Page 7 of The Warlord's Wildflower
They don’t notice how her fingers twist in her skirts when she’s nervous, or the way she bites her bottom lip when she’s about to speak and then thinks better of it. The way she’d look beneath me, panting, begging—
“Fenric!” Kael calls, tossing me a spear from across the yard. “You just showing off or actually fighting today?”
I catch it one-handed, forcing my thoughts back to the present. “Why not both?”
More laughter. But behind the bravado, my mind is still on her.
She said she’d come today. Well, she nodded. That counts, right? I hope she does. Part of me wants to win just so she’llsee it, and so the last image of me in her head isn’t me eating dung at her feet. I want her to see me at mybest; sweat-slicked, victorious, and fantasising about what these hands could do to her.
It’s a foolish thought. She’s sweet and quiet, and I’m...not. I’ve broken more hearts than I can count. Smiled my way into trouble more times than I care to admit. I’m not the kind of male someone like her should want. But with her, it’s different. I don’t just want to bed her… though, Gods,I do. I want to take my time. I want to know what makes her laugh, what makes her blush. She’s quiet, but I want to hear her speak in every tone; nervous, angry, joyful…in pleasure, when she’s coming undone upon my cock.
And if I get the chance to claim her as my mate, then I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure nothing ever drowns out the sound of her voice.
I sling the spear across my back, adrenaline beginning to hum through my veins. The stands will fill soon, the drums will sound, and I’ll take to the ring with every eye watching.
But the only person I’ll be looking for is her.
The softest, prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my world full of iron, the only female who makes meburn.
The sparring ring looms ahead, ringed with banners snapping in the wind. The crowd isn’t here yet, just a few early risers prepping the grounds, but my blood is thrumming anyway. This is where Ithrive.
I adjust the strap across my chest and start toward the entrance when a deep voice calls, “Fenric.”
I stop mid-stride and turn.
My Chief, Dakar, stands just beyond the archway, flanked by someone I don’t recognize.
The stranger is taller than me, barely. Broad, older, eyes like cold steel. One of his dark horns is broken. His armor is fine,polished bone and leather dyed midnight blue. I've never seen him before, definitely not one of ours.
“This is Commander Garron of the Thornhide tribe,” Dakar says as I approach. “He arrived late last night.”
I nod in greeting, offering a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”
Garron eyes me for a second longer than polite before clasping my wrist. His grip is stronger than necessary.
“You’re the young one, then,” he says in a gruff voice. “I’ve heard about you.”
I flash him my most charming grin. “Good things, I hope.”
He doesn’t return my smile. “That remains to be seen.”
Right. So he’sthattype.
Dakar clears his throat, stepping in smoothly. “Garron is here to observe the tournament and to evaluate our customs. The Thornhides are considering a treaty between our tribes.”
My brow arches. I know what that means.
Mate-bonding.
“Understood,” I say, jaw tightening just a little.
“I want you to show him what our warriors are made of.”
So, no pressure, then.
“Gladly,” I respond, nodding to both of them. “I shall give you a show.”
Garron remains staid.I bet he's the life of the feast.“Thornhide values strength above all else. Not flash or tricks.”
