The Warrior King (Inferno Rising #3) - Abigail Owen Page 0,83

for a similar toy, one more complicated, shaped like a star.

Pytheios scowled. “Where—”

Jakkobah held up a hand. “Rhiamon, and I quote, declines to watch you bind yourself falsely to this whore who has not earned your love or respect.”

Fire stirred in his belly, and Pytheios let it burn. He would need it for the mating.

Tisiphone patted his hand carefully, as though she couldn’t stand to touch his rotting skin. Not rotting for much longer. “Probably better she not be here anyway,” she said.

She was right, of course. He should probably be glad Rhiamon hadn’t burned Everest to the ground when she’d learned of his plan to mate another.

He glanced to Jakkobah. “And our other witness?”

Jakkobah gave a birdlike bob of his head. “Shall be here shortly, my king.”

As though on cue, a knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” Pytheios called.

First to enter was a large man who, despite being a gold dragon, could almost pass for a black dragon with his darker hair and eyes. “I almost had her,” he snarled as he prowled into the room. “Why was I called back?”

“To witness my mating.”

Brock pulled up sharply at that, his gaze cutting to Tisiphone. “I’m…honored to be included.”

“And after that, your own position might be addressed…” He let the sentence dangle, enticing.

Satisfaction lit Brock’s eyes a molten iron ore, and he dipped his head in an uncharacteristic approximation of a bow. “Then I am doubly honored.”

Four armed guards appeared behind him, two hauling their almost incoherent charge, who appeared unable to keep his feet beneath him or his head, which hung limp from his shoulders, raised. One guard grabbed him by the hair and forced his head up.

“Who am I?” Pytheios demanded.

A dark-gray fire, like billowing smoke, lit the eyes of his prisoner. “A murdering, thieving bastard,” the prisoner slurred.

Excellent. He needed this witness above all the others. “You are here to observe my mating with the one true phoenix, solidifying my claim as High King. When this is done, we will return you to your clan so that you can report to all what has transpired here before your eyes. Understand?”

The man before him forced his feet beneath him, grunting with the pain and effort of it, and slowly shook off the men supporting him. He swayed, but he faced down Pytheios on his own. “Get on with it, then,” Gorgon spat. “I haven’t got all fucking day.”

…

Firelight made Samael’s mate glow, or was it her soul shining outward through her happiness?

They sat on a thick alpaca rug on the floor in front of the fireplace, his back propped against the couch and Meira between his legs, leaning against his chest.

Meira was happy—relaxed in a way he hadn’t seen from her before. He’d gifted her that much, at least. He intended to give her so much more.

These two days, as his mate recuperated and renewed the fire within her, despite being on constant alert, had been like a moment stolen from time. Their own private world where only the two of them existed. No politics. No High King. No people to lead to a better life. No place where convincing the Black Clan to follow them still hovered on this side of impossible. Two days of laughing together, talking, exploring, discovering her past and sharing his own. No planning for the future beyond returning to Ararat to claim the throne, and, please the gods, unite his people.

Samael allowed his gaze to linger on the nape of Meira’s neck. She’d piled her curls on top of her head, giving him a direct view of unmarked, unmarred skin there.

While she was his mate, the clan might not believe them until the brand appeared. However, they couldn’t wait for that to happen. Not when it could take up to a year. Not with reports that more and more black dragons had disappeared, abandoning their home and their people.

Without consciously deciding to do so, he feathered a kiss across that bare patch of skin.

Against him, Meira shivered, then turned her head to eye him, concern pinching her lips. “Whatever you’re feeling, don’t hide it from me. Are you disappointed?”

Samael shook his head. “Not disappointed. Worried.”

She frowned and scooted around in the circle of his arms to face him more fully. “Proof, right?”

Samael smiled and wrapped a lock of her vibrant hair around one finger, the tresses silky against his skin, and soothing in a strange way. “Reading my emotions again?”

She shook her head. “No. You and I are often on the same