Page 63 of With Fangs and Claws (The Wolf Queen 1)

Once we’d eaten, our bellies were full, the room was warm and this created a cocoon of drowsiness that sucked all of us into the bed, Axe donating another shirt for me to change into. I’d gone into the room I’d had my bath in, but when I actually went to lie down, that lethargy deserted me. As was often the case, it took until I was relaxed for my brain to bombard me with worries.

I had no idea what the capital of Strelae was like. Named Snowmere, it had originally been a citadel of the old queen that ruled over the whole country, the city slowly spreading over the clifftop the castle was built upon. There was only one way into the city, through a manned gate, the rest of the city residing behind a tall, very thick wall created from quarried rocks many years ago. And that was the sum total of my knowledge about our final destination. I was kicking myself that I hadn’t asked more questions as I heard the men’s sighs get longer and longer, as they fell deeper into sleep. All except one.

I was lying between Axe and Gael. Weyland had argued I should sleep with him, but the others shot him down after stealing me away today. Dane removed himself from the race after manhandling me this morning, which just left Axe and Gael. Axe held me tucked in against his body, his hand scrupulously above the waist, though I’m not sure that helped. My skin seemed to come alive when, and wherever, any of them touched me. I felt like a small child sheltered by a cliff, lying against his immense bulk. And Gael? He was very good at mimicking the attitude of sleep, his breaths quiet and even, his eyes kept resolutely closed as I studied the proud form of his face.

Like the others, his was one of harsh angles. His cheekbones were severely flat planes, his forehead broad, his chin square. He had those long, long eyelashes that men do not care for and women envy. His eyes were the same deep blue as his brothers, but that’s where the similarities ended. He would’ve hated me staring at him, I knew that, because up close and personal like this, I could see the scars.

All of the brothers wore marks, little nicks and slices that had long since healed, but there was something else about Gael’s face. His scars were deeper, redder, as if someone had gouged out slivers of flesh with their claws, which made me wonder what had happened to him.

Kings, dukes, lords, they all had by-blows, children that came as a result of dallying with women or maintaining a mistress, but that noble blood frequently saved the child from a life of neglect. They might not inherit a grand estate, but it was seen to be important that any son that was produced from an aristocratic line was cared for in accordance with the law, bastard daughters married off quickly to loyal knights or minor noblemen. So if Gael was the bastard child of the king, how did he come by such scars? Perhaps my thoughts were too loud. Perhaps he just felt my eyes on his face, as Gael often seemed able to, but his eyes flicked open, meeting mine, no haze of sleep within them. He frowned slightly, but didn’t look away.

“You should sleep,” he whispered, little more than mouthing the words.

“Can’t,” I replied, just as quiet. I wanted to talk about that, about the tension in my body, the frantic bunny beat of my heart, but I couldn’t, not without waking the others.

He scanned what he could see of me, his eyes running up and down my body before his eyes met mine again.

“Do you need…?”

He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, to articulate what he thought I might need. His hand slid closer though, across the small divide between us and I knew exactly how this would go. It’d be like this morning, the shadow of that exquisite pleasure so easily roused in me, my body priming itself for more, but my hand caught his, my fingers weaving between his, stopping him from going any further.

I couldn’t be quiet enough for one. Whatever happened, I’d be sobbing my pleasure into my hand and waking the others and then no one would get any sleep, so reluctantly, I held him off. His expression changed then, closing off like when the shop keepers set the shutters up in their windows at the end of trading. Perhaps it was that, his face, the faint air of regret and shame, that made me do what came next.

I released his fingers and they curled into a fist, the muscles in his arm pulling tight in response, and that’s what I let my fingertips dance over. The cords standing proud on his forearm, quivering slightly under my inspection, the bulge of his bicep and the vein that snaked up and along its length. He sucked in a breath as my fingers moved higher, tracing the curve of his shoulder, then dipping into the hollow of his collarbone.

“Darcy!”

He didn’t say the words, didn’t let his vocal cords move even a millimetre, but the violence with which he mouthed my name made clear his protest. But I just smiled. Because despite his tension, his bitten-off words, he didn’t stop me. Not when I traced my fingers along the strong column of his throat, not as I passed over the small hollow at the base of his neck, nor when I smoothed my hand across his chest. No, instead his eye glowed brightest blue, and his breath came in shorter and shorter pants as I touched him.

I liked this, being able to reach out and explore, rather than being always on the receiving end of other people’s touch. I was able to marvel at the velvety smoothness of his skin, the only softness he seemed to have in him. He blinked, seeming to accept this attention even if he didn’t entirely endorse it. But he moved with my hand, just slightly, opening other parts of him to my touch, letting my fingers trace the clean lines of his muscles, right up until my nail traced the small oval of his nipple.

The skin crinkled immediately, the bead pulling tight and hard. I gave it a tiny little tug, something that had me jerking away as he let out a harsh hiss, but as I inspected him more closely, I figured that wasn’t a pain response. His eye was heavily lidded now, those full lips parting, and when my fingers returned, he arched his back slightly into that. I rubbed the hard point between my fingertips, catching the slightest ghost of a moan from him until I pinched down.

The reason why I liked practising on the training field was because it made me feel powerful. Nordred had trained me for some time, building on my skills and exercising them made me feel like my body was strong and competent and would do what I needed it to. Strangely, touching Gael did the same. I had no idea what I was doing, but as I touched him, as I watched his lips fall open, his mouth forming an O, I felt a fierce kind of satisfaction. His face transformed into one of torturous pleasure, an echo of the same I’d felt this morning.

My eyes slid down to see his hips shifting instinctively beneath the covers. I kept my fingers moving in the same rolling motion, his nipple swelling slightly under my ministrations. But the other hand? I shifted until I could slide it down his chest, over his flexing abdomen, down, down, until his hand slapped over mine, stopping me from going any further.

I didn’t need to.

Did I look the same way when he’d touched me in the morning? Did my eyes go wide and staring? Did I look caught halfway between agony and ecstasy? Did I let out little pants in rapid succession as I rode the wave of pleasure? I felt a ghost of it inside me, something ready to waken and grow if Gael had a mind to, but right now I wanted to push my own desires aside and see to his.

This made me feel powerful. I was touching him, pleasing him, destroying any composure he might have, and replacing it with this. His hand moved mine just slightly lower. I could feel the tent in his trews just out of reach, but he pressed my hand hard against his abdomen until I felt it flex.

“Darcy…” he hissed, just the tiniest of breaths. “Darcy!”

I knew what had his muscles tensing, what made his whole body jerk and twitch, knew how it must have made him feel to have those waves of pleasure slamming into him. I rubbed my hand over his skin, slowly, just soothing him through this until finally he stopped.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I expected Gael to act afterwards, but it wasn’t this. He snatched me from Axe’s arms, the other man grumbling sleepily, but Gael pushed a pillow into them, which seemed to satisfy his brother. Which just left Gael and me. He stared down at me for a second, then dragged me into his arms, turning so his chest became my pillow. He smelled so good, of pine needles, sandalwood and clean male flesh, and his hand moved slowly across my shoulder blades in a way that helped my muscles unwind.

“Do you need…?”

He actually spoke the words. I heard them vibrating through his chest, even if they came out as little more than a hoarse whisper.

“I need this,” I replied, burrowing my head into his chest. And then for the first time ever, I heard him chuckle.

I fell asleep,just like that, cuddled into one of these inscrutable men who seemed determined to claim me as their mate, feeling a strange kind of peace.

That didn’t last long.

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