Temair's Aire

The Queens of Merab: Temair's Aire by Violet Summers

Changeling Press LLC www.changelingpress.com

Copyright ©2010 by Violet Summers First published in 2010, 2010 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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The Queens of Merab: Temair's Aire by Violet Summers

CONTENTS Adult Sexual Content The Queens of Merab 3: Temair's Aire Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Epilogue Violet Summers ****

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The Queens of Merab: Temair's Aire by Violet Summers

The Queens of Merab 3: Temair's Aire Violet Summers All rights reserved. Copyright (C)2010 Violet Summers ISBN: 978-1-60521-422-1 Formats Available: HTML, Adobe PDF, EPub MobiPocket, Microsoft Reader Publisher: Changeling Press LLC PO Box 1046 Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046 www.ChangelingPress.com Editor: Sheri Ross Fogarty Cover Artist: Bryan Keller

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The Queens of Merab: Temair's Aire by Violet Summers

Adult Sexual Content This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers. Legal File Usage—Your Rights Payment of the download fee for this book grants the purchaser the right to download and read this file, and to maintain private backup copies of the file for the purchaser's personal use ONLY. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this or any copyrighted work is illegal. Authors are paid on a per-purchase basis. Any use of this file beyond the rights stated above constitutes theft of the author's earnings. File sharing is an international crime, prosecuted by the United States Department of Justice and the United States Border Patrol, Division of Cyber Crimes, in partnership with Interpol. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by seizure of computers, up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 per reported instance. [Back to Table of Contents] 5

The Queens of Merab: Temair's Aire by Violet Summers

The Queens of Merab 3: Temair's Aire Violet Summers On the world of Merab, women rule, while men wield the magic. It's been an equitable system, until now. Temair knew that one day she'd have to step up and take her place as Queen of Emetra; she just didn't expect for it to happen so soon! Now she finds herself on a Tour of the Queendom in search of her four Consorts—the four men whose Elemental magic will awaken hers. Her First Consort, Fyre Lord Miach, is all warrior. Her Second Consort, Rayne Lord Dathan, is all play. Bonding with Fyre and Rayne was almost effortless. Aire is giving her some problems—mostly because his mother has him so sequestered that Temair hasn't even caught a glimpse of the man! When she finally does, Temair isn't at all prepared for what she finds. Instead of a stone cold fighter or a playful playboy, she finds a man scarred by life. Zevan needs more than Temair's love; he needs the love and support of the family she's building, too. Only by seeing himself through their eyes can he truly believe he's worthy to be Temair's Aire. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Prologue The nobleman preened in the mirror, not realizing Sitric had activated the enchantment that would allow them to communicate. Sitric stood out of sight at the periphery of the mirror's range and studied his so-called ally. The man was a vision in cream lace and burnt orange velvet, as he fussed with his flame-colored hair, arranging it to fall like silk over his shoulders. Finally Sitric had all he could stand of the nobleman's vanity, and he moved front and center, gaining the man's startled attention. "Losing Storm was an unfortunate setback," he commented mildly, when he was feeling anything but mild. The Healer's loss of anonymity had been a debilitating blow to the men's rebellion. Not only had they lost a valuable and strategically placed ally, but also a voice of reason. "Pah." The nobleman made a rude noise and an even ruder gesture. "We've dealt with nothing but riff-raff. If you and I were to coordinate things, our mission would be long completed and our cause won." Sitric refrained from pointing out that the nobleman had been the mastermind behind the attack in the Fyre Lands. The man was a fool, but a well-placed fool. "Well, whatever the obstacles, it's time to sit back and regroup," he commented. It was getting harder to keep his voice calm, his tone level. The abuses the males in Emetra suffered were mild compared to the abuses elsewhere, but they were enough to warrant alarm. More than enough. 7

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"Don't pussy out now, man," the nobleman sneered, leaning in toward the mirror in what he probably thought was a threatening and intimidating manner. It lost some of its effectiveness when the nobleman was obviously distracted by his own reflection. "It's not pussying out to proceed with caution and wisdom," Sitric responded blandly. "They'll be arriving at the Aerie any day now. It costs nothing to wait a few days and see what we can see before acting. It was haste that doomed our first two attempts." "It costs nothing but time and the element of surprise," the nobleman snapped, and Sitric wondered if the idiot really believed they still had the element of surprise. Hell, they hadn't had that advantage since Forn shot the poorly aimed fyre arrow at Princess Temair weeks ago. "Nevertheless," the nobleman concluded with obvious displeasure, "you're the boss for the moment." Sitric knew the nobleman intended to change that little fact. He also knew he had no intention of allowing that to happen. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter One "I'm cold," Dathan muttered, huddling deeper into his parka. "Stop whining," Miach snapped, throwing the Second Consort an irritated glare. "It's unattractive." Dathan smiled wickedly. "And what would you find attractive, Consort?" He smiled even wider at Miach's disgusted growl, then hunched back into the heavy wool fabric swathing him. "I'm from a tropical land," he pointed out, knowing he was pouting, but unable to stop it. "Not all of us have built in heaters," he added, sending a resentful glance toward Miach and Temair, who both seemed to radiate the heat of Fyre magic. "Why don't you get in the carriage and ride with the women, if you're suffering so badly?" Temair leaned over in her saddle and aimed a smack at the back of Miach's head. "Excuse me, my Lord Husband," she glowered at him, but Dathan noticed her eyes were dancing. "Woman right here, in case you've forgotten." Miach sent her that little half-smile that caused a tendril of warmth to curl through Dathan's belly—he suspected it did the same to Temair—and caught the princess's head in one big hand, leaning dangerously out from his horse to press a firm kiss on her laughing mouth. "Believe me, Spark," he said dryly. "I could never forget you." 9

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"Another day of travel, maximum," she commented once she'd regained her breath. Dathan shot a distasteful look around at the rocky, mountainous territory. "I fear that arriving at the Aerie won't be much more agreeable. This land is as barren as Storm's heart." "If that's the case," Temair answered quellingly, "we should find the area rich with life and emotion." When Dathan sent Temair a disbelieving look, Miach answered for her, his voice thoughtful. "Storm acted out of love. Treasonously and without honor, but with a great deal of love." Dathan just shook his head. He could see Miach's point; could even concede it. Perhaps if they'd been discussing a fyre lord, or a lord of aire or earth he could drum up some sympathy for the former Healer. As it was, all he could feel was betrayal and rage at the danger the rebel had placed Temair in. "At any rate," he muttered, more to himself than his companions, though the princess smiled sympathetically, "at least in the Aerie there might be some consistent source of heat." Temair paced the large sitting room restlessly. Even wrapped up in a woolen shawl and calling on her inner fyre, she was still chilled. Poor Dathan was huddled before the monstrous fireplace trying to warm his thin blood. She approached the floor to ceiling windows covering the north wall. The Aerie was built atop a giant cliff; all Temair was able to see were never-ending gray skies above and the 10

