Page 24 of Taken By the Barbarian King

But think, I do not, when I'm dragged into meetings as soon as I set foot on Aysgoth. The royal council is ravenous for a report on my liberation, my liberated, and our betrothal. To them, all that matters is that we seal the deal so that I can claim my rightful throne and lead my people.

So I have no choice but to answer their questions.

Was the mission successful? Yes.

Did I liberate a bride? Yes.

Did I isolate my bride for five days and five nights as per tradition? Yes. Kind of. They don't need to know about our little after-dark escape.

"And did you saturate your bride with your royal seed?"

By land and sea, what kind of question is that?

I knew the questions wouldn't be a stroll through the snow but do they really need to know if I've drakked her, how many times, in what positions, and how much of my "royal seed" I've filled her with?

Apparently, they do, as the questions get more and more personal. The more I'm expected to answer, the more I think about her, about my Lottie, and all the names she's called me and my people since I met her. Why does she have to be so right, though?

Because we are barbarians. We are brutes. And most of all, we are prisoners of our traditions.

I understand why once upon a time they may have needed to know all these details in order to determine whether a marriage was consummated and whether the child was truly the king's heir, but our technology and education have advanced far enough that we don’t need all this antiquated intrusion to determine anything.

I have half a mind to blast it all, blast the whole council and go, run away with my Lottie, far away from here, but my father… he's old. He needs his retirement and I promised him I'd claim my throne before long.

"I take it the meeting didn't go well?" Mother asks me when the room is clear and I'm still sitting at the table.

"It went fine," I grumble.

"Carix, don't forget I know you better than you know yourself," she says, putting her hand on my shoulder, the act making me turn to look her in the eyes.

"I'm not five anymore, Mother. When will you stop calling me Carix?"

She glowers at me and squeezes me as she answers "I'll call you my carix even when you have your own carix and when you're old and weak and half the brute you are now."

I groan.

"I'm sure I can get you executed for such a crime," I tell her, matching her glower but despite being a man and far scarier, she doesn't flinch.

"I'll call the executioner myself."

Gods, I love my mother. I know it's not proper as a man to speak such things out loud, especially as a future king, but it doesn't hurt to admit it to myself. And it's true. She knows me better than I know myself. And even though I hate it when she calls me by the same pet name she's used since I was a babe, it does bring me some comfort. One day, in the far—far distant future hopefully—she won't be around to call me anything. So I'll take it for as long as I can.

"If I knew how much of a headache this liberation was going to be, I would have reconsidered." I relax my face and my shoulders and let out a loud sigh.

"I wouldn't know since I'm not allowed in these meetings."

I turn and stare at her.

"Mother, they wanted to know how much I ejaculated. In milliliters. As if I'm… supposed to measure it somehow. And what the hell are milliliters?"

Mother creases her face.

"Gods, that doesn't sound pleasant at all."

"You think?" I raise an eyebrow.

Mother mimics me as she asks: "So… did you? Perform your… duties a lot this week?"

Oh drak.

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