Page 53 of Vow of the Undead
Had King Drakkar gifted her with jewelry? Bitter jealousy sloshed in my gut. With a thought like that it was almost as ifIwanted to be his vessel. As if I wanted him to sink his fangs into me like there was dignified intimacy in being fed on.
But there was nothing dignified about it.
Vessels were innocent humans being used, and I was fucking insane to entertain the thought of becoming the king’s. And yet, the weight of him watching me wrapped around me, like his hands encompassing mine when he saw my fingers were blue. Comforting. His behavior—and this feeling that came with it—didn’t make sense.
Why had he claimed he was fascinated with me?
Worse, why did I still want him to be?
Vampires had no souls, no connection to the Gods, and they denied witches a free life. I should hate him as much as I hated myself for the warmth that pooled between my legs when I felt his gaze on me.
When we weren’t together, he was just a distant king, but as soon as I became aware of his presence, my body and mind both betrayed me. Perhaps because he’d stopped my execution—the warrior who’d saved me. It was the dream of a foolish girl.
A selfish girl.
I dared glance at him again. He stood, eyes still on me, and my pulse flickered when he marched toward me, striding with purpose and a hurried eagerness I’d never seen from him. Heat built in my chest again. I swiped my hand over my breasts so my icy fingers would cool me.
He didn’t miss a beat. His mouth sliced into a wicked grin.
When he reached me, he took both of my hands and examined my fingers as if he’d read my thoughts from across the room. His icy eyes ticked up and he gently cupped my hands in his. “You’re cold again.” I merely nodded, not trusting myself to speak. “Does your handmaiden not keep the fire burning in your bedchambers?”
“She does.”
“The dress then,” he said, “we’ll have you wear a cloak over your shoulders.” His eyes dipped to my bare skin.
“No,” I said, too fast. I didn’t need him to admire me. I was already bound to marry him, a vampire, a monster, the creature who exiled my mother. I didn’t need him to stare at my bare skin, but I wanted it. Especially after watching that damn sparring. He’d become the warrior I fantasized about my entire life.
Everything was in Freya’s hands now, if I didn’t fuck this trial up with these depraved thoughts.
“Whatever you want, my wife.” He dipped forward,brushing his lips across my shoulder. A tendril of dark hair escaped the knot at the back of his head.
Desire unfurled low in my belly. When he tugged me toward the throne, my thighs rubbed together, slick with my body’s betrayal. I couldn’t want him—a king of monsters.
When a servant with cups passed by, he lifted one from the young man’s hands and offered it to me. I stared at the liquid. This definitely wasn’t the blood I suspected had been in the goblet he often drank from. I took a whiff of the sweet wine and I was suddenly thirsty for a sip.
Taking it from him, I tipped the cup to my lips. He waited for me to finish, before palming my lower back and guiding me to his heavy bronze chair.
At the throne, he hooked his hands over my hips and gave me a slight lift, propping me on the throne’s wide armrest. Swiveling to take a seat, he smirked up at me, his bride.
I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, with my mouth.Shit.I was in deep. Too many months passed since I enjoyed Bjorn, that was all this desire meant. Nothing less, nothing more. King Drakkar didn’t need to be the one to release this pent up energy simmering between my legs.
He lifted his hand to toy with the ends of my heavy braid where it sat just at his shoulder. What would it do to my depraved thoughts if he pulled it? A man like the king, someone wielding his sword with the skill I witnessed the other night, was a man who wouldn’t be afraid to yank on my braid.
Having his fingers in my hair was dangerous territory, like crossing the border from Skaldir into the forest alone at night. All it’d take was one little tug and I’d be begging for more. Bjorn had always been too cautious. If I told him to dig his fingers into my hips or nip at the sensitive buds of my breasts, he’d pretend he didn’t hear me. He refused to hurt the Vyl’s daughter. But I wanted a little pain with my pleasure, and that was just something Bjorn could never give me.
“One more day,” King Drakkar said, carving through my thoughts with a husky voice.
I stared down at him, searching his icy eyes for any indication of why he wanted to marry me.
As a witch, I was the enemy. Or perhaps it was all about control, I had the gift of visions after all. Those visions gave me insight into the history he and his king had buried, but he didn’t know.
“What is it, wife?” he asked after taking a sip of wine, the bronze ring on his finger clinking against the cup.
“I’m not your wife.” I said it more to shut down my lust than as a reaction to his words.
He handed the empty goblet off to a servant with short black hair. She disappeared into the crowd.
Thora.
