Page 29 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
Livia whimpered, her fingers digging into his thighs. Marcus moved to kneel beside her, his mouth finding a breast, his teethscraping gently over the nipple in a way that made her gasp and arch her back. Jalend’s hands tightened on her hips, his thrusts becoming deeper, more focused. He was a scholar in all things, and he was studying her body, learning its responses with an intensity that was almost frightening.
“Livia,” Jalend choked out, his face contorted in a mask of ecstasy.
His movements became a frantic, desperate pounding, a mindless rhythm of pure need. He was chasing his release, and I was driving Livia towards another of her own, my mouth a relentless engine of pleasure. Her hips bucked, a wordless plea for more, for everything.
“Now, Jalend,” Marcus growled, his own voice thick.
Jalend obeyed. His control shattered, his hips slamming into her with a final, desperate force. He cried out her name, a single, sharp word of reverence, his body going rigid as he poured himself into her. She collapsed against him, boneless and utterly spent, a beautiful ruin we had made together. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest as the tremors subsided. I rested my head on her thigh, exhausted and complete. The four of us lay tangled in a mess of limbs and cooling sweat, the silence in the room filled with the sound of our mingled breathing.
Slowly, I lifted my head, my gaze meeting Jalend’s over Livia’s spent body. His eyes were dark with a shared, possessive heat that mirrored my own. There was no jealousy here, only the profound, earth-shattering certainty that we were exactly where we were supposed to be.
Jalend eased himself from Livia, his movements gentle, careful not to wake her as he settled beside her on the bed. He pulled a sheet over their bodies, a gesture of tenderness that seemed at odds with the raw carnality of the last hour. My heart ached with a love so fierce it was a physical pain.
Marcus finally moved, the rustle of sheets pulling my attention. He had been so still, an observer, a patient predator. He rose from his knees and came to stand over the bed, looking down at Livia's sleeping form. She stirred, her eyelids fluttering. Her gaze was hazy, unfocused, until it landed on him. A slow, tired smile touched her lips.
“You,” she breathed, her voice a thread of sound.
“Me,” he confirmed, his own voice a low, intimate rumble. He didn't ask. He lay on the mattress behind her, his body curving around hers. He lifted her leg, hooking it over his hip, opening her to him. I watched, fascinated, as he slid into her with a slow, deliberate pressure that made her gasp, her eyes widening.
His rhythm was nothing like ours had been. It was a lazy, confident rocking, a mastery of pace that was designed to prolong, to savour. Jalend’s hand found Livia’s, his thumb stroking her knuckles. I mirrored the movement, my hand covering her stomach, feeling the faint tremors as Marcus moved inside her. We were all touching her, all part of this.
“Mine,” Marcus whispered against her hair, the word a brand. He fucked her with that same steady rhythm until his own control frayed. With a low growl, he drove deep, his body shuddering as he came, a quiet, final claiming.
After a few moments, he quietly got up and returned with a damp cloth, cleaning her gently, even though she flinched at the touch, then got back in behind her, pulling her back against his chest.
“Sleep now, little one. We’ve got you,” he murmured.
I looked at Livia, curled against Marcus's chest, her body a testament to our collective adoration. She was sleeping, or close to it, her breathing deep and even, a peaceful rhythm in the quiet room. Her face, finally free of the worry and pain that had haunted her for weeks, was serene.
Jalend’s hand stroked her hair with a tenderness that made my chest ache. He caught my eye and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was a gesture of trust, an offering of peace between rivals who had somehow become allies. This was our family. Forged in the bloody sand of the ludus and the quiet desperation of an academy, but a family nonetheless.
Marcus shifted, propping himself up on an elbow. He looked down at Livia's sleeping face, his expression stripped of its usual teasing mask, leaving only a raw, fierce tenderness. "Well," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I suppose this means we have to learn to get along."
Jalend met his gaze, a slow, wry smile touching his lips. "I think we can manage."
Livia stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. Her gaze, hazy and soft, drifted from Jalend’s face, to Marcus’s, and then finally, to mine. A slow, languid smile spread across her lips. It was a smile of such profound contentment, of such utter belonging, that it struck me with the force of a physical blow. She reached a hand out to me, her fingers brushing my arm. It wasn’t a question, but an invitation.
I reached out, my hand finding Livia's, her fingers curling instinctively around mine. We could manage. For her, we would do anything. We would become anything. We were her protectors, her lovers, her family. And heaven help anyone who tried to tear us apart.
11
The morning sun felt good on my healing skin as I moved through the training forms with Septimus, though I could feel the pull of not-quite-healed muscle with every extension. Three weeks since the attack, and while I was up and moving again, I was nowhere near full strength. The frustration gnawed at me constantly—every day I spent here recovering was another day Kalen remained free, another day the war raged on, another day my people suffered.
But watching Septimus now, seeing how naturally he moved among the Talfen children who had gathered to watch us train, some of that frustration eased into something warmer. A little girl with dark braids had attached herself to his leg, chattering away in broken Common about the wooden sword he'd carved for her brother. Septimus listened with genuine interest, his responses patient and kind, his earlier prejudices seemingly completely abandoned.
It still amazed me, this transformation. The man who had once called my people demons now sat cross-legged in the dirt, showing a group of children how to properly grip a practicesword, his face lit with the same gentle enthusiasm I'd seen him show the younger gladiators back in the ludus. When one of the boys—barely six years old—managed to execute a passable thrust, Septimus's grin was radiant.
"Well done, Tael," he said in carefully pronounced Talfen, and the boy beamed with pride.
I had to look away, my throat tight with emotion I couldn't quite name. Guilt, maybe. Gratitude. Something deeper that I wasn't ready to examine too closely.
"Tarshi?" Septimus appeared at my elbow, concern creasing his features. "You're pushing too hard again. Your arm—"
"Is fine," I said automatically, though we both knew it wasn't entirely true. The broken bone had healed cleanly thanks to Mira's skill, but it was tender, still protesting when I demanded too much of it.
Septimus gave me a look that said he wasn't buying my deflection. "The training ground will still be here tomorrow. And the day after that."
I wanted to snap at him, to remind him that every day of delay meant more death, more suffering. But the children were still watching us, still listening, and I wouldn't let my frustration taint their innocence. Instead, I set down my practice sword and wiped the sweat from my forehead.