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equally dull waters of the Galta Sea below. At night she could hear the waves crashing into the walls making sleep difficult. Even Dathan, who was always at home near the water, wasn't drawn to the turbulent tides below. This was not the same place her Aire father had described to her. She'd expected the physical chill; she just hadn't realized the cold would be soul-deep. She'd spent two days looking out these windows waiting to meet Lady Alta's only son, Zevan, and for two days she'd been told that he was ill. Instead the Lady had foisted her nephew Nabal upon them. Temair had taken an instant dislike to the man. He was too eager to talk with her exclusively. He completely ignored Miach and Dathan, treating them more like servants than her Consorts. That behavior alone would have made her dislike him, but there was more. Anytime she made an inquiry concerning Lady Alta's son, Nabal had a snide comment to make concerning the other man. Rather than defending her son, Lady Alta always laughed and remarked how observant Nabal was. The wide double doors at the end of the room opened and Lady Alta, escorted by the odious Nabal, entered the room with a flourish. The older woman smiled as she approached, but Temair wasn't fooled. There was no joy in the Lady's silvery eyes. She wasn't even sure the Lady had ever experienced that particular emotion. The Lady wore her hair in the short, spiky style of the Aire people, the dark charcoal color indicating the strength of her 11

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aire magic. White strands flowed from her crown to frame her face. "Princess," she bowed slightly as she stopped next to Temair. "I assume you have been taken care of. All your needs met?" Temair bristled at the slightly caustic tone the woman took. It was obvious Lady Alta didn't like Temair, but since she had not been blatantly rude, Temair bore her tedious behavior. "Thank you, Lady Alta, all my needs have been met, with the exception of meeting your son." Temair gripped her shawl tighter around her not only to relieve the sudden chill in the room, but to keep from strangling her hostess. The Lady's smile faded. "Yes, well, he is still not up to visitors. But I have good news. Nabal has been generous enough to offer to escort you on a tour of the grounds." By the elements! Temair did not want to spend any more time with Nabal. She wasn't the only one who couldn't stand the man. Miach wanted nothing more than to choke him to death. Dathan was more diplomatic, but he lost no opportunity to make Nabal look like a fool without him realizing it. "Thank you, Lady," she said between clenched teeth, then turned to Nabal. "And thank you, Nabal, for your time." "You are more than welcome, Princess. It is no chore escorting such a beautiful woman around my home." His smile reminded her of a predator just before they bit the head off something small and helpless. "I will meet you here in 12

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three hours." He bowed, then straightening he held out his arm for his aunt and they made their exit. Temair smiled ruefully as she walked over to the divan Dathan was huddled on. Miach came out of the corner he'd been hiding in to sit down on her other side. "Spark, if I have to spend another minute with that little snake I will kill him for sure." She patted her husband's cheek. "Now, now, my warrior. I let you hide in dark corners whenever they come to speak with me. I won't let you abandon me during our little excursions." Dathan leaned forward. "Quit whining, Consort. At least you're warm. I haven't felt a lick of heat in three days." Temair raised an eyebrow. "Not a lick, Lord Rayne?" "Okay, maybe a few licks here and there," he grudgingly admitted. "But even then one side of me is generally cold." Miach snorted at Dathan's complaint. "If Number One over there wasn't such a baby, I could sleep in the middle and be kept warm by both of your fyres." Dathan's pout pulled at Temair's heart. Miach's scowl tickled her sense of humor. "It's not my fault you have such thin blood, water boy. It's not my job to keep your skinny ass warm." She stifled a laugh as their familiar bickering continued. Finally, she grabbed each man by the hand. "Enough, you two! Tonight you can sleep between us, Dathan." When the Rayne Lord's blue eyes began to glow, Temair laughed. "Sleep, Dathan," she emphasized with a grin. "Spark," Miach's warning growl lit her fyre and made her wet. 13

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She leaned over and kissed him deeply. Pulling back she stared into his burning black eyes. "Please, Miach, do this for me. I promise all will be well." Dathan reached out and squeezed Miach's thigh, causing her warrior to jump. "Don't you worry, hot stuff, I won't touch anything." "Damn right, you won't," Miach grumbled. Dathan winked at him. "Unless, of course, you beg me to." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Two As she always did when she was troubled, Temair found the library. She stifled a little snort of amusement. The Lady Alta might not be willing to share her only son with the royal party, but she'd certainly put her collection of musty old books at their disposal. Darmon and Pelagia made themselves at home, the fyre warrior near the library's one large window, the rayne warrior just inside the door. They'd become rather adept at staying invisible to her when she wanted privacy. She supposed she'd have to become equally adept at ignoring them. With a sigh, she moved to the nearest shelves. The room was enormous, one giant, vaulted space with each wall lined from floor to ceiling with thousands of books. One wall was broken by a large fireplace. Several high-backed chairs and a long couch were clustered around it. Like everything else she'd seen in the Aerie, the couch looked hard and rough, and she wondered what kind of person could find comfort here. Turning her attention back to the books, Temair was delighted to find a copy of her favorite history of Merab, the one that included the story of the original three Queens, and their struggle to bring order from the chaos of the world's uncontrolled magic. It also told the stories of the first Consorts, and described how the Queens vowed to rule with compassion and affection. An apt reminder, she thought, in light of the things she was discovering in her Queendom. She considered Storm and 15

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his doomed love for Losha, and her heart ached for them, even as she feared the Healer's hatred was merely a symptom of a greater disease. On a whim she pulled the book from the shelf and moved to sit on one of the chairs before the fyre. She rounded the high-backed seat, and a soft gasp was her only warning before she found herself seated firmly on the lap of the chair's current occupant. "Oh, sweet elements, I'm sorry," she laughed, bouncing right back to her feet. "No, no," the boy seated there stammered, jumping to his own feet. "I shouldn't be here." He looked around in alarm, as if expecting security to come and drag him away on the spot. Something in his anxious expression twisted at Temair's heart, and she reached out impulsively to lay a hand along his cheek. When she encountered stubble, she looked a bit closer. He was older than she'd first thought, she realized. Probably still younger than her, but definitely not a boy. He had fine, narrow features set off by wide eyes the gray of hematite and fringed with lashes so thick and dark they almost looked lined with kohl, and full lips. His hair was cropped short in the fashion of the land, and oddly colored. The roots were a charcoal so deep as to look black, while the last inch or so stood up in icy white spikes reminiscent of Temair's Aire sire. He'd gone still under her touch, and she heard a slight hitch in his breathing that brought a hungry smile to her face. Before Miach, she'd never considered herself a sexual being. 16

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Once Dathan had joined them, Temair had discovered depths to her sexuality she'd never have guessed at. The devoted attentions of her Consorts had brought out the predator in her, and suddenly this beautiful, damaged young man looked a lot like prey. "Stay," she coaxed, pushing lightly on his chest and knocking him gently into his chair. Ignoring protocol, she pulled up a footstool and sat in front of him. "I'm Temmie," she said, some instinct warning her not to use her given name or title. Instead the pet name her parents and foster sisters used for her seemed much more appropriate. "R-rari," he stammered back. Temair frowned. In the old language, his name meant bitter. He reacted to her frown by shifting uncomfortably, clearly prepared to flee. She couldn't allow that. Not when everything about him was calling out to everything in her. "So," she responded quickly, before he could gather his wits enough to rise, "what are you reading, Rari?" He flushed, and the sight of the blood rising to the surface of his pale skin, painting slashes across his high cheekbones, made her want to taste his skin with her tongue, to see if he tasted as sweet as he looked. "It's a war treatise," he mumbled, holding the book out for her to see. "The Art and Grace of Warfare," she read, raising an eyebrow. "There's not been any need for that sort of thing in Emetra in over a century," she pointed out, delighted when his flush grew even darker. 17

