Page 125 of Foundling

“Have you taken breakfast? Perhaps you should try to sleep a while before the council meeting.” His voice was as gentle as his hand, which came to lay atop hers on his chest.

“I don’t want to sleep,” she mumbled. She didn’t want to think about the council meeting, either—or tell him why it’d been canceled.

“What about breakfast?”

“Later.”

“Leita?” He couldn’t turn in her arms without buffeting her with a wing, not when she refused to loosen her grip. “Agae, what’s wrong?”

She nuzzled the spot between his shoulder blades. “I don’t want to think for a while. Will you help me forget?” Her hands trailed down his chest and then abdomen, framing his narrow hips.

“Leita,” he said again, his hands intercepting hers before she could take hold of his cock. Creating just enough space to turn around, he rested her hands on his back then wrapped his own around her. It was as much an embrace as an immobilization. “What’s happened?”

Fuck, sometimes she wished he wasn’t so perceptive. He didn’t even need their bond to guess at her mood or thoughts. He read it easily in her face.

Reluctantly, Leita admitted, “Your brother is nearly at the border.”

Attalus froze, save his eyes that widened with alarm.

In the end, Araxos Anax’s response had come too swiftly for Attalus’s message to make the journey to Highhome and then see a dragon army fly forth. He’d already been on the move, it seemed, when Attalus’s brother Tychon had been sent to collect Leita’s response.

The time of reckoning was fast upon them.

“That fucking bastard,” he growled. “He’s lost his mind, coming here.” Attalus tightened his hold, the words Leita dreaded falling from his lips. “I’ll fly out and intercept him. I’ll make him see his folly.”

“What makes you think he’ll see what he’s willfully ignored for months?” Leita asked without malice. “He won’t listen to you, Attalus. It’s I who must meet him now.”

“No. You are my very soul, Leita. You fill the space between my hearts, and if I could put you there to keep you safe, I would. I won’t let you risk yourself or the faelands.”

“It’s my domain he marches on. I can and will defend what’s mine, Attalus. I’m not weak, I don’t need you to protect me.”

“I don’t think you’re weak,” Attalus insisted, “I know you’re impossibly strong. But that strength makes you reckless.”

Leita recognized the truth of what he said but didn’t like it at all. “The only reason I became Queen was because I was promised my azai. You. You’re all I want, Attalus, and I won’t lose you to the caprice of the lizard king.”

“You can’t—”

Grabbing fistfuls of his robe, Leita growled, “What I can’t do is think anymore. Are you going to help me or not?”

Attalus huffed, his hot breath tinged with a tang of smoke. His claws began to knead her back, and Leita canted her hips, putting pressure on his hidden cock. For a moment, she wasn’t sure he’d do as she asked, and terror gripped her throat tight.

What if he refused? What if she couldn’t do it? What if—?

His slitted pupils dilated as his gaze fell to her lips. A snarl lifted his own over a fang. “Are you sure you want me angry, doe? I’m not sure I can be gentle.”

Leita held him by the nape, nails digging into his scalp. She pulled him down to her, delivering her demand against his lips. “I want what’s mine.” I’d have you any way, in all ways, forever.

His mouth crashed onto hers, and her relief was immediate. Leita threw her arms around his neck, lifting onto her tiptoes to change the angle of their angry kiss. Their teeth gnashed and fought, tongues dueling to prove who would be right.

Although, in truth, Leita cared less about being right and more about succeeding. They could argue her methods until the end of time, so long as they had that time.

Leita sucked on his hot tongue, reveling in its heat as he plundered her mouth. Their fangs scraped against each other, their lips melded in an inelegant, furious kind of kiss that left her trembling and wanting.

She needed no direction when he bent to lift her. Leita leapt into his arms happily, her hands desperate as he walked them to the bed. Even as he dropped her onto it, she attacked the knots he’d done in his robes, needing to feel his skin and scales on her.

With a growl, Attalus caught up her hands and lifted them above her head. Pinning her wrists to the bed in one hand, he ripped away her soft trou and pushed up her tunic. The simple set of stays she wore beneath came free under his claws, strips of fabric fluttering through the air until she was nearly bare before him.

“Impatient, willful mates must learn to wait,” he taunted.