The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,116

the sight, Serovek grabbed her hips, steadying himself more than her as she shifted positions just enough and sank down on him again, his cock buried to the hilt inside her. His eyes rolled back no matter how much he tried to keep them trained on Anhuset's face and the ecstasy in her expression.

She rode him hard, harder than any woman he'd had before her. She embraced her pleasure and his, enthusiastic and unapologetic in her appreciation of his prowess and love of his touch. For the first time in his life he made love to a woman he wasn't worried about hurting, a woman whose own strength equaled his, who gave as good as she got and then some, who demanded every last drop of his ardor and kissed him until his lungs were on fire.

She'd told him he wouldn't survive her. Serovek was beginning to think she was right. At least he'd die a very satisfied, contented man. His orgasm didn't wash over him in a gentle rush but slammed into him like a storm wave. He chanted Anhuset's name in his head even as his mouth struggled to emit more than groans and growls as feral sounding as hers had been. He kept thrusting until he was emptied and his bones turned to water. She loomed above him in all her naked majesty, a deity, and he her supplicant beneath her.

It was a very fine place to be.

Erostis never appeared to interrupt their interlude. They finally dressed, which took much longer than needed thanks to several interruptions of kissing and caressing.

“Remind me to send the monks a sizable gift for their monastery once I return to High Salure,” he told her. “Without their considerable healing talents, this...” he gestured to the cavern and also her, “would have never happened.” She gave him a dubious look. “At least not now.”

They gathered their things. Anhuset might have forgotten about the ribbon but Serovek had not. He tucked it into the cuff of his tunic's sleeve. A ribbon but also a treasure beyond price. Just like the woman who'd worn it.

Chapter Thirteen

Now would be a very good time to pray.

Their journey to the monastery had been rife with obstacles, violence and tragedy, its very purpose the grim delivery of a man's living but soulless body into the safekeeping of his fellow monks. Yet Anhuset knew when they all returned home, Serovek and Erostis to High Salure and she to Saggara, she'd hold close the memory of her time with the Jeden Order and with Serovek most of all. He was no longer simply the annoying, intriguing margrave, but her lover now.

She stood on one of the balconies overlooking the Lobak valley, washed in the new green of early spring. Patches of snow still lingered in sheltered places, and her breath hung misty in the brisk morning air. She kept her back to the rising sun and the hood of her cloak pulled far forward to protect her eyes as she surveyed lands bequeathed to and controlled by the Jeden Order.

It looked peaceful, but its appearance was deceptive. This valley remained embroiled in conflict, though she hoped with Chamtivos's death, those who balked at being under Jeden rule and had their lands confiscated for it, might finally come to a truce with the monks. She recalled Karulin's words when he challenged Chamtivos, reminding the warlord that they'd veered from their purpose of fighting for their lands to preying on innocent travelers.

Chamtivos, cruel and ambitious, retained the loyalty of most of his followers through fear or under the guise of pursuing a just cause. Some remained devoted because they could revel in their own brutality under his command. Those had been the ones who beat Serovek so brutally—more for sport than for extracting information from a recalcitrant captive. They were also the ones who volunteered to join Chamtivos's hunt and met a just end.

Karulin and the others had stayed behind, and Anhuset wondered if Chamtivos's second had used that time to sway those with him to turn on their leader. In his place, she would have done so. Loyalty given had to be loyalty earned in her opinion, and Chamtivos had forfeited his reputation when he became a brigand instead of a rebel. From what little she'd learned of Karulin himself, she believed his leadership would offer a chance for peaceful coexistence if the monks were smart enough not to kill him first.

Footsteps sounded behind her, quiet ones, especially considering the size