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"Of course not," he agreed. "Though there are some who would like to change that." The last was muttered as if he'd forgotten she could hear him. His gaze flew back to hers, hematite dark and glistening. She rather thought he had no idea how winsome and alluring he looked, gazing shyly up at her from through those dark lashes. "I read it for the strategy," he explained, relaxing back into his chair a bit when she didn't scold or interrupt him. "We spend a great deal of time inside," a quick smile, utterly charming and as unselfconscious as a child, "as I'm sure you'd expect. Some of us occupy our time with war games." Another smile, this one a tad embarrassed. "Role play and the like. A mere man like me needs all the help he can get when faced with griffins and basilisks." He gestured with the book in his hand. "So, I teach myself strategy." "May I?" Temair asked, taking the book he offered her and flipping through a few pages. It was beautifully rendered, seemingly hand copied, and the illustrations were exquisitely detailed. He was growing self-conscious again, color rising again to his cheeks. "I prefer histories, myself," she commented before he could remember to be frightened. That fright gnawed at her a bit, enough to almost douse the arousal spearing through her when he chewed at his full lower lip. "This is one of my favorites," she added, handing him the book she'd pulled from the shelf. "I've read many of the histories," he replied, frowning down at the slim volume in his hand, "but not this one." He sent her a surprisingly ironic smile. "It was not on the 18

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approved curriculum." He turned the leather book in his hands, his fingers long and pale against the dark binding. "Too controversial." "What?" Temair was shocked. This book had been at the foundation of her education. "It describes how our ancestors worked together to harness Merab's wild magic. How is that controversial?" The look he gave her was almost pitying. "It describes men working along their women nearly as equals, a concept that the women of Emetra have little use for." "That's preposterous!" Horror joined her shock. Were there actually areas in the Queendom that believed this? Before she could question him further, though, there was a scuffle at the door. Pelagia's voice came clearly, "The room is occupied at the moment," and Temair recognized the low rumble of Nabal's voice as Lady Aire's nephew tried to talk his way into the room. Rari had frozen, face dead white and eyes wide. "I've stayed longer than I should," he muttered, surging gracefully to his feet. Temair quickly stood and caught his arm. "I wish you'd stay longer," she told him. He looked at her for a long, silent moment, and she swore she could see his soul in his eyes; wounded yet hopeful. Then Nabal's voice came again, louder and more strident, and a shutter seemed to rise in that glistening gaze. He was clearly desperate to leave, and she couldn't bring herself to force him to stay. "I'm glad we met, Rari," she murmured. "You've been the most interesting"—they both flinched as Nabal, apparently tired of 19

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arguing, slammed his hand against the doorframe—"most pleasant person I've met since arriving at the Aerie." He was all but vibrating with distress even as he sketched a slight bow. Clearly he hadn't pieced together her identity, which oddly pleased her. "I enjoyed our conversation as well, my Lady." He turned to go and she caught his arm one last time. "Take this." She pressed the history book into his hand. "Read it. It's a more accurate representation of how society was meant to be on Merab." She frowned as Nabal began to shout. "Perhaps we can meet again and speak of it." He nodded briefly, and slipped from the room by way of a pocket door Temair hadn't noticed. She wagered Darmon hadn't noticed it either, judging from his hissed curse. Retrieving the book Rari had dropped on his chair before he fled, Temair moved purposefully to the door. Nabal was a fool and a brute; there was no way she'd choose him as Consort, even if he were the only nobleman available to her. She sent a speculative look at the door through which Rari had made his escape. If Lord Zevan proved as disagreeable as Lord Nabal, perhaps she'd widen her view. The young man with the wide eyes and innocent smile called to her, bringing surges of lust and protectiveness in equal parts. Sighing in resignation, she gave Pelagia a firm nod, and he opened the door so quickly that Nabal lurched into the room and landed on one knee at Temair's feet. "Why, Lord Nabal," she simpered in her best impression of Nuriel. "You are only required to bow in my presence, not 20

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grovel." She held back her laughter as he snarled in response, but just barely. Turning to her guards she added, "All this study has left me fatigued. I fear I must retire to my chamber and rest." Eyes dancing, the two fierce warriors escorted her past the flailing Aire Lord and into the passageway. "Rari, my Lord?" Zevan jerked in surprise, then relaxed as he spotted the servant working diligently to stir the fyre in the cold hearth of his chamber. "It was all I could think of," he admitted with a wry smile. "I couldn't very well give her my real name." He suppressed a shiver, but somehow he knew the servant saw it anyway. "You know how my mother would react if she knew I'd been out and about while the royal party was here." "Indeed," the servant agreed, standing to his full height as the kindling caught and a warm blaze grew, throwing golden shadows over the drab gray stone walls. Zevan raised a brow at the acid in the other man's voice. Tric had been in the Aerie's employ for several months, had been Zevan's personal servant for most of that time, and while it was clear the man had no love of Lady Alta, he'd at least kept a civil tone when speaking of her. "So, who was she?" the servant asked in a more even tone as he hung a pan of water over the fyre to warm. "I'm not sure," Zevan answered, peeling off his down-filled vest. "One of the princesses' servants, I assume." He shrugged and pulled his woolen shirt over his head. "She was..." he searched for the right word, "sweet," he finally concluded. "And kind," he added in amazement. "She gave 21

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me a book to read." He gestured to the book he'd tossed onto his bed. "Said it was a more true representation of how the sexes should interact." Tric raised a brow, but said nothing as he removed the pan from the fyre and poured the steaming water into a basin for Zevan to wash. "I liked her," Zevan concluded, feeling every bit as surprised as Tric looked at the admission. "She has kind eyes." Temair entered Lady Alta's private sitting room with Sorcha and Nuriel flanking her. She left her two guards at the door. Lady Alta stood with a wide, false smile. "Why, Princess, what a nice surprise. I assume Nabal was a good host during your tour?" Oh, yes, he'd been a most interesting guide, never passing over a chance to paint Zevan in a bad light. At this point Temair was beyond the niceties of royal protocol. She needed to meet the Aire son, if only to help put Rari from her mind. Now was not the time to become infatuated with a man who was totally unsuitable. "Nabal was a knowledgeable host indeed. That is not why I am here, Lady. I must insist that I meet Zevan as soon as possible." The friendly aire was sucked out of the room at her demand, and the Lady sat slowly back down. Her silvery eyes began to swirl and her mouth pulled down into a frown. "Princess, I assure you if my son was presentable he would be with you now." She said my son with such disgust that Temair was even more determined to meet him. What in the 22

