Page 37 of Crown Prince's Mate

The three titans are sitting on their thrones. With a wave of his hand, Doman makes the tapestry of stars disappear in front of him. The guards clear the room, closing the huge doors behind me.

They look like death. Their features are hard, their jaws clenched, and Doman is running his hand over the hilt of his blade.

If I thought I knew them, for that moment when they kissed me, now I see how truly alien they are.

They have lived centuries. They have molded since their first moment into warriors. They are filled with darkness.

I had been expecting to walk into a room of cocky triumph, drenched in the arrogance of their beings, because they smelled that tendril of my aching need when they kissed me. Instead, I am faced with hard-set determination, and the crowns on their heads have never fit more naturally. They are clad in the fighting togas of their species, cut to show off the left sides of their chests, and I face a wall of muscles. Gallien is chiseled, without an ounce of fat, his body lean violence, while the other two are thick and beefy, slabs of muscle over their wide frames.

My words dry up in my mouth, but I force myself to speak.

“If I am going to be spending the next three years by your side, we cannot be strangers,” I say, looking at them each in turn and getting nothing back but hard, cold gazes.

“This is true,” states Doman.

“I want to make one thing clear. You are not going to... claim me in front of your soldiers on Colossus. I am not going to partake in that part of your species’ wedding rituals. And I am not going to be like a harem wench on Colossus.”

Claim. A softer word than the reality of what they want to do. In their species’ customs, I would be bred in front of the masses of soldiers, the three beasts seeding me one after another.

“We will treat you with honor. With respect,” says Doman.

It’s hard to believe.

“The first woman you saw. Who was she?” I ask. “Other than your mother.”

“Servants,” answers Doman.

“And then? Your first memory of a woman outside of your palace.”

He shrugs. “We snuck out of Academy. Harem raids. Climbing over manor walls, sneaking to the women who attend to the ancient old men who do more drinking wine and philosophizing than fucking. Is that what you wanted to hear? That the first woman I saw was in a pleasure dress?”

I cross my arms. “Are you even capable of looking at human women as anything more than toys?”

Doman and Titus remain unmoved, statues, but Gallien’s eyes flash.

He leans in. “When I look at the universe, I hate the disorder. The weakness. Because it reflects my own failures. Every weakness reminds me that I must overcome my imperfections.” His voice is dark and intense. “You hate the harems because they scare you, Adriana. They scare you with what they reflect.”

“That is not true.”

“No? You’re a proud woman, Adriana. A proud woman who rules, who alone is responsible for over a hundred billion souls. You’re frightened by what you know is true. That if you were leashed, naked, in this room, linked to my wrist, you would be inflamed with a lust you could not control. That deep down, you ache for things you cannot accept.”

My heart pounds. I step back, unprepared for his directness, his vulgarities, but the strangest thing is that when Gallien speaks, his voice does not sound crude. He describes dark, sensuous pictures as if they are statements of fact.

“I did not come here to be insulted.” My voice quakes, because I am unprepared for the frisson that runs down myspine, for the tightness in my nipples as my body reacts to his words. My plain, gray garb feels uncomfortable, like it is scratching against my over-sensitive skin.

“There is no insult. It is your nature, whether you admit it or not.”

“And I’ve felt your nature,” I hiss. “I know what you are. Brutes.”

“You know who we are,” growls Doman, his voice low and rumbly. I more feel it that hear it. “You felt us. Deeper than anyone else knows us. You felt our essence.”

I glance at the black ring around his finger, gleaming darkly. “You’re right. We’re not strangers. You felt me, and I felt you. You’re wolves. The moment you take those rings off, that is when you show your real self. And you’re nothing but beasts.”

Doman places his hands on the marble armrests, his bright blue eyes staring through me. He lifts himself, heavily, and stalks towards me, moving with predatory grace. He stops before me, towering, staring down, his golden mane of hair framing his marble face, every feature hard and chiseled, a Viking god with burning eyes.

“Do you think me so weak? I learned to control myself when I was but a child. I learned to withstand things you could never dream,” he snarls, his voice filled with anger. “You do not want to be a stranger to me? Then see me.”

He pulls the ring off and squeezes it in his fist, his forearm clenching and bulging.

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