Page 92 of Foundling

With his piercing and his smile and his flirting, he made room for himself inside her. Thrust after thrust, day after day, Attalus embedded deeper and deeper into the very weft and weave that made up Leita’s being. He was integral, intrinsic, and she only wanted more.

His spend filled her up to the brim, leaking between them as pleasure clutched them both. In its throes, Leita forgot some of the restraints, and Attalus’s arm came around her. He crushed her to his chest, holding her tight as his hips thrust unceasingly up, claiming her, too.

Finally, in the smallest, coolest hours of the night, they lay quietly together. Leita listened to the slowing but steady beats of his hearts, soothed and happy beyond measure. Cheek pressed to his chest, she felt and heard his crooning purr, the sound filling her body and soul.

“Did I please you, my Queen?” he rumbled eventually, his free hand carding through her tangled hair.

“I think you’ll do.”

Attalus laughed heartily before gently smacking her backside. “Then I’ve more to do. Now, release me so I can lick that needy cunt of yours—or sit on my face. Queen’s choice.”

23

Attalus landed from his spiral in a kneeling ready position. The morning’s exertions—both in and out of bed—had him panting and his muscles singing. The venom felt well and truly gone, just in time to show all these fae warriors who truly belonged at Leita’s side.

The triad rushed him all at once. So rude not to come one at a time. This three-warrior unit was an effective one unique to the fae. As Attalus understood it, they were formed early in a warrior’s training and kept within that triad all their days. Or at least until they were the last one standing.

Attalus had won some and lost a few, but this last bout he was determined to win. Swinging his tail for momentum, he leapt at the nearest warrior, his foot connecting with the man’s chest. He anticipated the fae grabbing onto his calf as they both went down, using the change in momentum to spring at the next warrior.

He leapt onto her back, taking hold of her by the shoulder pads and tossing her to the side as his body cleared over her head.

The last warrior was the head of the triad and the most skilled. She didn’t get close, having figured out dragons liked to fight off their feet. Airborne assaults, kicking, spins, all of it kept them moving and rarely with both feet on the ground. Keeping their wings engaged and moving made them a harder target, and the extra set of limbs often confused an unwary enemy.

The fae warrior wielded her twin practice swords deftly and she was far from unwary by now. Attalus dodged her first strike, grinning madly as they danced across the training yard. On her next swing, he caught the strike with the hard scales of his forearm and the second swing between his horns.

He waggled his brows before twisting midair to the right, knocking both weapons from her grip.

“Your technique is brazen.”

Attalus and his opponent straightened, looking over to where Marcades, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, stood observing their fight.

Attalus couldn’t help a cocky grin. “We dragons simply have our own style.”

“Would you be willing to do that against a real blade?” Marcades asked, his gaze cold and assessing. “A move like that would have you feeling the bite of steel.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Attalus quipped.

Sensing a verbal sparring match coming, the triad bowed to Marcades and made themselves scarce. Attalus, meanwhile, picked up the jug of crisp, cool water and rag he’d left for himself.

“Showing off in the training yard is one thing,” Marcades said, “protecting our Queen is another.”

Attalus took his time responding, wetting the rag to wipe down his face and shoulders.

“There is nothing more precious to me than the safety of my mate, captain, you can be assured of that.”

Marcades looked anything but assured.

Attalus liked the captain well enough; Marcades reminded him of Araxos with his stern face and lack of humor. It was almost comforting to see his unsmiling visage—especially given that Marcades wouldn’t one day decide to rip out his throat. Oh, the captain certainly thought about it, to be sure, but he wouldn’t do it.

While Attalus may have liked Marcades, he doubted it was mutual. That was all right, though. Attalus thrived with a challenge. Plus, the sourer the captain became, the more Attalus showed off.

The triumph of finally winning over his reluctant little mate was fresh and hot in his blood—it made him all the more determined to win over her council, too. With his strong jaw, sharp nose, and shorn brown hair, Marcades was the picture of a loyal guard. Attalus was grateful Leita had such people around her; however, he wouldn’t be questioned over his devotion to her, nor his willingness to sacrifice.

“Had that strike been with a true weapon, and it meant coming between it and Leita, I’d have happily let the arm be hacked away,” he informed the captain. “I have six more limbs to defend her, after all.” Three more than any fae.

Marcades clearly understood that unsaid part. “She was my Queen before your azai,” he growled. “She’s the hope for all of us.” More than martial loyalty shone in his eyes then, and more than friendly admiration. “I intend to serve her until the stone sleep calls us.”

“And when it does, I will be the one to carry her to the Twins. All who come after us will find her guarded by dragon bones and know it is her.”