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world could be wrong with the man to deserve such derision from his own mother? "Lady Alta, I'm afraid my patience has run out. I can't stay in the Aerie for much longer, so I must insist that I be allowed to interview Zevan immediately." Her fyre started to smolder as her aggravation grew; add in the agitated swirl of her rayne, and she was surprised steam wasn't coming out of her ears. Everywhere they had traveled she'd been treated with respect, and even with affection. Here, the Lady barely kept a civil tongue, and Temair was sick and tired of it. "Princess, as Zevan's mother I know what is best for my son. Now is not the right time. Perhaps you might consider Nabal for..." Sorcha cut the woman off mid-sentence, moving to stand next to Temair. "Lady Alta, need I remind you that you do not dictate the terms of this visit? The Princess has been very patient in giving you time to produce your son. We shall expect him here, this time tomorrow afternoon." The Lady opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. She could not say anything back to Sorcha, because she knew Sorcha was right. Temair hid the smile that threatened to emerge as the Lady inclined her head slightly in agreement. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Three Tric quietly stirred up the fyre in Lady Alta's sitting room as her guests arrived. Rather than exiting, he ducked behind a heavy silk curtain and settled in to listen. His gaze was riveted not to the Crown Princess, but to her flame-haired companion. She was a fighter, even if she didn't carry a sword. He could tell. There was a fyre in her eyes that warned that anyone who crossed her would meet with a terrible end. She wasn't put together as well as the blonde, or curvy like Princess Temair. Her red hair was curly and out of control. He noticed leather boots peeking out from beneath her dress. A dress, he noted, that was ripped near her shoulder. No, she was a complete mess, and he felt his stomach tighten. Now was not the time to be thinking of anything other than trying to come up with another plan since Storm's failure. So why couldn't he take his eyes off the flame-haired princess? Tric tried to concentrate on the conversation between the Lady and Princess Temair, but was drawn back to the other woman when she stepped forward and addressed the Lady. Her voice wasn't smooth and cultured, it was slightly husky and rolled down his skin like fyre as her brows furrowed. He recognized that look: barely controlled anger. He'd studied people and learned body language. The redhead was impressive and when he heard her giving the Lady hell despite royal propriety he cracked a smile. Tric was rarely surprised, but she surprised him. Standing up to the Lady took balls and apparently the little redhead 24

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had a steel pair. This needed further investigation and he was just the man to get the job done. Zevan was sitting at his desk poring over a strategy guide when the door to his room burst open. His mother stormed in, her face a dull red. Standing over him, she just stared for a moment before bringing her hand back and slapping him hard across the face. His cheek burned, but he knew better than to rub the spot. It would only increase her anger and double his punishment. She pointed her finger close to his nose. The Aire jewel in her ring was as big as his thumb, and he kept his eyes on the gem as she ranted. "I can't get our fair princess interested in Nabal until she has met you. Though I know deep in my heart that once she gets a look at you she will run willingly into his arms, I want to make it clear to you that you are to make a horrible impression upon her and her men." "Yes, Mother," he answered, which was the required response to anything she said to him. She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. "I don't like this princess. She is too well read, not easily manipulated. I need her to leave here and never return, as the Queen has done. If Nabal is her Consort, he can keep her away from the Aerie and leave us to live as we always have." Zevan said nothing, though he knew why his mother was so agitated. Temair was intelligent, kind and gentle. She could very well be the kind of Queen who would take a closer look and see what was really happening within her realm. His mother would do anything to keep the Aerie as it was. 25

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"Keep your mouth shut and appear dumb. That shouldn't be difficult for you. I think that would be the best way to draw her attention back to your cousin." "Yes, Mother," he said, releasing his breath. Of course he would agree; he'd do anything to be left in peace. But some small part of him was thinking what if... What if Temair chose him? What if he could escape the Aerie, and his mother, forever? What if he had the power to change things for his people? His mother turned toward the door, regal as a Queen herself. As she was almost through it she looked back at him over her shoulder. "Remember, you are to do as instructed. Do not disobey me, and do not make me look like a fool." Dathan stopped in his tracks and slipped into a dark alcove when he heard the strident voice of Lady Aire coming from the room opposite him. While her words were muffled, the tone was quite clear. She was berating someone inside the room. He shivered, feeling nothing but pity for the poor person on the receiving end of her wrath. Even when she was being friendly, the bitch was cold as ice. He could only imagine how arctic her anger must be. The door opened and he backed as tight against the wall as he could, hoping she was caught up enough in her anger to overlook him. She turned back to glare into the room for a moment, issuing a warning about not being made a fool of in a voice so cold it burned. Dathan tried to see who she was talking to, but from his hiding place he couldn't see beyond her silhouette. Her final words made him wonder if the object of her rage had been 26

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her son. He strained harder for a glimpse, but she managed to fill the doorway with her skinny frame as she swept out of the room. He waited until she had slammed the door behind her and sailed down the hall before leaving his hiding place to return to his chamber. Maybe he should inform Temair of the Lady's rather tumultuous temper. If she did indeed choose Lady Alta's son as her Consort, they would have to make sure the man was completely loyal to Temair and not his mother. Though Dathan had a hard time imagining anyone being loyal to that icy bitch. With the attempts on Temair's life, though, the last thing they needed was the added burden of worrying if Lord Aire would put Temair and the welfare of the Queendom above all else. Dathan had a feeling Lady Alta never allowed anyone to forget she was the Lady of the land. "I just saw something..." he began as he opened the door to their rooms. The words quickly trailed off into silence when he caught sight of the scene being played out in the center of the room. Temair was sitting atop their dining table, gloriously naked, her pale body lit by candlelight. He could only see the fall of Miach's dark-ruby hair since his face was planted between her juicy thighs. Dathan's cock swelled so fast he felt light-headed from the downward surge of blood in his body. He ripped open his breeches to free it from its painful confines, pressing hard at the root, desperate for a little relief. 27

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By the Elements, they made a stunning couple. The back of Miach's head moved slowly up and down. Soft, wet noises filled the air. Temair's hand was fisted in the silky fall of his hair. Dathan had fantasized more than once of being in Temair's place, his hands tangled in that black-ruby mane while Miach devoured his cock. The heat made by these two might have been oppressive had they still been in Rayne, but here in the bone-chilling Aerie, Dathan was finally thawing. She spotted him with his dick in his hand and gave him the sexy smile she wore whenever she was being loved. She lifted her free hand, and delicate fingers traced her nipples, pulling the supple skin until they stood straight up. Every tug was like a tug on his balls. "We have company," she purred softly. Miach turned his head, staring at Dathan with burning, chaos-black eyes and Temair's honey glazing his full lips. Those eyes narrowed, but the warrior only grunted and ran his tongue over his lower lip before diving back between her legs. Dathan let go of his cock. One more stroke and he knew he would blow. Better to suffer the pain now and delay fulfillment. He knew his princess wouldn't leave him wanting. He approached the couple, and his fingers itched as he passed Miach. The Fyre Lord tempted Dathan like no other male, but he'd made a promise to his wife—and himself—not to force the issue. Not until Miach could admit he wanted it. He was almost sorry he'd made such a promise. He was more than sure he could have seduced the warrior into some one-on-one with him. His wife was correct though; Miach had 28

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to call the shots when it came to that pleasure, else he'd hate Dathan, and himself, for it. Until then Dathan could watch and enjoy the play of each and every hard muscle beneath Miach's pale flesh, even if he couldn't touch. Dathan slid onto the table behind Temair and planted his legs alongside her. His cock brushed against her soft back and he shifted until he could wedge his cock-head between her ass cheeks. Leaning in, he rested his cheek on her shoulder. The new position gave him a perfect view of Miach as the Consort's tongue thrust into her pussy. Dathan slid his arms around her, bringing up one hand to capture a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand he slid down her soft belly, moving his fingers to her neglected clit. He rubbed his middle finger gently around the tight nub, causing Temair to cry out and buck upward into his touch. When she made the sudden movement, two things happened that took Dathan's breath away. Miach tossed his head, and his hair was flung over the top of Dathan's thigh, the strands tickling his sensitized skin like heated threads of silk. Simultaneously, Temair grabbed his other hand from her breast and led it down to Miach's dark head, tangling both their hands in the Consort's hair to push his face harder against her. Surprisingly, there was no protest from the Fyre Lord, so Dathan let his fingers delve a little deeper into Miach's hair to guide his head back and forth across Temair. "Suck her clit," he rasped sharply, guiding Miach's head to the princess's clit. The stimulation, the sight of Miach's dark head bent over Temair's honey-glazed pussy, the sensation of 29

