards at his door when the morning shift arrived.”
The first guard returned with a fiftyish woman in tow. “I found her lurking in the hallway.” He gave her arm a shake. “Tell him what you told me.”
The woman trembled but managed a curtsey. “Prince Yarif hasn’t been to see the children this morning, as is his custom. The children asked me to check on him. I know nothing of his whereabouts, I swear.”
While Yarif might leave Draylon, he wouldn’t leave his brother and sister. “Thank you. Please return and watch your charges. Say nothing to them of their brother’s disappearance.” Draylon nodded to the guard who’d brought the woman. “Add additional guards to their door.”
