Page 9 of His King Enslaved

AS ARDOR WAITED in the examination room, his hands folded in his lap, he processed the morning’s events. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Raven Hara was right, and the king was besotted.

But why now? What had changed?

Their marriage had been on shaky ground from the start. Xandar was furious when Ardor did not bloom on their wedding night and took it as a personal insult. Ardor anticipated this. Consorts were under tremendous pressure to prove their virility by “pleasing” their Flower and naturally coaxing the bloom to open.

Thus, Ardor sought a compromise and suggested mechanical insemination. To him, it was a logical solution, but to Xandar, it was a slap in the face, and that’s when the problems started. In public, their exchanges were cool and formal, but well within the bounds of politeness. Behind closed doors, however, Xandar let loose.

Every part of Ardor’s body was now subject to inspection and ridicule. What good was a Flower who couldn’t bloom? Who couldn’t breed? It was the only reason he existed, after all: to produce heirs. Clearly, Ardor was not divine at all, and Xandar cursed the Archon for knowingly bartering him a worthless mate.

At first, the verbal abuse was so shocking and unexpected that it took all of Ardor’s will to remain calm. But soon, he grew accustomed to the bile that poured from his consort’s mouth and saw it for what it was: the pathetic rantings of an insecure man who was terrified of betrayal and obsessed with securing his lineage. Ardor might be broken, he’d never dispute that, but Xandar was an insecure, proud fool, and that was far worse.

Ardor had no option but to fulfill his contractual duties despite his mate. He endured insult and sacrilege for a scant spoonful of semen dispensed in a cup each evening, and quickly realized the problem was far worse than a closed bloom.

The king had extremely low sperm motility and was nearly infertile. He was born of a Flower, as all royals were, so it could not be a hereditary condition. Jain suspected stress and his daily antidote regimen had something to do with it. Perhaps it was Ardor’s fault for approaching his consort directly, knowing what a paranoid, proud man he was. But he was desperate to get pregnant, and when he privately met one evening to request a doctor’s oversight, Xandar snapped.

Ardor spent his entire life untouched by anyone but attendants and Jain, and only when they wore gloves. He’d never been slapped before. And he’d certainly never been manhandled or held down. Xandar threw him to the ground and tore open his robes, and…

Ardor’s cheeks burned at the memory. Even under violent duress, his bloom would not budge. It remained tightly sealed.

“You can’t even be forced,” Xandar snarled, his breath hot with anger in Ardor’s ear. “You truly are worthless.”

And for a tiny, squirming moment, Ardor wished he could be raped. Having his bloom forced open was surely better than living this way, bound to a man who despised him, unable to fulfill his contract and sole purpose.

But this morning, everything changed. It was as if they’d started over, and that nightmarish encounter and everything leading up to it never happened. Xandar approached the breeding bed like a royal newlywed, uncertain what waited for him but keen to find out. He was aroused and eager, as a consort should be. It was the reception Ardor had hoped for all those months ago.

You are the most beautiful man in the universe.

Lord Patel must have convinced the king to take a stimulant or aphrodisiac. But why did Xandar capitulate now? What caused him to put aside his indomitable pride? The jarring contrast between the soft, eager consort who’d crawled over him that morning and the hateful man who abused him at night left Ardor’s nerves raw and exposed. The mere sight of Xandar put him on edge, and he was still in fight-or-flight mode, waiting for the lash to land.

Ardor rubbed his wrist as Jain excitedly bustled around him, talking a mile a minute. “I knew it was only a matter of time, Eminence. He’s finally come to his senses and appreciates you.”

“He was like a different person,” Ardor murmured. Xandar’s arousal wasn’t the only change. He’d actually apologized for something. Ardor hadn’t believed him capable. The king of Kysan was always right, even if being right was to the detriment of all.

“He is under a lot of pressure to produce heirs,” Jain said, carefully collecting a sample of the semen coating Ardor’s chest and putting it in a jar. Kingly semen was so jealously guarded these days Ardor hadn’t dared wipe it off. “Maybe his advisers finally knocked some sense into him and gave him a few aphrodisiacs to go with it. The way he’s treated you...” Her dark eyes flashed. “Unacceptable.”

As far as champions went, Jain was par excellence. Xandar’s refusal to allow the Champion of Flowers entry into Kysan had not deterred her one whit. Months prior to his arrival, she’d installed herself seamlessly among the royal medical staff and maneuvered into the position of most trusted physician in record time.

No one, not even Lord Patel, suspected the Pavarian spy in their midst. Jain’s cosmetic surgery was impeccable and her Kysanian accent was perfect; she did not betray a shred of her origins. She could have assassinated the king by now if she wished, but Jain was no Wraith. She was a Champion of Flowers, and if her Flower was committed to peace, so was she. A Champion bore their Flower’s sacrifices. If he suffered, she suffered.

And he had suffered. But if Ardor could bring an end to this miserable cold war, it was a fair price. It was a Flower’s job to ensure an orderly transfer of power, but his true purpose, in his estimate, was to protect the populace. For the sake of his people—Pavarian and Kysanian alike—he must not fail. The royals were not the ones who suffered most when a Flower failed in his duty. They were not the ones who fought in bitter civil wars and starved and died. He owed it to all those people to secure the royal line and ensure stability. For that to happen, he and Xandar needed to produce at least two healthy children, the sooner the better.

Jain hummed as she prepared a dilution and slides. Ardor absently watched her work and waited for the usual verdict, which was always forecast by a slight pursing of her lips and a flicker of worry in her eyes. She never said what she saw–or didn’t–in the meager samples on those slivers of glass. She merely reassured Ardor again and again that he was fertile. He could have children. He was not the problem.

Given the state of his flower, his doubts lingered. His Champion was loyal to a fault. As far as she was concerned, Ardor was never the problem. She was not above lying to spare his feelings, or withholding information if she thought it would protect him.

“Oh,” Jain said. She peered through the microscope for a long moment before preparing a second slide to replace the first. “Oh, my! His motility is excellent!” She laughed, delighted. “What luck!”

“What do you mean?” Ardor asked, puzzled. “What changed?”

Jain peered at a third slide, still grinning. “Perhaps it was stress after all. All that matters is he’s quite fertile now.” She turned to him. “Eminence, this is wonderful. Between this and the enthusiasm... He will certainly give you a child soon. Have you been practicing the exercises I taught you?”

She’d encouraged him to caress himself in private, to coax his bud to open so he could become familiar with the sensations of an eager bloom. Typically, Flowers were forbidden from stimulating themselves, but Ardor was a “special case.”

Jain always couched such things in clinical terms. Self-stimulation was therapy, an exercise to help him perform his duties. But no matter how she framed it, Ardor couldn’t bear to touch the source of his miseries any more than necessary. It only made him feel more broken.

“Of course,” he said.

Jain rested a gloved hand on his. “Your Eminence, it’s only a matter of time now. You will have children soon. You will secure peace. I’m certain of it.”