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his warm-silk hair wrapped tight around Dathan's fingers, and the satin rub of Temair's cheeks over his cock was too much. Dathan started grinding his hips back and forth to scrape his aching length along the seam of Temair's ass. Temair's voice was faint with need. "Stand and stroke your cock, Consort. I want to see you come." Surprisingly, Miach obeyed Temair's breathless request without argument, and Dathan reluctantly released his hair so he could stand. Moving his hand back to her slick heat, he thrust two fingers inside of her while his palm scraped along her tender clit. She cried out and moved against him. Miach was standing now, his large dick surrounded by his equally large hand, the tip shiny with pre-cum. Dathan devoured the other man with his eyes, transfixed by the sight of the other male stroking himself. His concentration was shattered when Temair threw her head back as her orgasm took her over the edge. The tight contractions of her sheath around his fingers took Dathan with her, and Miach followed close behind, as caught up in Temair's pleasure as Dathan was. But for a split second as Miach spilled himself on their wife's gorgeous chest, blue flecks met red sparks and something powerful passed between the two men. Something neither was ready to deal with and neither would be able to forget. Temair felt her eyes go wide with delight as they entered Lady Alta's formal sitting room. There, at the Lady's left hand, was Rari. She moved to greet him, thrilled with this new development. He was at the Lady's left, so he couldn't be the 30

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son, but his presence indicated he was some sort of relation, and therefore a potential Consort. "Your Highness. Please, you all must sit." Lady Alta's cool greeting distracted her for a moment, but not before she saw Rari's face go white and stricken. She still would have gone to him if Dathan hadn't caught her elbow in a gentle grip. She shot him a dark look, but her irritation faded at the intense way he was looking from the Lady to Rari and back again. Forcing herself back into the role of Crown Princess, Temair begrudgingly dredged up the proper manners for the occasion. "How lovely to see you, Alta." The woman's icy eyes narrowed at the familiar address, but Temair suspected she'd need every bit of strategy she could muster to keep the woman in her place. She sent a deliberate glance toward the empty seat at Lady Aire's right. "I see we're waiting for one last guest," she commented blandly. Her joy at finding Rari in attendance had almost overshadowed the insult given by the absence of the Lady's heir. Nuriel and Sorcha moved to sit on a white tapestry couch, as Temair seated herself, flanked on each side by her Consorts, who chose to remain standing. A quick, hard rap at the door had the Lady nodding to a servant. Now we'll see, she thought to herself, but she was doomed to disappointment, for it was not the heir who entered the sitting room and took the place at Lady Aire's right hand, but Nabal. She felt the fyre spark in her eyes, and Dathan's hand landed gently on her shoulder. The caress of his rayne magic 31

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calmed her marginally, but before she could confront the woman, Miach stepped forward and spoke for her. "What is the meaning of this, Lady Aire?" he snapped. Temair heard the flame crackling in his voice, and was glad all that fyre was for her and not against her. "Whatever do you mean, sir?" Lady Alta's voice was even colder than before, enough that Temair felt a chill tiptoe down her spine. "You demanded an audience with the heir, and so you have one." "Do you mean to say that Nabal is your heir?" Temair could clearly picture Miach's chaos-black eyes, the flicker of fyre surging from their depths. "Lord Nabal," Lady Alta corrected, giving the man in question a fond pat on the back of his hand. "But no, I mean to say that my son," and Temair had never heard a parent layer such scorn into a word as Alta did to son, "is here." She tipped her head to indicate the young man on her left. "Rari?" Temair kept her voice soft. She couldn't bring herself to be angry at his deception; how could she when faced with his mother's bitterness. Bitter. Like the name he'd chosen for himself. "Zevan," he corrected her in an equally soft voice. "I am most honored to make your acquaintance, Highness." "Stop mumbling," Lady Alta snapped. Rari—no, Zevan— flushed, and this was nothing like the delightful blush she'd seen in the library yesterday. This flush spoke of shame. "I apologize," she continued, turning her attention to Temair. "He has no manners." 32

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"I disagree," Dathan muttered at her side. "He's shown the best manners we've seen thus far." Temair allowed a smile to touch her lips as Lady Alta's face went rigid at the insult. "Indeed," she added, "I find nothing amiss in Lord Zevan's manners." "What incredible luck that you don't recognize his lack," the Lady replied. Temair wondered if the cut was deliberate, or accidental. "He'd prefer to spend his days buried in some old book rather than learning court manners, or any skill fitting a man of his station." Nuriel gave a ladylike snort of laughter, and Temair flicked a dismissive hand at her whispered "Gee, sounds like a match made in literary heaven." "I'm shamed to admit that my son is the least skilled Aire Lord for the position of Consort. Not only does he keep his head in the clouds, but his magic is sub-par." Zevan dropped his eyes to the floor, and Temair's heart broke at the humiliation on his beautiful face. "His hair was the first hint," Lady Alta continued, oblivious to her son's misery and her future Queen's offense. "If it had been pure charcoal or pure white we'd have known we'd bred a strong talent. But not even his appearance bears any strength. Just oddness." "Funny," Miach commented, surprising them all. "He doesn't look at all odd to me." He sent a measuring look over the young Aire Lord. "In fact, he's actually quite attractive." He ignored Dathan's strangled laugh. "If you like the type."

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Lady Alta's eyes widened, then narrowed to slits of crushed diamond. "I suppose a lover of other men would find such weakness attractive." Surprisingly, Miach didn't rise to the bait. It was Dathan who responded, in his unique and irreverent way. "You'd suppose wrong, my Lady." He slunk around Temair's chair, managing—even through the many layers of fabric he wore— to give the impression of nakedness. Lifting a hand to toy with a strand of hair that had worked loose of Miach's topknot he explained, "As an occasional lover of men, I can assure you that weakness is the last thing we look for in a partner. In fact," Dathan turned glowing eyes to Zevan, who looked like he wanted nothing more than to crawl under his chair. "I suspect that Lord Zevan is stronger than the lot of us." Those ocean-streaked eyes met Temair's in a moment of perfect understanding. "He'd have to be, wouldn't he?" the Rayne Lord concluded softly. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Four The rest of the brunch passed painfully slowly. Lady Alta continued her quest to sing the praises of her nephew. Nabal continued to make veiled insinuations about Temair and send lewd glances at Nuriel's cleavage. Zevan sat silently, an untouched cup of tea clutched in one white-knuckled hand. When, praise the Mother, the audience was finally finished, Miach stood and offered his hand to Temair. He was feeling an urgent need to get away from the deliberately cruel barbs the Lady kept jabbing at her son. Their visit to the Aerie was reminding him most emphatically of why he'd sympathized with the rebels in the first place. "If I might have a moment." Dathan's hand on his arm drew Miach to an abrupt halt. Temair turned questioningly, and the Rayne Lord murmured, "I'd like for you to see something." The princess raised a brow, but nodded, leaving Miach no choice but to linger with his co-Consort. "I'm really not in the mood," he gritted out, quietly so that Lady Aire and her family, who'd lingered in the sitting room, wouldn't hear him. "Oh, get over yourself, Consort." Dathan rolled his eyes in obvious amusement. "Not everything is about you." He moved closer to the sitting room door, which was conveniently ajar. He drew Miach closer with the grip he still had on his arm. His voice was a mere breath of sound, tickling the silky hairs at Miach's nape so that he had to struggle to pay attention to the Rayne Lord's words. 35

