Page 6 of His King Enslaved

After they were gone, Sindar checked himself in the mirror. Balls, he really did look like Xandar when he was clean-shaven and dressed for the part. It was uncanny. He hated his reflection at that moment.

He marched out of the royal apartment and knocked briskly on Ardor’s door, rehearsing the speech in his mind. A public ceremony was unnecessary. They could conduct the matter privately. He was the king, by Goddess, and the decision was as much his as Ardor’s.

The acolyte opened the door, her breath catching at the sight of him, but she bowed low and quickly ushered him in.

Ardor sat by a window overlooking the gardens, a silk robe loose around him and low on his shoulders. His hair was gathered up into a bun, but several tendrils caressed the nape of his neck. His brown eyes flicked to Sindar, clearly annoyed.

It was only by the Goddess’s grace Sindar didn’t melt into a puddle. He struggled with his leaden tongue (Think of Kysan, man!) and managed to say, “Ah, the ceremony...”

The dislike in Ardor’s gaze did not cool Sindar’s loins one whit. Truth be told, it made them hotter. “I am sure the spectacle will be to your liking, Your Majesty.”

“We don’t have to, um,” Sindar said. “We can—uh—in private.”

“You were so insistent before. You were robbed of a traditional public breeding ceremony when we married, were you not? What changed your mind?”

Goddess, he was too lovely. Sindar’s eyes kept straying all over the place: to Ardor’s silvery hair, his elegant hands, the bare feet adorned with golden anklets (Goddess help him, there was something about the Flower’s slender bangled feet that drove him particularly wild). He wrenched his hot gaze back to Ardor’s cold one and blurted out the first thing that came to him.

“I’m a king! I can change my mind whenever I like!”

Ardor’s brow twitched. “That’s true.” As he stood, the slit in his robe exposed a generous length of leg, and Sindar nearly lost his mind. He seized his fleeing self-respect with both hands and focused the entirety of his willpower on not being an idiot. Ardor approached, his footfalls silent on the rich golden carpet, and the delicate floral aroma, a mixture of spice and sweetness, teased Sindar’s nose. The golden bangles adorning Ardor’s wrists and ankles tinkled merrily as he walked—nay, glided—toward the helpless royal before him.

“I’m not who you think I am,” Sindar whispered, his heart hammering in his chest. He could barely get the words out. His entire body ached with a wanting he’d never known. Where did this feeling come from? How was it possible?

“I don’t care who or what you are, as long as you get me pregnant. If parading your cock around in front of the entire court is what it takes, so be it. I’ll endure exhibitionism if that’s what gets you going, but if you think you’re going to humiliate me today, you’re mistaken. You’re playing a dangerous game, Xandar, but maybe you’ll finally learn a little humility.”

Lovely. Too much. Way too much lovely. Sindar took a quick, stumbling step back, and Ardor stilled immediately.

“You can teach me anything you want to teach me,” Sindar said a little desperately, trying not to babble. “Absolutely anything. But must we do this in public?”

Ardor’s brow twitched again. At this rate, Sindar was going to blow his cover entirely. Ambani was right. Ardor was committed to this. There was no convincing him. The best Sindar could do was salvage whatever was left of his dignity. He sucked in a breath and said, in the most dismissive and Xandar-like tone he could muster, “Fine. If you want the entire court’s eyes on you, you’ll have them.”

It was like flipping a switch. The frost that swept over Ardor’s face nearly froze Sindar’s heart. And for a split second, Sindar caught a glimmer of hate. Pure, genuine hatred. It vanished as quickly as it manifested, and Ardor’s expression was neutral once more, but that meager glimpse left Sindar numb, desperate to do anything to thaw this Flower’s heart so he might never feel that unforgiving chill again.

If Sindar stayed in that apartment a second longer, it would be over. He would fall to his knees and crawl and beg like a craven, lovesick beast. With tremendous effort, he lurched around and marched out.

He was neatly accosted by Patel, who was waiting outside. His adviser dragged him back into his apartment, and he was thoroughly chastised as Ambani bustled around him, preparing him for what was to come.

There were instructions and rules and etiquette and protocol, but Sindar absorbed none of these. All he could see was the cold fury in those brown eyes. A day ago, he wanted to sit atop the ruby throne as Sindar, son of Kysan, more than anything. Now, the only thing he wanted was to warm the cold fury in Ardor’s eyes and turn it into something sweet.

He’d never felt this way about anyone before, and he understood on some instinctive, primal level that he never would again. Sindar of Kysan didn’t know much, but he knew this: Ardor of Pavar would absolutely be his undoing.

* * *

SINDAR STOOD OUTSIDE the audience chamber, practically vibrating with nerves. He was composed externally (he hoped), but he was a hot, crawling mess on the inside. He barely took in a word of Ambani’s pep talk.

“Remember, this is a demonstration of virility, your Highness,” she was saying. “Your performance is crucial...”

A demonstration of virility with the most beautiful man on earth who, as fortune would have it, openly despised him. Sindar couldn’t decide if he was in heaven or hell. “You want me to get him pregnant, and hopefully get him off while doing it, so there will be no doubt Kysan’s royal family is virile and will rule for decades to come.”

Ambani’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes. Exactly.”

Sindar peeked through the curtains into the audience chamber. Nobles and dignitaries sat at tables set with gold-rimmed plates and goblets and stood in small clusters, chatting and machinating amiably. Glasses clinked as they drank wine and nibbled at finger foods.

The Pavarians stood apart, their plates and glasses conspicuously empty. Like Ardor, they had pale skin and smooth faces, but most were slender and short of stature with blond hair and blue eyes. None shared Ardor’s silver hair or high cheekbones. Even among his own people Ardor stood out, and not only for his beauty.

“Who are the Pavarians?” he asked.

“Champion Hara has arrived with an entourage of dignitaries,” Ambani said, pointing out a serene-looking woman with unremarkable features who blended into the crowd of blue-suited Pavarians. Ambani rattled off several more names and titles, but Sindar’s mind was already elsewhere.