Hugh sat alone. Elara… The Ice Harpy. The Queen of the Castle. And something else, something that set off every primitive fear that lived deep inside.
His mind juxtaposed that Elara and the woman gasping with pleasure as he thrust into her. She was the scariest thing he had ever seen, but he’d slept with her, and he’d liked it, and he had wanted her to stay. It was good, and he knew it could be better. The Iron Dogs used to play a stupid game by the campfire, Marry, Fuck, Kill. They were already married, and he had no idea which of the other two he needed to pick.
They were married.
Fuck.
He remembered her words. “They are my people and I love them. They’ve proved their loyalty beyond anything I had a right to ask. There is no limit to how low I will sink to keep them safe.”
He had thought it was a figure of speech. Now he knew better. He had to make sure his people never became a threat. What would constitute a threat to her? Would he have to stop her from human sacrifice? Where would he draw that line? It might be wiser to take his people out now, before it came to that. He wasn’t sure a blood sword would work. A sword he shouldn’t have been able to make. How the hell was the blood power still working? Why?
She came for him. She threw caution to the wind, displayed her power, and came to get him away from Nez. She faced Roland for him and would’ve fought him.
Hugh never expected it. She should’ve left him to rot, yet she pulled him out of there and somehow dragged him to the castle. Nobody, in his entire life, would’ve done it for him, except for his Iron Dogs.
He wished the world would make sense.
The door swung open, and Elara walked into the room. Her hair fell on her shoulders in a long white wave. Her dress, a pale green, the color of young leaves, hugged her, cradling her breasts, tracing her waist, and skimming the curve of her hips.
He looked into her eyes. They were laughing, but behind the humor, he saw something else, a cautious wariness.
He finally noticed she was carrying something wrapped in towels. She set the object on his night table and looked at him.
He looked back at her.
“I hate you,” she told him.
Testing the waters. “Hardly a surprise,” he told her.
“If you ever pull a demented stunt like that again, I will make your life a living hell.”
He bared his teeth at her. “You already do, darling.”
He got the message loud and clear. She wanted to pretend that nothing happened. They were back to normal, sniping at each other every chance they got and stopping just short of drawing blood.
“Do you think the mrogs will be back?”
“Unlikely,” he said. “They went all out, and we kicked their ass. We offer too little reward for too great an effort. Most likely whoever commands them will move on, but if not, we will be ready.”
“Leonard has a theory about the elder being behind it.”
The Pictish scholar. Right. “He does?”
“When you’re better, I’ll send him up. It’s a bit out there, but it makes sense in an odd way.”
She turned around.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To the greenhouses. Our herbs keep dying. We have to figure out why.”
“Elara,” he called.
She turned around, walked up to the bed, and leaned over him, one knee on the covers. “You’re my husband, Hugh. We no longer walk alone. We are each other’s shelter in a storm. As long as you want to stay here, you’ll have a home. I’ll never abandon you.”
She leaned forward. Her lips brushed his and she kissed him. He tasted her, fresh and sweet, a hint of honey on her tongue. He got hard.
She let him go and walked away, closing the door behind her, like a phantom, there one moment, gone the next.
He stared at the door, tried to sort out what the hell just happened, and failed.
He didn’t want to let her go.
Fuck.
He reached for the towels and pulled them off. A plate waited for him, covered with a glass cover, fogged up from the inside. He took it off. Stacks of warm crepes waited for him, drizzled with caramel and honey.
The Preceptor of the Iron Dogs laughed and reached for his fork.
THE END