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"I'd meant to mention it before, but I got distracted." A sly smile from slanted blue eyes told Miach exactly what kind of distraction he was referring to. "I want to hear what she has to say to him now, though." Miach turned, partially to question Dathan, and partially to escape the warm, damp rush of the man's breath on his neck. Before he could speak, though, the Rayne Lord laid one long finger over Miach's lips and tilted his head meaningfully toward the cracked door. "I ask very little from you, Zevan." Lady Alta's voice cut suddenly through the tension vibrating between Miach and Dathan. "I allow you to hide in your rooms and leave the ruling of the Aerie to Nabal." There was a pause, then, very softly, "Yes, Mother." Miach frowned. He didn't like the sound of Zevan's voice any more than he'd liked the look in the boy's eyes. It reminded him too much of a dog that had been kicked one too many times. "I asked only one thing," the Lady continued, voice raising with every word. "I asked you to keep your mouth shut. To let Nabal shine, and to show the princess how unsuited you are for the role of Consort." There was an agitated rustling, and Miach knew the Lady had risen and was pacing the room. "But you couldn't do that, could you? Oh, no. Not only did you try to charm the princess," Lady Alta's voice continued to rise, growing shrill with her last words, "you had to flirt with the Consorts, too!" Miach's jaw dropped open in shock, and Dathan slapped a hand over his own mouth, clearly trying to keep back his laughter. Laughter, however, fled both Consorts' minds at the 36

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sounds that followed. The sharp crack of skin on skin. A slap. A sharply indrawn breath. Nabal's voice, low and menacing. "P'raps he's a bit too pretty?" A meaty thud and a grunt. "What the fuck?" Dathan grabbed Miach before he could burst through the door. The sounds of physical violence had stopped, and Lady Alta was speaking again. "Zevan, you will not leave your room until our visitors," the word was a sneer, "leave. Nabal," she continued briskly, "you will ingratiate yourself with the Consorts. It is obvious that mating with the princess also means mating with her men." "I'm no faggot!" Nabal protested. Dathan's eyes narrowed and grew icy. Miach knew his expression matched the Rayne Lord's. The ignorant fool's words infuriated him, but not for the reasons he expected. He'd have thought he'd be upset at being labeled a lover of men. Instead he was enraged at the contemptuous tone Nabal took at the prospect. "Of course you aren't," Lady Alta soothed. "You just have to pretend to be one until the mating ceremony. Once you're joined to the princess, you can set about correcting the corrupt, perverted practices in the monarchy." There was a pause and another rustle of fabric. "You." Lady Alta's voice was arctic. "Get to your room and reflect on what you have done." Dathan used the grip on Miach's arm that he'd never released to tug him into a little alcove behind a statue. The door to the Lady's sitting room opened, and Zevan walked out, standing tall and painfully proud, a red splotch of color on one cheek evidence of his mother's slap, and a dark, swollen bruise forming around one eye. He 37

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flinched a little at his mother's final words. "Do not give me further reason to punish you." "Shit," Dathan muttered when Zevan had disappeared around a corner. For once, Miach was in total agreement with him. Temair was furious enough with Lady Alta that she didn't even give a thought to Darmon and Pelagia trailing along behind her as she marched to Zevan's chambers. She knocked briskly, and when a moment passed with no answer she nodded at Darmon who obligingly pounded on the door with one enormous fist. The man who answered was of medium height, slim, and had a rather forgettable face. His plain garb proclaimed his status as a servant. "The princess will speak with Lord Zevan," Darmon rumbled, clearly enjoying his role as Royal Enforcer. The servant's eyes widened, and he almost looked like he'd deny them entrance, but a soft voice from inside the chamber spoke. "Let them in, Tric. There's no point trying to keep them out." Temair caught her breath at the resignation in that soft voice, even as she noted the way the servant's mouth tightened at Zevan's words. He stepped back with a dip of his head, and let the door swing open. Temair made to step through, but Pelagia held her back while Darmon did a quick search of the room. "There's no other exit," Zevan commented, watching Darmon's search with reluctant interest. He waved to indicate the stone walls. "No windows, even." 38

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Darmon seemed to have confirmed Zevan's claim, as he nodded to Pelagia, who allowed Temair to enter the room. Darmon gave a pointed, less than friendly smile to the servant, who reluctantly preceded him out of the chamber. Temair shut the door firmly behind the three men, leaving herself and Zevan completely alone. The Aire Lord was sitting at a small desk that took up about a third of the small chamber. The look on the boy's— no, the man's—face nearly broke her heart. As did the bruise blooming under his left eye. She'd believed Miach and Dathan, of course, when they'd told her of Lady Alta's abuse, but somehow seeing it made it real. "Does she do this often?" She kept her tone as neutral as she could, but Zevan still flushed, dark slashes of mortified color painting his high cheekbones. "Not as often as all that," he denied, but his eyes shifted as he said it. "Do not lie to me, Lord Aire." She let her voice go hard. Zevan's gaze had flown to hers, and his posture straightened a bit at the words, and it occurred to her that he'd never been addressed by his title. Her heart squeezed a little harder. "Occasionally," he finally replied. "When she feels I've offended her." His gaze flickered again, only this time Temair knew he wasn't hiding the truth, just his embarrassment. "Or if I've offended my cousin." Temair seated herself on his bed, ignoring his wide-eyed reaction to her lack of formality. "Your cousin is an ass," she replied tartly. "He deserves to be offended." 39

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Zevan turned away, and she thought she heard him choke back a laugh. She cast her eye around the chamber with a frown. The room was much smaller than the guest room she and her Consorts shared, and very plain. Certainly not befitting a son of the Aerie. But she was willing to bet Nabal's chamber was pure luxury. A bit of leather poking out from under a pillow caught her attention, and she leaned across the bed to tug out the history book she'd given Zevan to read. When she glanced up, his eyes were tracing the line of her body with a very grown up interest, so she hid a smile and took her time sitting up, twisting so her dress pulled snugly over her breasts. "Have you read it?" she asked, drawing his startled eyes back to her face and pretending for all she was worth that she hadn't noticed his ogling. "I have," he replied in a breathless rush, clearly fighting to keep his eyes at face level. "And what did you think?" At her question, some of the innocent heat in his eyes died. "I think it's a lovely romance, Highness." His voice was resigned again. "It has little bearing on reality, though." His eyes closed for a moment, and the bruise under his left eye seemed to pulse with the corruption that so obviously filled the Aerie. "At least not on my reality." "It should," Temair answered with quiet passion. "It should be true in every one of Emetra's realms. In Turnin and Zirah." She clutched the book tightly in one hand and rose. Zevan was shaking his head. 40

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"My mother is a good Queen," she continued, stalking the few paces from the bed to the wall. "But I fear she's been an absent Queen." She stalked back to the bed, then spun to face Zevan. "I am not the woman my mother is, and I will not be the sort of Queen she is." Zevan's eyes grew wider as she continued, "If this is how the Aerie is run, clearly a Royal influence is needed." She resumed her seat on the edge of Zevan's bed and finished more quietly. "For my Aire Consort I need a man who is willing and able to help me make the changes that the Aire people so desperately need." Zevan would have been less surprised if she'd bashed him over the head with the slim leather book she was gripping like a weapon. Because, it sounded an awful lot like she was implying he would be a good choice for Consort. Which was ridiculous. "I'm sure Nabal..." he began, but she cut him off with a derisive and decidedly un-ladylike snort. "Nabal is an ass." He choked back another imprudent laugh. "And an ignorant ass, at that," she added, sending him a sly, twinkling look. "I'm looking for a man who is educated." Now she sent a glance over the multitude of books littering his desk and the floor around it. "Someone who knows how to think." She tapped the history book she still held against her palm. "Someone who recognizes the truth, and is willing to stand for it, even when it's not easy." "Highness," he began again, and this time she let him speak, though she leaned back on her elbows in a way that was most distracting. "Highness, I don't know what you want from me." He cast a helpless glance around his tiny chamber. 41

