Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Sofie’s mouth hangs.
“We will find an answer,” I promise, offering Wendeline one last smile that, I hope, says, “Hang in there” before I whisk us back through to Ulysede.
46
Sofie
I will dwell on that creature that appeared out of thin air later.
For now … There’s not enough time to incinerate the bodies.
Drawing on every thread of Aminadav I can find, I force the grassy ground to swallow the half-dozen Saur’goths whole, burying them deep in the dirt. The last ripple in the grass moves just as two more round the corner.
Wendeline shrinks under their looming forms.
“Your Highness,” the one on the left barks. “Where are Mal’Rot, Mal’Sur, and the others?”
“How should I know? I am not their keepers. But a group of six passed us on our walk, talking about joining the hunt for mortal deserters. Perhaps that was them?” Meanwhile, I silently curse. These brutes all have names? This was easier when they were mindless beasts.
“Mal’Rot should know better than to leave his post,” the one on the right grumbles.
“Then you should go and seek this Mal’Rot in the city and let him know. That’s an order, as your queen.”
With grunts, they turn, giving me their backs.
They never see the ice blades coming.
Wendeline yelps as the two massive bodies topple, their heads hitting the ground a split second after. I don’t waste time, burying the bodies deep in the ground where they fell. In moments, there isn’t the slightest hint of my crimes. “Huh.”
“What is it, Your Highness?” Wendeline asks timidly, falling into step beside me as we head back through the labyrinth.
“It just dawned on me that the Saur’goth leader’s name was Mal’Gar. Their names are all prefixed with Mal. An ode to their sire, Malachi, likely.” He is truly that arrogant that he had them name themselves after him.
“That is … interesting.”
“Not really.” But I smile. It feels good to slaughter his new pets.
Dread grips my every limb as I step into the king’s bedchamber, bracing myself for what I might see on this night, for which specific way Malachi uses my husband’s body to punish me or wound Elijah.
I inhale sharply at the sight of a young male sitting naked on the edge of the bed, servicing Malachi with his mouth. The pile of finery on the floor—a tailored jacket with a crest, a sword and dagger holstered in leather—marks him a ranking nobleman. I shouldn’t be surprised that a lord would be as eager to suck a king’s cock as those simpering ladies seem to be.
“Pleasant time in the garden, my love?” There’s that edge in Malachi’s voice that tells me I will not escape to my chambers unscathed.
“Yes. Peaceful.”
“Good.” His head tips back, his fist curling through tonight’s lover’s hair. “Undress.”
I know better than to hesitate. Strolling over to the nearby chaise, I unfasten my dress and remove my underthings and lay them there while listening to the sound of Malachi’s pleasure build.
He climaxes in the nobleman’s mouth as I’m settling on the bed.
“Spill your seed in her,” he commands.
The male turns to regard me with a lust-filled gaze.
My stomach drops. “No—”
Malachi’s eyes snap to me. “No?”
“I mean … I am devoted to you.” Elijah. I have never been with another, except within the sanctum, but that was to save my husband and it was with a fate, not this bootlicker.
“If you are devoted to me, then you will obey me.” He nods toward my closed legs.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Too eagerly, the male lord kneels on the bed and, grabbing my calves, drags me over. Without any preamble, he pushes into me and begins thrusting.
I wince, my body resisting the intrusion.
“Are you not enjoying this, my love?” Malachi’s smile is wicked as he stands over us and makes Elijah watch this male—this stranger—defile me.
“I am. Very much.” But I can’t even summon a fake moan.
Malachi shuts his eyes, and I brace myself for whatever torture he is about to inflict. He is always creative.
But when they open again, they are suddenly the soft, warm brown eyes I recognize from so long ago. In this moment, I see my Elijah staring back at me, just long enough for him to focus, for me to see the revulsion , the flinch of pain as he watches me beneath another male, and then he’s gone, and Malachi is back in time to hear the lord empty himself into me with a series of grunts.
What if Zander was right?
The doubt that bastard Islorian king planted in my mind begins to sprout, its roots winding deep to take hold. Will Elijah thank me or doom me for all the ways I have made him suffer, first within the Nulling and now, as the unwitting hand and voice delivering Malachi’s cruelty?
A tear streams from the corner of my eye, the only reaction I allow Malachi to see as he kneels on the bed, prepares himself, and then thrusts into the waiting lord.