10. Dexari

Chapter 10

Dexari

I approach the guard outside Sloane's suite, a trail of servants following, their trays laden with an intimate feast fit for a king—and his future queen. My steps are measured and confident, although I am as nervous as an untried whelp facing his first battle.

My plan is not causing this uncharacteristic anxiety. The scheme to allow Sloane a taste of "freedom" should unfold as expected. No, what has me on edge is a far more primal concern. The throbbing in my groin that is growing more intense.

My pulsing spikes, meant to ensure the continuation of my bloodline, have chosen Sloane and are anxious to claim her. The spikes demand action, to spill their seed into her waiting womb. Yet now is not the time.

Even as I stand here, poised to enter Sloane's suite, my plan is already in motion. Gorlag, ever loyal despite his reservations, is setting the stage for her escape.

A handful of my most trusted guards are being brought into the fold, each carefully selected for their discretion and loyalty. Yet there is one crucial detail of my plan I have kept from Gorlag, a detail I know he will not like. Instead of sending guards to follow Sloane, I will follow her myself.

Gorlag will argue, of course, and tell me it is too dangerous—that a king has no business traipsing through the wilderness after a runaway prisoner. And he may be right. Yet the very thought of her in the forest, vulnerable and unprotected, sends a chill down my spine. I cannot allow even my most trusted guards to keep her safe.

No, Gorlag will not approve. Yet he will obey; he always does.

I square my shoulders, pushing these thoughts aside for now. First, I need to get through this meal with Sloane. One step at a time, I remind myself. One careful step at a time.

When the guard unlocks the door, I stride into the room without knocking, the servants at my heels. My eyes immediately land on Sloane standing in front of the open window dressed in a traditional female orc robe. The fabric clings to her slight curves in ways that make my spikes throb with renewed urgency.

It takes every bit of willpower I possess not to cross the room in long strides, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her off to my quarters. The urge to consummate our bond, to claim her as mine, is almost overwhelming.

"The view is stunning, is it not?" I ask.

She turns toward me, her expression unreadable. "It's okay."

The air is thick with tension and pheromones, a heady mix of anger and need. Does she want me as much as I want her? Perhaps. The possibility makes my spikes pulse more intently.

When the servants complete their task of arranging the food and drink on a side table they brought, they file out of the suite, leaving us alone.

"Are you hungry, Sloane?"

The dual meaning of my words hangs in the air between us. Her face is a mask, giving nothing away. Yet her scent tells me everything I need to know.