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"My mother says I'm hopeless, and though I don't enjoy her methods, I can't fault her judgment." Temair's eyes narrowed, and she pushed back into a sitting position. Zevan hurried on before she could interrupt. "Nabal may be the ignorant ass you claim, but I'm no better." He made a frustrated gesture around the room. "I have no presence in the Aerie, no input into how the land is governed or our people are treated. I am not even allowed to be present during citizen petitions!" He paused to catch his breath, astounded at his own words and the passion behind them. He hadn't realized, until he started to verbalize it, how very much had been denied him. "I play make-believe games." He let the bitterness he was feeling fill the words, lost in the utter futility of his life. "I pretend to fight evil armies and rescue beautiful princesses." Eyes closed against the truth, he let his head hang. "I'm a child playing with imaginary friends." "Oh, Zevan." While his eyes had been closed, the princess had approached. She knelt between his spread legs, laying her palms gently on his thighs. "Highness!" He grabbed her hands, appalled to see the crown princess on her knees to him, and tried to urge her to stand, but she wouldn't cooperate. Instead she turned her palms against his and brought his hands to her heart. The tender gesture stung his eyes, even as the soft heat of her flesh made him catch his breath. "Zevan, every reason you give for why I shouldn't choose you just makes it more clear why I should." Leaving his hands 42

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resting over her breast, she laid her own palms on his cheeks, cradling his face gently. "You play make-believe games, in which you must use philosophy and strategy to defeat your opponents." He flushed in shame, and she gave his head a little shake. "Do you think that strategy is any less useful in real life? Have you forgotten that the man who wrote The Art and Grace of Warfare was a military genius in truth?" She took a deep breath, and he realized his hands were still pressed to her breast and pulled back with a little jerk. She followed the movement, standing tall on her knees and leaning into his body. "You've been isolated from the running of the Aerie," she agreed, "and if the Aerie were properly run, that would be a handicap." She shook her head, eyes glinting with amber and blue sparks. "As it is, I can only thank the Mother that you've been kept free of the corruption that poisons your home." Still cupping his cheeks in surprisingly gentle hands, Temair pressed her forehead to his. "Lord Zevan, in the week and more we've been at the Aerie, I've not found a man more suited for the role of Third Consort." A faint, fragile hope trembled in his heart, one he tried to crush unborn because he knew he'd never survive the disappointment. "You've two of the most beautiful, accomplished men in the Queendom for your first two Consorts," he forced himself to say. "What possible use could you have for me?" 43

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The princess pulled back and surprised him with a warm, self-deprecating laugh. "A few short weeks ago I was asking myself a very similar question." She sat back on her heels, once again resting her hands on his thighs, where they burned like brands. "Why on Merab would a beautiful, glorious man like Lord Miach look twice at a plain, plump little bookworm like me?" He opened his mouth to protest, but she simply laughed again, eyes glinting with warmth and humor. "No, really. Look at my face. I'm not a great beauty like Nuriel, or even striking like Sorcha. What could a man like Miach or Dathan want with me, other than my crown?" "You're beautiful," he protested, horrified that she'd ever believed differently. "I know that now," she agreed. "But it took seeing myself through Miach's and then Dathan's eyes to believe it." Pushing back up to her knees, she pressed close, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck. "Let me show you what I see when I look at you, Zevan." She was so close her words whispered over his lips; soft, wet heat. "See yourself through my eyes." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Five He was so precious, Temair thought. All aching vulnerability and glistening silver eyes. She could feel so much in him, passion waiting to explode, held in check by the iron-hard control that had most likely kept him alive and in one piece. He seemed almost frozen before her, afraid to move, to break the spell she was weaving around them. So, she moved for him, leaning in to press her lip oh-so-gently against his. His breath caught, and she pressed closer, breasts crushed against his hard, wiry chest, lips pushing his open. When she slipped her tongue out to slide along the full curve of his lower lip, he relaxed, breathing a ragged sigh into her mouth and sagging back into his chair. Temair smiled into the kiss and followed him, wriggling up into his lap and cupping his cheeks firmly, holding him in place for her eager mouth. He tasted sweet, cool and clean like the breeze off the top of a mountain in springtime. She couldn't stop sipping at him, top lip, and bottom lip. A tug with sharp teeth, and he moaned into her mouth. His cock dug into her hip through the heavy quilted material of his breeches and the thick wool of her skirt, and Temair wanted to see it, to touch skin to skin. Even more, though, she wanted to show him how beautiful it was to her, how beautiful he was to her. Her wounded bird. How high could he soar once he'd healed? 45

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"Kiss me back," she whispered, breath cool against damp lips. "Give me your mouth." She rubbed her lips over his, then pulled back teasingly. "Give me your tongue." She dipped her head to tease some more, but something seemed to break in Zevan. His hands rose, fingers winding in the coils of hair pinned at her nape, and he dragged her mouth to his. He gave her his lips, his tongue. He gave her his breath, and she'd swear he even gave her his soul in his kiss. He'd been paying attention, because he did it exactly right. The perfect amount of teeth, the perfect combination of hot and wet and slick, and Temair felt the familiar wet and slick start lower, welling up inside her like a heated tidal wave. Diving deeper into his kiss, she wriggled in his lap, yanking impatiently at her voluminous skirts until they bunched around her hips, freeing her to straddle him, knees wedged between his hips and the arms of the chair. Zevan wasn't a particularly big man; he lacked the long, rangy builds that made Miach and Dathan so imposing. However, it would be a mistake, she realized, to think he was weak. The thighs pressed against her calves were hard with ropey muscles. The chest she was pressed against was rock hard. There was strength in his elegant, scholar's hands as they twined deeper into her hair. Deceptively delicate, that was her Aire Lord. Finally, they fell apart, each gasping for aire. Temair was light-headed, giddy from the kiss. Zevan's hands slowly left her hair, fingers trailing gently through the rumpled strands with something like wonder. Temair returned the caress, 46

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threading her own fingers through the surprisingly soft spikes of his hair. She liked the odd coloration, the way the snowy tips contrasted with the deep, charcoal tone at the roots. "Princess," he whispered and, sweet Mother, would he ever lose the power to break her heart with a glance? "Temair," she whispered back, smiling to keep back the tears that wanted to rise. "My name is Temair and that is what I want you to call me." "Temair." It was a sigh, almost a prayer. "I want you, Zevan," she told him, and his eyelids, which had slid closed, flew open at the words. "I want you for friend, lover and Consort." His mouth dropped open in obvious shock, his heart in his eyes. He'd be so very easy to love. "Princess —" He shook his head before she could interrupt and corrected himself. "Temair. I don't know why you'd want me, but," he gulped, breath ragged, tearing at his words, "I'm yours." His hand lifted, stopped just shy of touching her cheek. "Body and soul, I'm yours." Temair let all the joy and relief she felt shine in her smile. She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek, turning her head to press her lips into his palm. Zevan looked ready to shatter, and the elements knew she was close to tears herself. It was time to change the mood. Sinking her teeth lightly into the heel of his hand and pressing down hard against the instinctive rise of his hips at the sensation, she smiled into his hematite-colored eyes. "Mine?" she teased, and was rewarded with his slow smile. "Yours, utterly." 47

