Page 32 of WarBride

It occurs to me for the first time that this might not be an easy situation for him. Despite his prowess, his power, his dominance . . . perhaps this is not what he expected to happen. He said he did not know the laws of Noxaur when he bid on me. For all I know, he might not want me. Not likethat, anyway. Not like Artoris did. I am human, after all, and he is . . . well, he may not be fae, but he is certainly not human. I may very well be entirely undesirable to his eye.

Why does that idea displease me? It ought to be a relief, yet part of me is disappointed. That small, dangerous, almost-suppressed part of me which knows I am meant to be hungered for, and to feel that hunger in return.

Taar lowers his mouth to my hand and kisses me for the first time. His lips are warm and soft. It’s not a simple peck or salute. He lingers for a moment while his eyes hold mine.

My heart tightens and performs a little flip. This is unexpected. There’s something in that touch, something in that way he looks at me. A promise of sorts, simple and yet profound enough to stir something deep inside me. A fire in my gut that no longer feels quite like rage.

He lifts his head again. His hand still grips mine, and I feel where his mouth had been. The flesh burns, and streaks of warmth radiate up my arm. He takes one step back, then another. He’s leading me, I realize. Away from the fire, away from the two chairs. Into the softer light which bathes that great bed. My stomach knots. I feel again as though I’m standing on top of the garden wall back home, and a strong wind blows. That rush—that thrill of terror. That sense of an imminent plunge just waiting to claim me, coupled with a strange, unnatural hope that maybe, just maybe, if I stepped out into the empty air, I wouldn’t plummet, but fly.

Taar sits down on the edge of the bed. Gods, even seated, his head is still level with my own! This man is huge, truly huge. How will I ever . . . that is, I am supposed to receive him inside me, and yet . . . I don’t think I can. He’s got to be very large down there.

Damn it, I’m starting to tremble all over again.

“Now, now,zylnala,” he says. Ever so gently, he runs his knuckle along the curve of my cheek. “I vowed to let no harm come to you. Remember? Allow me to prove myself here and now. You will suffer no pain at my hand.”

A likely story. But I nod and steel my spine. “Do it then,” I say. My voice sounds harsh in this space of firelight and softness. “I am ready.”

He shakes his head. “I think not. What I must do, I cannot do without your trust. You must be willing to place yourself wholly into my care and keeping. Only then can we achieve what we must together.”

I shake my head. I’ve had about enough of all this foolish talk. “I’m not an idiot,” I growl. “I’ve seen horses coupling.”

Taar blinks. “Horses?”

“Yes. And cats. And dogs.”

His brow puckers, confused. His hand withdraws from my cheek.

“I’m saying that I may not have much experience of my own, but I know the basics of what must be done. It doesn’t involve anything you’re describing, none of thistrustandprotectionnonsense. None of thisachievement.What is there to achieve about it? Unless you’re expecting something from me beyond the basics of coupling.”

His eyes rove across my face, his brow drawn tight. He’s much older than I had initially thought. Now that I’m close and not in fear of imminent death, I can take in finer details than I had before. There are the trace beginnings of lines at the corners of his eyes, which I would not have expected to see. A fae certainly would have glamoured them away. Perhaps he isn’t fae after all. But whatever he is, he is unnaturally beautiful—breathtakingly, terrifyingly beautiful. Beautiful and old, not in years, but in experience. In life lived and suffering endured. The depth in his eyes might well be endless.

He blinks slowly, his black lashes thick and curled. “Ah!” he says at length. “Of course, I had heard tell that other peoples practice different bridal customs.” He looks down. His gaze strays briefly across my exposed body but focuses on my handonce more. He lowers his other hand, pressing my palm firmly between both of his. “Among the Licornyn, the wedding night proceeds thusly—the man must prove to his bride that she may trust his vows, including the vow to bring her pleasure and delight all the days of their shared life.” He looks up again, catching my gaze with his. “It isyourpleasure that matters here tonight. Our marriage will be consummated when we have discovered together the fullness of your delight here on our marriage bed.”

I stare at him. What am I supposed to make of this? “So . . . so you’re not going to . . . ?”

“If a man fails to please his wife, she may choose to end the marriage the next morning. Or she may give him more time, depending on the extent of his efforts. But if he were to take his pleasure from her without having first seen to her satisfaction, that would be the sign of an oathbreaker. She would be well within her rights to demandvel-rhoar. A sundering of their bond.”

My mouth opens and closes. Divorce. He’s talking about divorce. Initiated by the wife for her husband’s failure to . . . topleaseher? The only divorces I’ve ever heard of—and there’ve been few enough, that’s for certain—were always the same situation: a husband, tired of his wife and seeking to make a more advantageous match, inventing some excuse to convince the priestesses of Nornala to grant a sundering of their union. The wife never puts up any fight; after all, if divorce is not granted, her husband might turn to more lethal means to end his marriage.

But what Taar has just described . . . the concept is so utterly foreign. I don’t know what to make of it. “Surely you’re joking.”

“I assure you, I am not.” My warlord husband reaches out once more and brushes my cheek with the tips of his fingers. “If we are to seal our marriage tonight according to the custom ofmy people, it is my duty and my honor to find what pleases you. What brings you release and satisfaction.”

Blood throbs in my veins, pulsing through every limb and stirring in my stomach. I shake my head, trying to break the force of his gaze. “Can I not . . . can I not simply declare myself satisfied? Can we not shake hands and be done with it?”

A smile tilts his mouth. That sudden flash of white teeth through full lips and beard shocks me and sends the pulsing throb in my gut even lower, deeper. “Unfortunately, no. That is not the satisfaction this particular oath requires of me.”

“What then?”

“You do not know?”

I swallow. Then shake my head.

“Ah! You truly are an innocent then.”

My teeth grind, and my hand, still caught in his, clenches into a fist. “I am not.”

But he shakes his head hastily. “I mean no offence.Innocentseems to me a kindlier word thanignorant.”

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