Page 155 of Shadow Queen
Mikael watched her as she reached down and unbuckled his belt and breeches and pulled him free. She brought her lips to his, seeking, searching, wanting. She teased him with her fingers, asking him with her touch, and his body responded.
Salara shifted forward, positioning them, and slowly took him inside her. They sat a moment in the quiet of the candlelit night, their bodies and breaths together. She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, then drew her lips over his brow and down to each eye, kissing one and then the other. She moved down his cheek to his mouth. He kissed her back.
She moved slowly at first, containing the fire he felt inside her. He let her fill his senses: the taste of her tongue, the sound of her breath, the scent of her need. She rocked her hips, bringing them into a rhythm and making him rise to meet her. She ran her hand around the back of his neck and twisted her fingers into his hair, pulling his head back and biting his bottom lip. He growled and snaked his arm around her waist. But she caught his hands in hers and pushed them against the arms of his chair, holding him down.
She quickened her pace. He bent his head and bared his teeth against her shoulder, and she began to fall apart. She rocked forward, panting. Her body twisted against him, but he held her, not letting her free.
With a final cry, she collapsed on top of him, burying her face in his neck.
Mikael lifted her up, still keeping them joined together. He swept his hand across his desk, pushing everything to the floor—his letters, his parchments, his maps. They didn’t matter anymore. He laid her down and felt her skin prickle against the polished wood of the desk.
Mikael pushed himself deeper. There was no control in him now. He gripped her shoulder and pulled her against him, letting his own desire take over. She raised a hunger in him that would never be satiated. It was more than the wants of the flesh.
She knew him.
She loved him.
She needed him.
He growled as he shuddered to a finish, clutching her tightly and holding her close. He filled her with everything of himself—his love, his worries, his insecurities—and she took him. All of him. Under the weight of the crown, he was cracking, but she bonded those cracks with gold, and made him whole.
Chapter forty-seven
Aknockonthedoor interrupted Norah from her letter, and Vitalia moved to answer it. Norah smiled when she saw the girl enter. “Calla.”
But the girl didn’t smile back. “Salara, you need to come to the sparring field. It’s Adrian.” Her tone told Norah not to delay.
She rose quickly and followed Calla through the castle halls and out through the courtyard, toward the fields. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Three of the earlies earned their sword entitlements today. Adrian was denied because he’s not actually an early. He challenged the lord commander on it, saying he was just as good as every man there.” She looked at Norah as they walked quickly. “He is, Salara! He’s better!”
Norah’s pulse quickened as she picked up her pace. “And what did the lord commander do?”
“He said Adrian could have his entitlement, if he defeated them.All.”
“All?” she repeated with her eyes wide. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I know.” Calla shrugged breathlessly. “But when has being ridiculous ever stopped any of them?”
Norah frowned. That was true.
They reached the sparring field, where Adrian was engaged against an early. He moved with the grace of the Shadowmen, every strike calculated yet natural. He wore the black army breeches and boots, with no shirt, only a weapon’s strapping. His hair was longer now, and he tied it back like the Kharavian men, sporting a close-cut beard to match. Aside from the stark difference of his fair complexion and no markings on his body, he looked very much like one of them.
The men exchanged brutal blows, each looking to overwhelm the other. Norah’s heart pulsed in her throat. This wasn’t a practice sparring; this wasn’t a friendly match. Adrian was fighting for honor—a purpose the North took as serious as life.
The early launched another attack, driving toward Adrian and swinging his sword high. But Adrian met him with a counter, turtling under his shield and hurling his weight forward. He hit the man’s legs with a force that knocked the early off balance, making him fall forward, onto Adrian’s shield. Adrian used his momentum to lift the man over and slam him to the ground. He pivoted, his sword ready, bringing his blade to the felled early’s neck, and taking the match. The man raised his arm, yielding.
But it wasn’t yet a victory. Adrian spun to find his next opponent. The man was a little more cautious in his approach than the first, testing, looking for weakness. He moved with elegance and poise, despite his size. In practices before, Norah would marvel at the grace of the men as they sparred, appreciating their skill and strength. But today she only worried. She worried this early had too much skill, too much strength.
Adrian made the first strike. He beat the man back with both his sword and his shield, using them fluidly as though they were parts of his own body. But the early moved with the same agility, and on a strike where Adrian’s shield came down, the man caught him with an elbow to the face. Adrian stumbled backward, and Norah gasped.
A low, rumbling chuckle to her right startled her, and she glanced to see the lord commander. She hadn’t realized he was there. “Why are you doing this?” she hissed. “This is how someone gets hurt!”
“This is how a man makes his rise,” he said without taking his eyes from the bout.
Adrian suffered another hit to his face. Blood came from both his nose and his brow now.
Soren let out another chuckle. “If he remembers to keep that shield up.”
