voice thick. Unconsciously, he leaned forward, towards her, ever so slightly. His Instinct thrummed with the knowledge that she was close, that he could reach out and touch her. Despite the blood loss and the pain from earlier, his body still recognized Erin as his. And he needed her. Desperately.
“What will you give me if I tell you?” she asked, giving him a small, unabashed, buzzed smile he felt straight in his cock.
Jaxor could think of a few things…
Erotic, dark thoughts swarmed his mind. He imagined biting her neck the way he did in the forest. He imagined leaving an even bigger mark and imagined that she would crave that. He imagined—
Jaxor’s claws bit into his thigh when he curled them and he rasped, “What do you want?”
“Bargaining with me?” she asked, tilting her head to the side, her eyes glued to his. This intrigued her, he realized, his heartbeat quickening. And seeing her this way intrigued him. “I want you to tell me why you left the Golden City.”
Jaxor’s lips pressed together. He brought the bottle to his lips and took another healthy swallow. The fermented drink burned down his throat but he welcomed it.
“I left because…” he started.
Jaxor had left for a variety of reasons. The Plague. His mother’s murder by the Jetutians, followed shortly by his sire’s willing death to join her in the blackworld. His older blood brother’s ascension to the throne as Prime Leader.
Then came the anger. The grief. The knowledge that his sire had never thought Jaxor capable of ruling, that he’d simply been the spare heir, if anything had ever happened to Vaxa’an.
Because Vaxa’an had always been more. More than Jaxor could ever be. He’d been born first. He’d been the better warrior. He’d been level-headed and calm, where Jaxor had been impulsive and mischievous.
Then came the longing for revenge for his mother’s death. And Vaxa’an had brushed aside this need, wanting instead to not pursue war with the Jetutians, their oldest enemy. The enemy that had threatened their entire race, that had caused the countless murders of their females and of the males that loved them.
And his brother had chosen to do nothing.
Jaxor had been young then. He’d been impulsive and emotional. And like always, though he’d suffered the same loss Jaxor had, Vaxa’an had been logical. To invite a war with a shockingly powerful enemy—more powerful than the Luxirians had given them credit for—when a large portion of their race had been wiped out, when their planet still grieved and most were still in shock, when the throne was changing hands…that war would not have ended well.
Jaxor realized that now. But he’d been blinded in his youth, fresh from warrior training, with bloodlust and sorrow as his only companions.
“I left because the Golden City seemed haunted after the Plague,” he finally settled on. “By my mother, by my sire, by the countless we lost. The terraces were quiet. Unbearably so. And I could not take it.”
He’d left to seek out the Mevirax. Jaxor’s nostrils flared and he took another swig of the Otalian Brew.
Erin was studying him to the point that it made him shift. Jaxor wasn’t used to being looked at. Not so closely. All his lifespan, his brother had been the one to claim most of the attention. At every Lunar Celebration, at every dinner, in the streets of the Golden City, even during mock battles in warrior training, Vaxa’an was the future Prime Leader. Jaxor loved him, just like every other being on Luxiria.
But later in life, Jaxor could never look his blood brother in the eye, knowing that a part of him hated Vaxa’an. Knowing that a part of him wanted everything he had, wanted everything he would have. Jaxor wished he could be happy and proud to have such an accomplished brother, but all Jaxor could feel was loathing mingled with his love and adoration.
He’d hated himself for it.
Erin was still looking at him, her eyes gleaming with knowing, as if she could hear every last unspoken thought in Jaxor’s mind.
“I always liked being on my own, anyways,” he finished lamely, unsettled by her scrutiny.
She didn’t comment on his answer, nor did she comment on his blackened mood, though she was probably used to it. Instead, she held up her end of the bargain, saying, “I am used to being angry because my father left my mother and me when I was baby. Then my stepfather, the father of my half-siblings, whom I love dearly, was