Page 47 of To Love a Dark Lord

When she came down from her high, he began the dance, lifting her in the water and pulling her back to him. The movements were painfully slow and as forceful as he could make them without causing her real harm. The noise she made each time he impacted her was like music to his ears.

All words had left her. That was for the best. He was done arguing. The elementals would die—the choice was hers as to which side to take. His, or theirs.

Could his firefly take his life?

He knew he would not stop her if she did.

His life was hers—and in service to hers—even if she did not wish to see it that way. The King in Iron would reign to keep his Queen of Flames alight. And if she deemed him worthy of death, he would accept his fate.

Life without her would be far worse.

She sought his lips, kissing him even as she desperately tried to catch her breath between impacts. He greedily accepted the embrace. But it was not long before he could tell she was at the limit of how much abuse she could take. How many times her pleasure crashed over her and receded like the tide, he did not know. He had lost count.

When she breathed his name, begging, pleading, he took pity on her. On them both. He pulled her close, and drove into her one last time, burying his cry of release into the crook of her shoulder.

By the Ancients, he loved her.

He loved her and he would kill the world for her.

“Ow.” Gwen hissed through her teeth, wincing in pain. This was her fault. It really was. She was the idiot who had asked someone who could bend steel rebar in his bare hands to give her a neck massage.

First, she had to explain what a massage was. She had given him a neck rub first, trying to show him how it was done.

Then it was his turn. And to say that he was approaching it like he was trying to open walnuts in his hands was putting it mildly.

“Easy on the leverage, crusher.” She leaned into his touch, trying to ease off the pressure. “You’re trying to rub the tendons, not rip them out.”

Mordred wasn’t exactly skilled, but he was a fast learner. He eased off, and Gwen could breathe again. After their rather bruising “fight,” she demanded he make it up to her. And since she had already brought the wine, this was how she decided he’d pay it back to her.

It was also a great distraction from what he was planning to do. Killing Thorn was one thing. The “prickly” elemental was a problem and was going to continue to be a problem. Gwen could…reluctantly agree that her death was probably inevitable.

The only way Gwen could save her would be to kill Mordred. And there were some trades she wasn’t willing to make. The question was—where was the line? How far could he go before she had to stop him?

He’d asked her if she had it in her to kill him. And, confronted with that? She realized she didn’t really know. It was like being asked if she’d jump on a grenade to protect others. Nobody really knew how they’d react until the crisis was on them. And she wasn’t looking forward to finding out.

Leaning back against Mordred’s chest, she reached for the second bottle of wine that they’d fetched and refilled her mug. She wasn’t drunk enough yet. She didn’t want to get blasted, but she wanted to be just a little fluffier. “Can we come up with some kind of deal?”

“Like what?” He kissed the top of her head before refilling his own clay mug from the bottle. “I would entertain a bargain.”

Her heavy sigh made him chuckle.

“When you come up with one, I will listen.” He took a sip from his mug. “But that will require you to invent one, first.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” She drank from her mug. “I need time for that. Can we…delay your genocidal murder spree? Just a little?”

Mordred hummed. “Let it never be said that I am unreasonable. Very well. Thorn will die tomorrow. Then I will give you one month until I strike at the others—time enough for you to convince me to spare them.”

She turned around to face him. “Really?” A month was more time than she’d been afforded by anybody lately.

“If we are attacked, those who transgressed will be dealt with.” His tone left no question about how he planned to do the dealing. “Understood?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “One month. Gives us time to train the villagers—and by us, I mean you.” She grinned, teasing him. “And…a month for me to figure out how I’m going to talk you out of this.” Or decide to kill you instead.

God, that hurt her. It felt like a punch to the gut every single time she even thought the words. No, she wasn’t ready to do that yet. Maybe not ever.

And the future of Avalon hung on her decision.

Galahad followed his wife as she led him deep through the wilds of Avalon. She had opened a portal for them, taking them somewhere he did not recognize. It was not because the area was unusual—it was the opposite. This seemed like any other glade on the isle. A clearing, separated from a field by a sparse set of shrubs.

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