Page 119 of Consort's Glory
It did hurt a little. Margot considered healing the small tears in the untried muscle, but quickly decided against it. Some discomforts were necessary. Some, like this one, even felt good.
His thrusts were slow and deep, each one marked by a fresh nip to her throat and shoulders. Margot tangled her fingers in his hair as her hips lifted to meet him in an instinctive rhythm. Every part of her belonged to him. The witch, the woman, the elf — she belonged to this man who loved her so much, it came through their bond like sunlight.
His hips stuttered. Panting against her throat, Theodore replied to her thoughts with a rawness that unwound her. I belong to you, too. Always. Always. I’m yours.
Margot used her grip on his silky hair to draw him up, seeking a kiss as his thrusts picked up speed. The tension of impending release made her needy. When she could no longer keep up with his pace, Margot sealed her mouth over his at the same time that she guided his hand between them, using his fingers to stroke and pet her into her own brilliant release.
Theodore didn’t need any more prompting. Slicking his tongue against hers, scraping his fangs against her lip, breathing her in, he pressed the pad of his thumb against her clitoris and slowly, ruthlessly stroked her.
Pleasure was a golden haze, the feeling of Theodore’s erratic thrusts and hard exhalations in her ear a sweet, distant song. Nothing compared to the pleasure of being with him. Nothing was so perfect as his taste on her tongue, his hands on her skin, the stretch of him filling her, the weight of him on top of her. Nothing.
A while later, they both caught their breath in the blue-black darkness of their bedroom. They lay side by side, their marriage sigils kissing, and breathed in one another as the night deepened around them.
“Did I ever say thank you?”
Theodore nudged her nose with his. “For what?”
Her throat tightened. “For saving my life. For loving me. It would have been easier not to.”
When she thought of all he had done for her, to have her, Margot wondered what she’d done to deserve a man like him. If not for her, he would not have clawed his way to the top of the hierarchy. He would not have taken on the responsibilities of a sovereign so very young. He could have been free. He could have been anything he wanted.
Instead, he chose her.
“Oh,darling,” he murmured, cupping her cheek, “there was never any choice. You saved me first, remember?”
* * *
The Summit was nothing and everything that she thought it would be.
Margot watched from a discreet balcony as delegations from the five families entered the massive meeting hall, followed by the much smaller but more numerous representatives from the families further down the hierarchy. The meeting hall itself was a huge, semi-circular room filled with rows of mahogany and leather seats. A dais stood at the front of the room, set with a tall mahogany podium. Behind it, a banner with the Solbourne twin thistles and rising sun hung proudly.
And above it all, a domed ceiling soared — every inch of it magically enforced stained glass designed to look like a glorious sun set in a deep violet and navy sky speckled with stars.
Balconies ran along the walls, filled with elves, she was informed, who were too low on the hierarchy to have assigned seating on the ground floor but who still retained the right to vote.
That was the main purpose of the Summit, Margot learned. Every year, the Families and representatives of smaller elvish enclaves came to vote on issues that pertained to them — as well as the petitions pushed through by neighborhood committees and city councils, and what agendas they would push in the UTA Congress. This was where change came to pass in the Protectorate, and where Theodore would make his stance on elvish isolationism known to all.
Margot curled her fingers in the deep violet skirt of her fitted dress, the twin of the simple gown she wore to her wedding, her palms sweaty.
The politics didn’t scare her. She dealt with that all her life, both from the shadows and within the Coven. No, what made Margot nervous was how this massive group of predators, already backed into a corner by their dwindling population, would handle the surprise of Theodore’s announcement that he not only married a witch halfling, but made not one but two outside alliances.
“He’ll be fine.” Marcus du Soleil’s deep voice rumbled behind her.
Margot turned to see the tall, aristocratic elf a few steps away, his lean body swathed in layers of fine velvet and crisply tailored Italian wool. The peculiar mix of old regalia and modern business wear was so distinctly elvish, it made her smile.
Marcus didn’t return the expression, but she didn’t expect him to. Although they had only officially known each other for a day, she got the impression that he was a man of little expression but great depth.
Offering her his arm, he said, “Let me escort you back to the waiting room. We don’t want your consort’s grand surprise being spoiled by someone stumbling upon you up here, do we?”
She slipped her hand into the curve of his arm and let him lead her into the shadowy hall and down the stairs. “I just wanted to see. Andy said that was the best place to get a good look at everything.”
Marcus hummed. The sleeve of his suit was warm under her hand, the hem of his half-cape a velvet brush against her back when it swayed with his long gait.
Margot glanced up at him from under her lashes, considering the strong, sharply featured profile and silver hair he kept out of his face with a gold pin.
He was a stately, severe man; hard to look at for too long without feeling as though she was inviting a scolding and yet still somehow intensely handsome. He was also the man who “caught” her, according to Olivier.
In a traditional elvish birth, her half-brother explained, the partner eased the baby into the world, not the midwife or the healer or the arrant doctor. It was the partner who rubbed life into the baby, who cut the cord with their own claws and welcomed the child into the world before handing them off to their mother.
