Page 21 of His King Enslaved

“Only your consideration. I’d like to forgo the five-month waiting period. After you’re pregnant.”

“It will take five months to bring our child to term. There’s no reason for us to have contact during that time.”

“There are plenty of reasons. I could rub your feet, for one. Also, if I have to go five months without seeing you, I will die.”

“Respectfully, Your Majesty, that’s not my problem.”

“It is. I can’t give you more children if I’m dead.”

Ardor paused thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s true. How many children are you offering?”

“One hundred.”

Ardor laughed. “I will be lucky to produce the obligated ten, Your Majesty.”

“Very well, I stand ready. We could shoot for a dozen, and see how far we get.”

Ardor’s expression shifted, growing wary. “You’re flirting,” he said finally.

“I’m certainly trying,” Sindar said with a laugh, and Ardor visibly relaxed. “Did I step in it again? I only wanted to amuse you.”

“You don’t know much about Flowers, do you?”

“I’m eager to learn.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Ardor studied him and seemed to make some decision. “Having children reduces my lifespan, Your Majesty. If I give you as many children as I am able at my age—approximately ten, based on historical data—I will not live beyond my 30s.”

It was as though the ground beneath Sindar’s feet and all the chernozem and stone and sediment beneath that crumbled. He was momentarily suspended in the air with nothing to support him. “What?”

“Flowers produce healthy royal children quickly and efficiently at the expense of our own genetic material.”

Sindar kept staring at him. “I don’t understand.”

“Are you a man of science?”

“Not at all.”

Ardor paused, considering his words. “I understand the Kysanians refer to the royal mutation as a curse. I’ll try to explain it in those terms. Because of the curse, your sperm destroys human eggs during the insemination process. That’s why royals cannot produce offspring with other humans. Royals can procreate with Flowers because we were genetically engineered to withstand the curse, so to speak. Our eggs survive the insemination process at the cost of cellular breakdown of the surrogate body. My body.” On seeing Sindar’s expression, he added, “Don’t they teach that at the royal academy?”

Sindar wouldn’t know. He’d skipped half his lessons. “I’ll be killing you. Every time you get pregnant… Good goddess, I’ll be killing you.”

Ardor paused. He hadn’t expected that reaction. Why the devil not? It was horrifying! “Only in the strictest technical sense. Don’t think of the process that way. We were engineered for this work. Flowers are designed to—”

“Stop,” Sindar breathed. His hands were shaking. “Stop! You weren’t designed, you’re not engineered, you’re a man!”

Silence descended, and for a moment, there was only the hum of the bees.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Ardor said finally. “This is a fact of life for me, and I’m not distressed by it. It’s simply the way things are. This is new information for you, so I understand how it could be shocking. I should have been more sensitive.”

“Good goddess, you never have to apologize or… or do anything! You’re never obligated to do anything on my account!” Sindar covered his face with his hands for a moment, gathering his thoughts. The current contract stipulated ten children, with a two-month waiting period between each. According to the notes, Xandar pushed for it. Demanded it. He’d asked for Ardor’s death, and they’d given it to him.

As Sindar did the math, his stomach curdled. Under those terms, Ardor would die within six years, assuming he made it that far. That contract was a death sentence, and his bastard brother had made it that way on purpose. He’d pushed for breeding terms far more aggressive than what the Pavarians originally offered, and made concessions to do so.

Oh, Sindar was going to kill Xandar when he found him. What sort of monster negotiated a consort’s swift death? Why in heaven would the Archon hand over Pavar’s Flower, her own child, on those terms?

Meanwhile, Ardor was calm and composed. It was as he’d said. This was simply a fact of life for him. The gentle curve in his brow, the only outward sign of concern, was not even for himself. It was for the miserable, ignorant consort wallowing at his feet. Sindar had never despised his own ignorance as he did now.

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Sindar said, his voice thick. “One child, three children... Tell me how many, and I’ll amend the contract. I’ll do anything you ask.”