Page 65 of Warlord’s Prize

"Tell them I'll be in tomorrow's strategy session," I reply, stretching out on our bed. My body has mostly recovered from childbirth, though certain oni-specific postpartum treatments accelerated the healing process considerably. "But I'm bringing her with me."

His eyes snap up to mine, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Elder Voss will be scandalized."

"Elder Voss needs to understand that the future of Bloodcrest clan leadership involves practical childcare knowledge," I counter, enjoying the mental image of the ancient oni warrior confronted with our drooling infant. "Besides, she falls asleep instantly when Commander Thorne talks. It's the perfect strategy session soundtrack."

Kazuul's rumbling laugh fills our chambers, and Kaida blinks up at the sound, her tiny face scrunching in concentration as she processes this new sensory input. After a moment, her mouth stretches in what might be her first smile.

"She approves of your irreverence," he notes with unmistakable pride.

"She's going to need that irreverence," I say, more serious now. "She'll face challenges neither of us can fully prepare her for. Too oni for the humans, too human for the oni. A foot in both worlds and fully welcome in neither."

Kazuul carefully places Kaida in the bassinet beside our bed – custom-built to accommodate both her small size and the protective oni inscriptions that ring its perimeter. His massive hand spans the entire bed, dwarfing our daughter but somehow making her look more protected rather than diminished.

"She will be stronger for it," he says with absolute conviction. "As you were. As we became together."

When he joins me on our bed, the mattress dips dramatically beneath his weight. His heat envelops me immediately, the familiar scent of him – smoke and metal and something uniquelyhim– making my body respond with pavlovian eagerness. The claiming mark at my neck pulses in recognition of its maker, sending pleasant tingles down my spine.

"I thought you needed rest," I tease as his hand finds my hip, thumb tracing circles against my skin through the thin fabric of my nightdress.

"I never said that," he rumbles, golden eyes darkening with familiar hunger. "I believe I suggested you delegate more responsibilities to territorial administrators. That's entirely different from rest."

"Semantics," I murmur, even as I arch into his touch. Three months postpartum, and my body still responds to him with embarrassing eagerness.

His hand slides upward, cupping my breast with careful attention to the lingering sensitivity. "The medical officers cleared you for full activities two weeks ago," he reminds me, voice dropping to that register that sends shivers racing along my spine.

"Is that why you've been so patient?" I ask, turning to face him fully. "Medical clearance?"

His laugh vibrates through the mattress. "I've been patient because you produced our child through considerable physical effort," he corrects. "Patience seemed the appropriate response."

I run my hand along his massive chest, fingers tracing the tribal markings that have become as familiar to me as my own skin. "And if I said I didn't want to wait anymore?"

The growl that rises from his chest is answer enough. In one fluid motion, he pulls me on top of him, massive hands spanning my waist. The position puts me in control, allows me to set the pace – another subtle acknowledgment of my recovery that I find unexpectedly touching.

"I've missed this," I admit, leaning down to kiss him. "Missed you."

"I've been right here," he points out, hands roaming my body with increasing hunger.

"You know what I mean."

His grin reveals those slightly pointed teeth. "I do. But I enjoy hearing you say it."

My nightdress joins his sleeping pants on the floor, leaving us skin to skin. The heat of him burns against me, his massive body radiating warmth that chases away the lingering autumn chill. When his hand slides between my thighs, finding me already slick and ready, his pleased growl vibrates through both of us.

"So eager," he murmurs, one massive finger sliding inside me with careful attention to my body's response. "Always so ready for me."

I rock against his hand, shameless in my need. "It's been three months," I remind him, gasping as his thumb finds my clit. "I think I'm entitled to some eagerness."

His free hand cups the back of my neck, drawing me down for a kiss that quickly turns hungry, demanding. "Three months, two weeks, and four days," he corrects against my lips. "But who's counting?"

"You, apparently," I laugh, the sound breaking into a moan as he adds a second finger alongside the first.

When he finally withdraws his hand, I position myself above his massive cock, the blunt head pressing against my entrance with familiar insistence. Despite how many times we've done this, the initial stretch still makes me gasp – his size proportional to his enormous frame, stretching me to my limit with exquisite care.

"Slowly," he cautions, massive hands steadying my hips. "You're still healing."

"I'm fine," I insist, sinking down inch by exquisite inch. The burn is familiar, almost welcome after so long without this connection. "Better than fine."

When I'm finally seated completely, his cock creating the now-familiar bulge in my lower abdomen, we both pause to adjust. The fullness is overwhelming after three months without, my body relearning how to accommodate his impossible size.

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