“Yes. Very.”
“Too bad.” Valerian took another step toward her, his masculine scent wafting to her, filling her nostrils. Strong and spicy—so arousing her tee abraded her nipples and an ache throbbed between her legs.
She’d never been a sexual creature, and these new sensations rocked her to the core. How long could she fight them? How long could she resist this man?
“What thoughts are rolling through your head, hmm?” he asked, his voice huskier than before.
Did he know she was aroused? No, no. He couldn’t. Please!
“I was—” What? She wouldn’t admit the truth, but she wouldn’t lie, either. “You’re right. I’m hungry.”
For several seconds he remained quiet. She used the time to cool her molten desires, reciting math equations in her mind.
Men = Heartbreak × Wasted Time.
Of course: Heartbreak = Wasted Time.
So: Men = Heartbreak × (Heartbreak) = Relationship.
Therefore: Relationship = Pain + Suffering.
Conclusion? Men = Pain + Suffering.
“Come, Moon.” Once again, he extended his hand. “I will feed you.”
“Food?” she asked, just to be certain.
“Food.”
Very well. She placed her hand in his. Such heat! Such strength! His calluses delighted her.
Contact had been a mistake. A big—really big—mistake. But she didn’t pull away. He brought her knuckles to his mouth to kiss...to lick and taste, and she shivered.
“Valerian.”
“Shaye.” He smiled at her, a slice of heaven in a life that had been hell.
To distract herself, she drafted a new card. Roses are red, Valerian is sex. This poem makes no sense. Trouble.
JOACHIM LAY IN HIS BED, his arms propped under his head. He stared up at the glistening ceiling, wishing he could take comfort in something, anything. Or someone. Would he even recognize comfort nowadays?
Night had long since passed, and morning had arrived. He shifted and eyed the wall of weapons he’d acquired over the years. A weapon for every man, woman or creature he’d slain. Their numbers were so vast, he’d stopped keeping count.
He wasn’t ashamed of his violent past. Far from it. He reveled in his victories. The bloodier the better.
He was a man without honor, compassion, or mercy. A mistake, his mother had once said. The true nymph king, his father had then retorted.
So. Joachim’s behavior with the redhead had shredded his pride.
After leaving his cousin and the pale-haired female, Joachim had brought the lushly rounded redhead to his chamber. He’d been poised to enter her—ready to burst. She’d been writhing in passion, opening herself wider, pleading for more.
So of course he’d stopped. Just stopped! Like a trembling lad about to claim his first female, afraid of blowing his load before he was able to sheathe himself completely.
As he had peered down at her, the sense of all-consuming need had abandoned him, there one moment, gone the next. An image of the dark-headed witch he’d wanted so badly at the selection ceremony had flashed through his mind.
He yearned to tangle his fingers in her curls, to put his mouth on her ripe little body—to roll her body under his. Hers, and only hers.
Craving a specific female was new to him.
Next he’d pictured the little witch in Shivawn’s arms, moaning, mindless with pleasure, and a terrible rage had blackened his mood.
Your mood is always black.
True. But never to such a terrible degree.
Joachim’s bed partner had tried her best to reignite his passions, but she’d failed miserably. He should have given her an orgasm anyway. He might have strengthened, at least a little bit.
Instead, he’d sent her away to find another lover.
Fool! He was as weak as before. But at least Valerian, too, was weakened this day, having gone without a woman’s touch—his mate’s touch. If his claims were to be believed.
Mate. How Joachim longed to find his own mate; that one woman who would love him above all others.
He sighed. He didn’t want to take the pale woman from Valerian. She didn’t excite him. Not like the dark-headed witch, with her lush curves.
What was her name? She hadn’t said. Hadn’t spoken at all. He wondered what her voice would be like. Low and husky? Sweet and soft?
If he’d had the opportunity to choose her, the night would have ended differently. Now Shivawn would pay for taking her, forcing Joachim to push Valerian into issuing a challenge before the appointed time.
Do nothing until you’re ready, his father had told him. Until you’re absolutely certain you’ll win.
Joachim liked and admired his cousin, but he liked and admired power more.
He’d never enjoyed being told what to do. He preferred to give the orders, forcing others to do his bidding. Even his women. He was master. He was commander.
Never bend, never break.
His cousin ruled with an iron fist, expecting total and complete obedience, even from family.
Perhaps the appointed time had arrived. Joachim had an opportunity to take the crown at long last.
Valerian had offered to fight him, true, but Joachim wouldn’t become king if—when—he won. And he would win. His cousin’s honor would prevent him from doing the dirty deeds, the things that needed to be done. Like kicking a man while he was down.
My specialty.
No, Valerian had to willingly agree to surrender his throne. Would he?
His cousin had spent an entire night considering his limited options. Surely he’d realized there was only one way to keep the pale woman.
“I will be king,” Joachim snarled.
Some men were meant for greatness. Some were not. Valerian had made many foolish mistakes lately.
The first: he’d left the nymph females behind to lay siege to this palace, citing their safety mattered more than the strength of the army.
Nothing mattered more than the strength of an army!
The women were now lost,
