Page 47 of King of Fire and Scales

The king's glare softened. His grip on her slacked, and finally, allowed her to slip away.

“Be careful,” he muttered. “The dead are unsightly. We carry them back to the castle where they are laid to rest. The others are taken to the medical ward.”

She nodded and turned away. A scattering of half-slain, half-afflicted men would have intimidated her in the past. But not anymore. She was the Creation Sorceress, a rare blessing sweeping across the majestic kingdom of the Mountain King.

Thalia walked among the ruins, wading through rivers of blood. She moved with a fluidity she had never felt, placing her palms directly upon lacerations, gashes, and deep lesions. She summoned all of the spell work Sorcha had taught her, gathering the molecules inside their wrecked bodies and breathed a second life.

All of them stared in awe once she took her hands from them. Thalia expected to be at least a little discombobulated. But she wasn’t.

If anything, she was rejuvenated by the sight of acting as their remedy.

Thalia floated along to each wounded soldier, some more mangled than others, healing those that she was able to.

Some of the castle had also been destroyed, so Thalia used her abilities to gather the obliterated stone and fuse it together once again as stable brickwork.

She wasn’t able to fix everything she longed to because a fair amount of her energy had been zapped due to the traumatic experience with Pyralis. Nevertheless, what she had done was nothing short of a miracle.

When Drake returned to her, he was dressed in his military garb. The dead were being carted from the fields of the clash while those Thalia had healed continued with their convalescence.

He placed both hands on her shoulders, and Thalia wanted to sink into him. He leaned down and brushed his lips against her neck, trailing up to the shell of her ear.

The witch shivered and gasped aloud.

“You must be famished.”

They retreated into the castle while the combat zone was further cleansed. Drake held her hand the entire way through the palace, which was teeming with recovery nurses and doctors. They passed through to the royal chambers, closing the door behind them with a heavy lock. Alone, finally having escaped their turmoil.

A grand feast had been prepared during the recovery by the private chef, and lay on small tables in the lounge of the king’s chambers. The sight of fresh grapes, mango, slices of beef and breast of chicken, spring water, and vintage wine, had never looked so appealing.

They ate ravenously in silence. Thalia couldn’t believe how rabid she was until she finished eating, washing the protein down with a flavorful swirl of the royal Merlot. She was tired in a way that was thoroughly gratifying.

“Mmm, Drake.”

She was sitting next to him on a loveseat, the leather cold and ripe to the touch. Thalia lay back, catching her breath.

“Yes, my love?”

She sat upright, a hand gliding up from the seat to her chest. She was caked in sweat, and likely needed a good washing.

“Drake…”

“I love you, Thalia,” he said, proudly, turning to run his hands along her thighs. “I am not certain you interpreted that. But I desire you in every way. I have fallen madly for you. I am aware we had our disagreement…but I would like to learn more about life with you. As one blended soul."

His hands moved through the barriers of her tunic, fluttering along the exposed skin of her knees. Her breath caught in her throat, but the words came as easily as falling rain.

“Drake, I love you too,” she said, grinning like a fool. “I wanted to tell you that out there on the battlefield. I want to let go of everything that has happened thus far. I want to learn too, my sweet darling.”

The king was glowing. He lowered his head and laced a trail of fiery kisses along her knees, then laboriously moved the fabric upward.

Thalia felt like she was drunk. Drunk, and in love.

“Drake, I should probably wash first…”

“None of that,” he crooned, tracing his lips along the pulpy softness of her inner thighs. “I like it. I love it. I love you. All of you, my Creation Sorceress."

He pushed the hem of her tunic upward, and she aided him by rolling it with her hands, sliding past her chemise. She was exposed, leaning her head back against the armrest of the couch as his hot breath tickled her precious folds.

“Thalia, I want to make you mine,” he growled. “What that means for our kind involves a mark. A mark made at the height of your pleasure. It will sting, and leave a scar. But it signifies a bond forged, an eternal one.”

---