Page 18 of Mated to the Alien Warlord

"I beg your pardon, Warlord, but there wasn't much of a choice," he defended.

I ground my jaw, scrutinizing another barely there, blood-red dress.

"This won't do," I ground out. "Find a seamstress. There has to be a seamstress among the followers."

"Kar, Warlord." The servant bowed and moved quickly out of my tent before I unleashed my famous temper on him.

"I'm sorry," I apologized to Damaris.

She stared at the dresses that each would expose various body parts upon wearing. "Are all the camp followers…?"

She struggled finding the right word, and I helped her out, "Pleasure workers? Nyck. But I imagine the other dresses to be plainer and worn."

She picked out a violet dress. "If you have a sewing kit, I can work with this."

I put my cup down and moved to one of my trunks until I found the requested item and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

"I rather like this one." I brushed the dress with the open cleavage.

Her smile went straight to my loins. "I bet you would."

Her words left me breathless for a moment. She wasn't like any kallini I had ever met before who would have thrown a fit over not having the right clothes to wear after having her entire wardrobe burned.

Not her though. So far, she had taken everything thrown at her with the utmost composure, the kind I would expect to find in one of my seasoned warriors, not a kallini.

Our eyes met and something unspoken moved between us, something beyond simple attraction. The very air between us seemed to become electric, but it wasn't just a physical attraction. I sensed a bond growing between us and hoped it would only strengthen over time, because I very much wanted to get to know this kallini with her sense of humor and even temper better.

I reached her side with a few easy strides and pulled her against my chest. "I will buy you the largest wardrobe a kallini has ever possessed when we return to Wyrkymburg."

"Right now, one dress would suffice," she smiled up at me, and I bent my head down to kiss her tempting lips.

Her arms moved around my neck, and she snuggled into my embrace, rising on her tiptoes to accommodate my kiss better. I swiped the fur covering her off to have her naked skin rub against mine and groaned.

"Vandor," she said my name when our kiss broke and we stared into each other's eyes, besotted with one another.

As much as my cock burned to bury itself into her sweet cunt again, I reminded myself that she had been a virgin. She needed time to heal and rest. So I pulled her into my arms and carried her to the bathtub, finding the water still lukewarm.

I gingerly washed her down, drinking in her form and shape. Had the gods asked me what I wanted my mate to look like, I would have described her with her generously curved form. She was soft in all the places where I was hard, and I liked it.

Her eyelids drooped. It was the first sign I had seen from her of her weariness, and I scooped her up again, dried her, and gently deposited her on the bed.

"Vandor," she said with a smile on her lips as her head nuzzled into the pillow, and I couldn't stop myself from caressing her long blonde tresses.

"Sleep, czira, get some rest," I mumbled before I, too, took a bath.

Loudnoiseswokemefrom a deep, peaceful slumber. I must have been more tired than I thought because I didn't remember much after Vandor deposited me in the tub and… Vandor!

My eyes ripped open, and I found him fully dressed by the table, bent over the map, studying it.

My heart skipped a beat at seeing him. A white shirt billowed around his large frame, accentuating his wide shoulders, shoulders I remembered laying on last night. I remembered the hardness of his chest and the bulge of his biceps when he made love to me.

A warm sensation rushed through me at the memory of that. The things we did, the way he kissed me. I suppressed a moan to not let him know I was awake yet, giving me more time to study this magnificent man.

I always admired the Thyres when they came to our town to buy horses. They were so much bigger and larger than human men that I had never even developed a crush on any of my father's warriors. No man had ever compared to a Thyre. And I had a feeling that no Thyre would ever compare to my warlord.

His thick black braid, the symbol marking him a warlord, was slung over his other shoulder, out of my sight, but I knew it was there.

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