Page 13 of His King Enslaved

Patel spoke fondly of his mother, telling a few stories Sindar had not yet heard, but the warmth in his advisor’s voice did not keep melancholy away. When they parted, the gnawing sense of loss in Sindar’s chest could only be abated by one thing: riding.

He swore his personal guard to secrecy, bullied the stable hands into preparing a mount, and soon ambled into the twilight. Sindar brought his steed to a slow trot until the horse’s eyes adjusted, then he clucked and gently squeezed, urging a canter. The terrain was much as he remembered it, and he soon fell back into the familiar cadence of riding, and he was one with the powerful surge of muscle beneath him, his hair dancing in the wind.

He stopped at the edge of the forest.

He’d ridden here with Shashi. They went on mid-morning rides like clockwork, and as Xandar watched from the study he would soon inherit, his paranoid, orderly mind grew wary. He was plotting against Sindar, therefore, Sindar must be plotting against him.

It never occurred to Xandar that his brother might simply wish to spend time with a clever young noble who enjoyed riding as much as he did. Or maybe it had, but Xandar was determined to get rid of him anyway.

Sindar stroked the steed’s shoulder, murmuring softly, his mother’s muted words sifting through his memory. Em ella, em ella… He’d always associated those sounds with comfort, and the horse shifted into his hand, sighing softly.

The second the guillotine blade came down, and Shashi’s head was severed from his body, a wall came down in Sindar’s heart. It was a survival mechanism. If not for that wall, he would have surely withered and died right on that spot. Shashi was brave and defiant, and he protected Sindar until the very end. Sindar must be strong to honor his sacrifice. He purged the sorrow from his heart, filled it with hatred instead, and lunged for Xandar’s throat. But even then, he couldn’t do it. He could not kill his own brother.

Patel called it weakness. Would his mother have agreed?

Now, standing in this place, Sindar felt a dull ache, a tiny echo of the pain he’d felt that horrible day. His friends were killed, and he was exiled, and Xandar sat uncontested upon the ruby throne. Until now.

“Where are they buried?” Sindar asked.

“Your Majesty?” his guard asked.

This was dangerous, and foolish, and stupid, but suddenly he had to know. “Where did they bury the usurpers?”

“They burned them according to your orders, Your Majesty, but I’m unsure how the ashes were disposed of. Shall I find out?”

“No,” Sindar said.

They rode back, the warm night air whipping about them, and Sindar’s grievances and concerns distilled to two salient points. He must get Ardor pregnant, and he must make sure his brother never sat atop the ruby throne again.

HISTORY

ARDOR WOULD LATER wonder if he’d dreamed that first garden ceremony.

He arrived early and found his consort pacing nervously among the lilies. The simple breeding bed set up among the flowers was infinitely more inviting than the overwrought one in the court. The servants had not been given enough time to prepare anything overly grand, and a large mattress fitted with cotton sheets was narrowly fit between clusters of white and yellow flowers with dark green leaves.

The air was filled with the calming buzz of bees and the chirps of birds, rather than the whispers of nobles and diplomats. Attendance was thankfully sparse. The royal guards, the king’s advisers, Jain, and Leya were in attendance. Leya murmured encouragement as she bustled about, drawing Ardor’s silky hair back from his shoulders.

The consort turned his back as Ardor slipped between the sheets and shrugged out of his silk robe. Ardor studied his consort’s back as he disrobed. His face was identical to the king’s, but his body was certainly more rugged than the form Ardor had briefly glimpsed in the dark. Muscles flexed as the royal silk fell away. He had a tight backside and powerful thighs, but his upper body was of average fitness.

Not a laborer, then. But he certainly got plenty of exercise.

When the consort approached the bed, he was already hard. He was of average size, but he was achingly aroused, his cock thick and eager. His erection bobbed as he climbed onto the bed, and the mattress sank down slightly with his weight.

For the second time, Ardor’s long dormant bloom stirred as his consort approached. He should have been relieved, pleased even, but it felt like a betrayal. After these long months, why did his cursed bloom choose now to awaken? Why now, for this impostor?

The consort remained at Ardor’s feet, his fingers tight in the soft sheets. His breathing was slow and measured, his eyes averted. He was a man on the edge of his control. Over the past few months, Ardor had taken for granted that he could elicit such a reaction, but he was a Flower. Most people found him desirable, even irresistible. Xandar had been an unusual exception, not the rule.

“Your Majesty, is something wrong?” Ardor asked.

“May I approach?” his consort whispered, still clenching the sheets.

Again, Ardor’s bloom pulsed, a low simmer in his stomach. “Yes.”

His consort slowly crawled toward him, his head bowed so low his nose brushed Ardor’s leg through the sheets. He inhaled deeply, breathing in Ardor’s scent.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” his consort whispered, crawling over him. “I dream of you. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything.”

The simmering pulse in Ardor’s stomach grew hotter. “I only want one thing from you, and you know what it is,” Ardor whispered back. “Come in your hand.”