Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
With a breathless laugh, I threw myself into his waiting arms. “We can share the whole collection.”
He caught me easily, kissing me as if we had all the time in the world but also none at all. I pulled back after a few seconds…minutes…only because my people gathered around us, the enemy armies fleeing.
“Come,” he said, an explicit command. “We get married today.”
My heart soared as I strolled with him to the palace, leaving a trail of soot in my wake. Dragon-berserkers watched us. Especially Taron, who paused to collect a few severed heads, proudly announcing each kill. He carried his prizes as though they were trophies, cementing his rise to a warrior of myth, guaranteed. Whispers would abound by morning.
The soldiers noticed the heads, of course. Everyone noticed the heads.
My lips twitched. “Maybe we leave your new treasures here on the battlefield?”
“Mine,” he growled so fiercely and so fast I blinked in surprise. Then he winced. “Sorry. Looks as though I’ve started my first hoard.”
I giggled as I’d never giggled before. “Drop them, and I’ll marry us right now.” As queen, I had only to make the proclamation to seal our bond forever. “By the time we reach my—our—bedroom, we’ll be husband and wife. We’ll shower together and—”
Thud. The heads hit the ground.
Taron scooped me into his arms, kissed me soundly, then hoisted me higher to perch me on his shoulder like I was the true prize of the day. I grinned so wide it hurt. “I have kept my end of our deal. Now you keep yours.”
Marry us? With pleasure. “I hereby declare,” I called to the skies, to the warriors around us and even to the wind, “Taron Locke is now my husband. Behold your new king consort! He is the Tempter of the Primordial Phoenix, the Realms Most Ferocious Dragon, Elite Procurer of Ancient Weapons and Rare Toxins, and—” I paused for dramatic effect, then whispered for his ears only, “Professor Hotpants. If he agrees, of course.”
“I belong to your queen, and she belongs to me,” Taron called out, lifting his voice over the thunderous cheer. “I’ll end anyone who tries to take her from me. She is my firebrand. My wife, Mrs. Olyssa Locke-Drachenveil.” For my ears, he added, “Keeper of my heart. Treasure of treasures.”
The crowd erupted again, wild and free. The war was over, and my family curse was broken. And I—Mrs. Olyssa Locke-Drachenveil, my new favorite title—finally, irrevocably belonged to Taron, and he to me.
“Let the honeymoon begin,” I cried, my happiness bubbling over. “The official ceremony with the other berserker royals can wait until after I’ve had you all to myself for a few days. Or weeks. Ja, definitely weeks.”
“Make it a month,” he murmured. “I have… fantasies.”
Shivers danced down my spine. “Ja, please and thank you.”
With a grin full of promise, he adjusted his grip on me, flared his smokewings, and launched into the sky. We landed on the balcony of our royal suite, where we promptly shut the doors and ignored every single knock. For days.
I texted Adelaide only once, and only to tell her to add a second throne to the dais. Right next to mine.
The honeymoon eventually ended when we were forced to leave the suite for the Ceremony of Blood and Heart.
I rocked a long, flowing gown spun of black opals and starlight with veins of pink throughout. Taron wore head-to-toe battle-leathers and looked like a dream with a wedding band.
After a private and very naughty tea party for just the two of us, we flew to the circle of ancient traveling stones and entered a world known for being neutral territory for all berserkers. We remained inside the traveling stones, now in a forest filled with oaks and beeches that towered high like guards, their leaves filtering the sunlight. The scent of wildflowers welcomed us as we arrived in the clearing. We were the last of the royals to arrive.
Nine kings stood in their doorways, one per stone, keeping a respectful distance. Griffin. Bear. Turul. Wolf. Manticore. Lynx. Adder. Gargoyle. Kraken.
This was tradition. A ritual of allegiance. A declaration: This is my person. A strike against them is a strike against me.
So far, only two other royals had wed. King Callen of the Wolves loomed tall beside his very pregnant firebrand, a brunette schoolteacher who, rumor had it, had once been soul-switched with a homicidal socialite.
Viktor, the still-feral King of Turuls, waited next to his firebrand, a beautiful animal groomer. I’d heard whispers that her mother was the very goddess who’d imprisoned the primordials for centuries in an attempt to rule over us all.
The groomer waved to the schoolteacher and said brightly, “If you need help with delivery, I’ve birthed more puppies and kittens than I can count!”
The schoolteacher laughed. Her husband beamed and rubbed her belly as if he’d never held anything more precious.