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Chapter 18
Bronze had always been more of a stemless wineglass sort of fellow, and seeing the array of drinking vessels laid out before him, he was reminded of why.
Damn, did he need to break shit. Right the hell now. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t do to go down the line of fine table settings snapping stemware like they were twigs. It wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying anyway. Wineglasses weren’t necks, unfortunately. One neck, in particular, was too thick to even detonate the satisfying crack Bronze had in mind for the pompously prestigious Lord Raff, leader and warlord of the western lycan territories.
Really, was the guy trying to impress anyone in particular, or was bending over on a regular basis to receive all the ass-kissing just part and parcel of political office out west?
Aside from the male’s display of physical strength and prowess, there wasn’t much to recommend. Hours after Clara had swept Bronze from the infirmary and set him up in a spare dormitory, she’d come to collect him for the evening meal. One, which she had been informed by her father’s staff, would be a welcome banquet for Lord Raff and his entourage. The look on her face, however, when she’d relayed the news to Bronze was equal parts fractured composure and worry.
It was a far cry from the expression he’d prefer to see on her face and what he’d spent the last few hours reliving in his mind as he lay on the small cot, lit by more dim-as-fuck candlelight, and stared at a whole lot of nothing doing.
He should have been strategizing, should have been using the hours at his disposal to scout out the portions of the keep immediately accessible and then branch out beyond there. Clara had mentioned royal coffers. One didn’t need a set of neon traffic wands, a bloodhound, and an overabundance of road flares to suggest that would be the best place to start his search for the other half of the relic.
Then again, it was kind of hard to find the motivation when Clara’s slackened face flushed with pleasure brought on by his mouth played on repeat in his mental reels. Even with his eyes closed, he could still remember every inviting curve and crevice that bounced beneath the wall sconces’ meager glow. He’d never given the possibility any thought before, but that female had somehow mapped out his personal path to the first inklings of ease his soul had known in some time. Lips, throat, collarbone, breasts, the dip of her navel, and lower was the exact circuit that had his mind running laps while it should have been focusing on what and who he was there for.
Goddammit. There was that word again. Should.
What he should have done was not puff up his still-slightly-oozing chest at the sight of her replete post-pleasure grin melting into the most enchanting smile he’d ever had the good fortune to witness. Was it astonishment she reflected back at him? Surprising curiosity? Likely both, if she was not accustomed to a male’s touch, or at least that kind of touch. It was clear she’d never had an orgasm before, but she wasn’t nearly as shy as he’d expect of a cloistered royal.
And like fucking clockwork, that thought alone had his merry-go-round mind bringing it all back to the brutish lycan sitting at the king’s elbow.
Bronze brought his wineglass to his mouth and drank from the thing just so his hand didn’t smash it into shards, pick out the choicest of shivs from the bunch, and hurl the glass at Lord Raff’s eye, which was only a hair shinier than the sweating pate of his bald head.
When the male and his traveling party arrived at the stronghold, the crowd had resembled a crew of bear-like boxers who were still waiting on their thirty-five-year-old callbacks for American Gladiators that hadn’t come. Pity, that.
They certainly grew ‘em brawny and bushy out west, however. Lord Raff was the only male without hair on his head, though the length of his black beard more than made up for the scarcity happening topside. Similar to the northeastern lycans, leather seemed to be the preferred fabric, but where Clara’s people tended to swap in bits of more modern attire, such as khakis and button-down shirts, the western contingent apparently enjoyed a whole lot of camouflage. Every single one of the fifteen or so lycans sported thick olive tactical pants with beige boots, which were topped off with basic black thermals cinched tight beneath dark brown leather vests. Lord Raff’s burgundy military-style tunic was the only standout and clearly signified him as the leader.
Or a seasonally inappropriate candy apple.
“As I was saying,” King Halpin bellowed, more for effect than necessity, as the table they were all seated around was no larger than what the Hilton’s staff would put together for a standard conference room luncheon of barely salaried middle managers.
Bronze took in the cacophony of bored, yet dutiful expressions and had to wonder whether mealtimes were always such a snoozefest. Honestly, did the king think his subjects bought any of this showmanship crap?
“We are honored to have the privilege of receiving Lord Raff, ruler of the western territories. This visit has long been anticipated, and I look forward to the discussions of our future alliance. Together, by joining the northeastern and western contingents of lycans, the established power of our combined efforts will not go unheeded.”
“Presumptive alliance,” Clara spoke into her wineglass before taking a sip. Though not loud enough for the serving staff to hear, her declaration twitched the ears of every lycan at the table and drew the intense gazes of the two males at the center.
The king’s cheeks deepened to an altogether alarming shade of crimson as he turned toward Clara. “Yes,” he hissed through tight lips. “I have made Lord Raff aware of your . . . request.”
“It is not a request, Father. It is law.”
A sharp collective intake of breath flowed through the dining hall, yet unsurprisingly, everyone’s eyes, save for those of the western lycans, immediately sought out something other than the king. The westerners, instead, shared a common glint in their gazes, as if excited for some form of entertainment after a long journey.
Bronze, meanwhile, stared daggers at Clara’s paunch pissant of a father and made damn sure his sparkling smile reflected every ounce of sinister glee and pride he had for the male’s daughter.
The king shifted his gaze back and forth between Bronze and Clara, but the scrape of adjacent chair legs on stone brought everyone’s attention to the male at his side.
Lord Raff.
The lycan lifted to his feet in a slow, measured movement that forced everyone’s eyes to track his great height. One hand was still holding a wineglass, which looked like it belonged to a child’s kitchen set in the ruler’s massive paw, while the other was folded behind his back in some bullshit display of diplomacy. An expectant and unsteady silence stilled everything around them.
The dude wasn’t anything close to a bull in a china shop. No, he was more of a Kangal, the kind of ancient livestock guardian dog with a spiked collar and a quiet temperament that attacked without notice and wouldn’t bat an eye if a few livestock occasionally got picked off in the process . . . after running through a meadow of demolished china.
Bronze’s smile melted into a sneer, and he positioned as much of his elbow and upper body in front of Clara as he could without undermining the authority her shy voice had worked so hard to muster this night.
“Yes, lady. King Halpin has informed me of these Betrothal Games you have enacted and which, by agreement with your father, I am to compete in if our alliance is to come to fruition.” The male took another sip and rounded the backs of the dinner guests’ chairs but never took his black eyes from Clara. “Tell me, do you know why the inner circle that has journeyed with me consists of only fifteen lycans?”
“I do not, my lord.” Her admission rocked unsteadily out of her throat, causing the king to smile in satisfaction.
