“You will stay here. You will not argue appropriate interactions or draw lines between us in the name of The Trade. Do you understand that everything is different now? Say yes, my king, and I will take you to my room.”
She swallows, and my cock stiffens.
“Say it.”
“What of my shots?”
“Your question implies you do not trust me to take care of you.” I frown, but answer, “Your Watcher will take you to the Medi-deck each first-light for your scan and vitamins.”
“Paisley,” she informs, as though I should use her name. Insolent little creature. “What of my Collective?”
This fucking girl.
Just say, ‘Yes, my king.’
I talk through grit teeth. “What of them?”
“I wish to see them—often.”
Sighing roughly, I sweep my thumb over her smooth cheek. Why the fuck do I want to give her everything? “You may see them when you wish, but Odio will accompany you outside this wing.”
“He scares people.”
“That is by design.”
She chews on her bottom lip and shows her acceptance in two slow nods. “Yes, my king.”
Better.
I walk her down the corridor toward my chamber, allowing her time to study each taxidermized eagle head mounted along the walls. The magnificent beasts increase in size until the skulls are larger than her own.
Odio’s lineage.
She muses. “Does this not make you sad?”
My boots rap on the tiles while her feet glide, weightless.
“If my heirs wish to cut off my head and hang it once I am dead,” I say, “they are more than welcome to.”
I expect a gasp, but she simply hums. “I don’t think you’ll have that opportunity. No one could rest with you staring at them, my king.”
A chuckle breaks from me.
“Was that a laugh that I heard?” Tuscany’s voice sails down the corridor, the melodic flow drawing Aster’s attention.
“My queen.” Aster curtsies.
My sweet sister stops a few feet away from us. I’m surprised she is here… nosy, perhaps. Though, that is not in her nature. Disappearing is.
She enjoys her space and very rarely touches anyone. When she does, it’s a fucking butterfly on skin, terrified a small twitch will turn it to dust on broken wings.
She rests her small hands in front of her waist, her hair as straight as her posture. “It has been many years since I heard a laugh in these halls.”
My smile thins, her presence reminding me of my failings. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I came to say a few words.” She squares her narrow shoulders, pretending to have confidence that does not exist. “I approve, but please do not keep her locked in this wing, Sire. She is far too bright.”
Not Rome.
Sire.
Her words land a blow to my chest, embedding with the bullets and shrapnel I have claimed over years of war. I don’t answer, and she doesn’t elaborate. I hear her.
She reaches out to touch me but retracts her hand and slowly turns to leave. Tuscany does not walk as though the floor is a shell she might crack beneath each heel—my sister walks as though she is the shell.
I watch her disappear around a corner, my chest pounding with anger, not at her, not at all. At my own fucking helplessness.
Tearing my eyes away, I am met with the enquiring violet gaze that slows my heart to a steady, powerful beat. My little creature, now mine, somehow levels me.
“You do bring me peace,” I declare, staring down at her; though, she is tiny, a power greater than my darkness resides within her.
“Tell me,” I ask, guiding her into my room and shutting the door behind us. “Why did you pick gold for your sheet?"
Her brows weave. “My king asks an odd question.”
“I learned from the best.”
My little creature looks at the floor. Blushes. Her eyes glisten with something akin to what I feel but cannot put into words. “It was a little fever dream, but I didn't pick gold. I picked yellow. Like the missing sun.” She spins to take in my room, as elaborate, yet traditional as the rest of my wing.
My eyes track her as she moves around the space, looking like a baby bird in the cage of a monstrous eagle.
"Paisley noted down gold,” I state.
"Maybe they are the same colour to her."
That I had not considered. "Perhaps."
"What is your favourite colour, my king?"
"I'm not a child. I do not have a favourite colour."
"You’re a being of decisions and actions. What about a favourite number? I am sure you have a favourite number.” She looks at the bed. “No steps?”
“No Common.”
She beams at that admission. Yes, sweet creature, you’re the only one. Tuscany is right, she is bright. “Let me guess your favourite number.”
“I don't have one.”
My little creature strolls to me, her steps far sultrier, like a dance, than my sister’s. Craning her neck, she stares into my eyes, diving in deep, intent on finding a silent answer.
She stares until it hurts. "One."
The corner of my mouth lifts, smirking. I want her. Her eyes widen when I pick her up at her waist. Her legs dangle, shoes two feet off the floor, not knowing what to do now.
“Wrap your legs around my waist.”
She does, and her warm core presses to my abdomen. With a little hesitance, her hands rest on my shoulders, her gentle fingers feed into my hair, and I fucking groan when she strokes me.
“Purring for me again, my king.”
I should hate this—
I do hate this.
I roll my head further against her caress, closing my eyes. Not sure of anything in this moment. My reality has been changed since I met you, little creature. I don't even recognise myself, but instead, see what I am through you.
"Am I right? Is that your favourite number?"
I open my eyes to hers inches away and answer—a lie and truth. "Yes.” But I don't have a favourite number because I'm not that man, not a man at all, but— Now I have a favourite number.
And it's one.
Her eyes suddenly well up, and I frown. “What is it.” She peers down and squirms to get free, but I don’t release her. “No.”
“Please, put me down so I can discuss something of great importance with you, my king.”
A deep, rough sigh leaves me. I don’t want to discuss anything of ‘great importance.’ I want to fuck her on my bed until the sheets smell like her pussy.
“Please.”
Well, fuck.
I walk us to the sunken circular rest area in the centre of the room and sit down with her on my lap.
Her legs stretch wide to accommodate the breadth of my hips, and my cock fills with blood, creating a long thick bulge right at her warm apex.
Her eyes widen.
I thrust my hips upward to show her how hard I am, what I want, what I will have. Growling, I imagine every way I will taste her, places that will feed my depravities.
My eyes home-in on her throat. The fluttering pulse in her thin neck calls to me. I lean in and kiss it. Her sweet nerves feel like a frantic little butterfly beneath my tongue as I lick her.
She moans and tilts her head.
That’s a good girl.
“Please, my king,” she says to the ceiling, her words contorted with moans and whimpers. I massage both hands up her back, leaving no inch uncovered, from her hips to her neck and back, arching and curving her, consuming her with my attention and pressure.