Page 106 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

Kazimir’s hand covered mine, pressing it more firmly against his chest. “It made me what I am. I don’t regret it.”

I wasn’t sure I believed him, but I didn’t press the issue.

There was a normal-looking scar on his shoulder that had no symbolism that I could see. “What’s this from?”

“First conquest of a military outpost,” he said with casual pride. “I was leading a small band of mercenaries I’d convinced to follow me.” He shrugged. “But that was early days.”

“You couldn’t possibly have done all those things they say,” I mused, tracing it. “Not unless you started terrorizing the Western Realms as a child.”

A dark pride flickered in his eyes. “I was fifteen when I killed my first general. Seventeen when I raised my first army.” His voice was matter-of-fact, as though reciting a shopping list. “By twenty, lords twice my age were bending the knee or fleeing their castles at rumors of my approach.”

“That’s impossible,” I said, though the certainty in his voice gave me pause. “Even the greatest warlords take decades to build such power.”

His lips curved into that familiar smirk. “Most warlords don’t have magic carved into their bones before they’re old enough to shave.” He guided my fingers to a particularly intricate pattern on his chest. “This one accelerates thought. This one enhances perception. Together, they let me see patterns in warfare that others miss even after lifetimes of study. As though warfare was a language I was born speaking.”

I studied his face, the lack of lines around his eyes, the smoothness beneath the shadow of his beard.

“How old are you really, then?” I asked, curiosity finally getting the better of me. “They speak of the Dark Lord as though you’ve terrorized the realm for generations.”

A smile played on his lips. “Reputation is a curious thing. The more they fear you, the longer they’ve feared you. At least in tavern tales.” He stretched and sat up, the firelight catching the network of scars across his torso. “I’m thirty-three. Though most days I feel considerably older.”

Something about his explanation nagged at me. It made perfect sense, and yet... There was something ancient in his eyes sometimes, something that didn’t match the relatively young man before me.

“What?” he asked, noticing my hesitation.

“Nothing,” I said, pushing the thought away. “Just trying to imagine you as a teenage warlord.”

His smile turned wicked. “I assure you, I’ve always been very good at what I do.”

Kazimir proved his point several times over the next hour, each touch more skilled than the last. When our bodies finally stilled, a pleasant exhaustion settled into my limbs. He rolled away, and I made a small sound of protest at the loss of his warmth. Kazimir chuckled, reaching out to tuck a strand of sweat-dampened hair behind my ear.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny.

“Nothing,” he said, his expression softening. “Just... this isn’t how I expected things to go when I kidnapped you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“Hardly.” His hand trailed down my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Before I could respond, he was rising from the bed. I watched him go, admiring the lean strength of his body, the confident way he carried himself even naked.

“What? No cuddles?” I called after him, only half-joking.

He paused halfway to the bathing chamber. “Is that something you want?”

I shrugged, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “Maybe. Sometimes.”

Kazimir studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he returned to the bed, drawing me into his chest so we lay entwined among the feathers. They stuck to everything at this point, but neither of us cared.

“Better?” he murmured, his breath warm against my hair.

I nestled closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek. “Much.”

44

MASTER THE MORNING AFTER (WHEN VILLAINS DON’T FLEE BEFORE BREAKFAST)

KAZIMIR

Warmth. That was the first sensation I registered when consciousness finally clawed its way to the surface of my mind. Not the familiar chill of my chambers, nor the cold emptiness of waking alone. Just... warmth.

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