J. Ward: The King

“Anha,” he breathed as he stopped in front of her. “Speak unto me.”

There was a long silence. And then her voice, soft and sweet, but quavering, entered his ears. Closing his eyes, he swayed on his feet, the sound echoing throughout his blood and bones, lovelier than anything he had e’er heard.

Except then he frowned as he had no idea what she had spoken. “Whate’er did you say?”

For a moment, the words that came from beneath the cover of the veil made no sense. But then the definitions of the syllables were verified by his brain:

“Would you wish to see another?”

Wrath frowned in confusion. Why would he—

“You have removed naught from my form,” he heard her answer as if he had voiced his inquiry.

At once, he realized she was trembling, her robing transmitting the movement—and indeed, there was a heavy undertow of fear in her scent.

His arousal had clouded any further awareness of her, but that required rectification.

Collecting the throne, he brought the vast, carved chair across the room, his need to provide comforts unto her giving him superior strength. “Sit.”

She all but fell into the oxblood leather seat—and as her draped hands clawed onto the armrests, he imagined her knuckles going white as she held on for dearest life.

Wrath sank down onto his knees before her. Staring up, his only thought, aside from that of his intention to possess her, was that he would never see her frightened.

Ever.

Beneath the layers of weighty robing, Anha was suffocating in the heat. Or mayhap it was terror that choked her throat.

She did not wish for this destiny of hers. Had not sought it. Would give it to any of the young females who had, over the years, envied her: From the moment of her birth, she had been promised to the son of the King as the first mate—and because of that supposed honor, she had been reared by others, cloistered away, hidden from all contact. Raised in solitary confinement, she knew not the nurture of a mother or protection of a father—she had been adrift in a sea of supplicating strangers, handled as a precious object, not a living thing.

And now, at the culminating event, at the moment she had been bred and avowed for … all those years of preparation appeared to be for naught.

The King was not happy: He had thrown all and sundry out of whatever room they were in. He had not removed a single drape from her, as was his due if he wished to accept her in some fashion. Instead, he was stalking around, his aggression charging the air.

She had likely angered him further with her temerity. One was not supposed to offer suggestions to the King—

“Sit.”

Anha followed the command by letting her weak knees fall out from beneath her body. She expected to meet the cold, hard floor, but there was a cushioned chair of some great mass to catch her.

Creaking floorboards informed her he was circling her again, his footfalls heavy, his presence so great she could sense the size of him even though she could see nothing. Heart pounding, sweat breaking out down her neck and between her breasts, she waited for his next move—and feared it would be violent. By law, he could do anything he wanted with her. He could slaughter her or toss her to the Brotherhood for their use. He could undress her, take her virginity, and then reject her—leaving her ruined.

Or he could simply render her naked and approve of her form, saving her virtue for after the ceremony the following night. Or even mayhap … as she had imagined in her most futile dreams … he would regard her briefly and re-cover her with gifts of special cloth, signaling his intent to rank her among his shellans —so that her life at court would be easier.

She’d heard too much about courtiers to expect kindness from them. And she was well aware that though she was to be mated to the King, she was on her own. If she had a small measure of power, however, mayhap she could remove herself from this to a certain degree, leaving the machinations of court and kingship to females of greater ambition and avarice—

The pacing stopped abruptly and there was protest from the floor directly before her, as if he had shifted position in some manner.

Now was the moment, and her heart froze as if it did not want to attract attention from His Majesty’s blade …

In one quick moment, the hood was off her face, and great drafts of cool air were free for her lungs’ taking.

Anha gasped at what was before her.

The King, the ruler, the supreme representative of the vampire race … was on his knees in front of the chair he had provided her. And that should have been shocking enough, but indeed, his apparent supplication was the least of what struck her.

He was utterly beautiful—and of all the things she had sought to prepare herself for, this first, magnificent sight of him had never been contemplated.

His eyes were the color of pale spring leaves, and they shone bright as moonlight upon a lake whilst he stared up at her. And his face was the handsomest she had e’er beheld, although that was perhaps not compliment enough, given that she had not been allowed to look upon anything male before. And his hair was black as crows’ wings, falling down a broad back.

Except even that was not what penetrated her consciousness most.

It was the concern in his expression.

“Be not afraid,” he said in a voice that was velvet and gravel. “None shall e’er harm you, for I am here.”

Tears pricked in her eyes. And then her mouth opened itself, words jumping out. “My lord, you should not kneel.”

“How ever else would I greet a female such as yourself?”

Anha tried to respond, but caught up in his gaze, her mind became entangled—he seemed not real, this powerful male who bowed his honor afore her. To be certain once and for all, her hand lifted and moved to close the distance between them …

Whate’er was she doing? “Forgive me, my lord—”

He captured her palm and the impact of the flesh upon flesh made her gasp. Or was that both of them?

“Touch me,” he commanded. “Anywhere.”

As he released his hold, she placed her trembling hand upon his cheek. Warm. Smooth from a blade’s recent passing.

The King closed his eyes and leaned in, his great body shuddering.

When he just stayed as that, she felt a surge of power—not in an arrogant fashion, nor with any ambition for self-gain. It was simply from unexpected footing gained on what had seemed like an indelibly slippery slope.

How was this possible?

“Anha…” he breathed, as if her name were an incantation of magic.

Naught else was spoken, but the whole of their language was unnecessary, all parts of speech and vocabulary rendered worthless to offer any mere nuance, much less definition, to what bond was shaping and tethering them one to another.

She finally dropped her eyes. “Would you not care to see more of me?”

The King released a low growling purr. “I would see all of you—and looking would not be the half of it.”

The scent of a male’s arousal rose thick in the air, and incredibly, her own body responded to the call. But then again, that sensual aggression of his was well and truly bound by his singular will: he was not going to take her the now. No, it appeared that he was going to save her virtue until he had paid her the honor and respect of properly mating her.

“The Scribe Virgin answered my prayers in a miraculous way,” she whispered as she blinked through tears. All those years of worry and wait, the anvil poised for three decades to fall upon her head …

The King smiled. “If I had known a female as you could exist, I would have beseeched the mother of the race myself. But I had no fantasies—and that is well enough. I would have done naught but sit and wait for you to cross into my destiny, wasting years.”