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"Then I'd like to play with my new toy." His eyes widened a bit, but he made no protest, merely steadied her with a hand to the hip as she climbed to her feet facing him. It was slow work, unlacing the heavy quilted bodice of her dress. But she didn't resent the time like she normally would, because Zevan's eyes traced every movement with an intensity that reminded her of Miach's whips of fyre. By the time her dress landed on the floor with a heavy whump of fabric, her nipples were pressing urgently against her chemise, her nether curls glistening through the transparent fabric with the moisture of her excitement. Offering her hands, she tugged him from his chair, giving a little jerk at the end so he ended up pressed hard against her. He was only a few inches taller than she, which made it marvelously easy to go on tiptoe and catch his lips with her own. He kissed her back readily, eagerly, hands unconsciously urgent on her back and hips. His skin was silky smooth, but his fingers were hard, demanding on the vulnerable dip of her spine. Keeping him distracted with her tongue in his mouth was easy. It was a bit more complicated working loose the fastenings of his quilted vest, but finally the last cord gave way, and she was shoving the cursed thing down his arms. He tensed a little when she turned her attention to the laces of his breeches, but Temair nestled her face in the curve of his neck and breathed slow, wet kisses along the slightly rough skin there. He might look like a boy, she thought with a 48

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secret smile, but he had a heavier afternoon beard than either Miach or Dathan. Finally he was accessible to her, soft cotton shirt and rough wool breeches open and waiting to be peeled free. Still licking at his neck, teasing the soft spot behind his ear with the tip of her tongue, Temair spread her hands wide on his shoulders and dragged them downward, stroking every bit of silk-over-steel muscle she could reach. When she reached his nipples, she stopped with a low sound of surprise. Each deep rose disk was pierced with a heavy iron barbell. Her eyes flew to his, but he refused to meet her gaze. Streaks of angry color marked his cheeks, and his jaw twitched. "Mother is often creative in her punishments," was all he said. "Do they hurt?" she asked, fighting not to touch when her fingers felt magnetically drawn to the thick piercings. "Not for a long time. But they're ugly." He tried to pull away, and she stopped him. "May I touch?" He gave a short nod, and she let her fingers whisper over the heavy metal. He shivered lightly at her delicate touch, and his cock bucked against her lower belly through her chemise and his open breeches. Encouraged, she tugged at the barbells, smiling slowly at his hiss of sensation. Dipping her head, she licked daintily around each metal bar, and grinned when his hands clenched hard on her waist. "Would I be a terrible person if I said I rather like them?" He gave a low, strangled laugh. "You are the least terrible person I know, Princess." He moaned as she sucked hard at a 49

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nipple, drawing the barbell into her mouth to worry with teeth and tongue. "And you are the only person who could take something so ugly and make it so," he hissed as she gave him a hint of teeth, "so good." Zevan clenched every muscle in his body against the climax boiling in his balls. With each light flick of her tongue, Temair was drawing the cord of his control tighter; each puff of breath ripped over his nerves like a tornado. He'd frozen when she'd discovered the posts through his nipples. They symbolized an ugly time in his life, and whenever he caught sight of them, his stomach churned with a combination of pain and helpless rage. Somehow, though, with her tender heart and sinful mouth, Temair had stolen the brutality of the memory. Had erased the event from his mind. When she caught one metal post between sharp white teeth and tugged, the pull arrowed straight to his cock. How was it possible, he wondered, for one person in one moment to undo years of pain with one touch? His breath was hitching embarrassingly when she wrapped her fingers in the loosened waist of his breeches and pulled them firmly down. She dropped to her knees at his feet, and the sight washed over him like a tidal wave; Temair, on her knees, hands working busily to free him of his half-boots and breeches. He had a bad moment when she freed his cock and discovered the final evidence of his mother's torture. Reaching down, he flicked a negligent fingertip against the thick iron ring threaded through the slit and resting just under his cock-head. 50

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Her eyes had widened in shock at the sight, and the thought that the ring might repulse her brought him easily back from the edge of climax. "Oh, Zevan," she said, stroking one finger down the length of his shaft, perking his interest back up instantly. "Why would she do this to you?" He reached down and stroked the hair away from her cheek, and she reciprocated by rubbing her cheek along the tense muscles of his belly. "I was not supposed to be a boy," he answered with forced humor. "And she wanted to make sure I never forgot it." Wet heat spread over his belly, and he realized she was crying. For him. No one had ever cried for him before. He dropped to his knees to face her. "Temair, it doesn't hurt anymore. I don't even remember when it did." He'd been an infant when that piercing was done. "And I don't think she can ever hurt me again," he added, taking her beautiful face in his hands and smoothing away her tears. "Not after you've touched me and made everything better." She smiled through her tears and wrapped her arms tight around his neck, pressing bare skin to nearly bare skin in a maddening, taunting caress. "Let me love you, my Lord Aire," she asked, and everything he was feeling swelled inside him, filling his head and his heart and his cock; pumping strength and energy into his muscles. She let him help her to her feet, but then made him sit on the edge of the bed while she untangled him from the muddle his clothing had become. Once he was naked—as naked in soul as in body, he thought—she moved around the room, 51

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dimming the light of the candles with a wave of her fingers and a drift of Fyre magic. Finally satisfied with the atmosphere, warm and licked with candlelight and shadows, Temair moved to stand before him. Warm brown eyes glinted with flecks of amber and cobalt blue as they locked on his. Still moving slowly, she gathered the hem of her chemise in her fists and worked it over her head, baring each soft, pale curve like a precious gift. Naked, she urged him back onto the bed, until he was propped against the headboard. There, she straddled him, pressing the slick heat of her pussy against his aching, throbbing cock. Zevan's head hit the wall with a hard thump, and he gritted his teeth and groaned through the first, intense moment of pleasure. So many things he'd never experienced, never hoped to experience, and Temair was offering him every single one of them. She must have read the greed in his eyes, because she gave him a mysterious, womanly smile and asked, "What do you want, my Lord Aire?" As if she could tell how her use of his title affected him, sent a surge of pride and power through him. There was only one answer to give. "Just what you promised me, Princess. Love me." And he meant it in every sense of the word. The smile remained, mysterious and sensual, as she wrapped a hand at the base of his cock, pulling it straight from his body and holding it steady as she positioned the head at the mouth of her opening. Slowly, achingly, 52

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torturously slowly, she slid down over him, enveloping him in such molten ecstasy he thought he might lose what was left of his mind. Her hips settled against his, rich brown curls meshing with his own onyx thatch, and she gave a little gasp as he butted up against the mouth of her womb. "The ring..." She trailed off, panting, and he held his breath, desperately fighting not to move the way his body was demanding. "Does it hurt? I'll get out..." "No!" She interrupted with her body as well as her voice, clenching along his length and dragging a hissed groan from between his gritted teeth. "Sweet Mother, no." She flexed in his lap, rubbing along his entire length with the strong muscles of her sheath, and he felt his eyes cross. "It feels so good," she panted. "I hadn't thought about how it would feel inside me..." She trailed off, but he didn't really notice. All Zevan was aware of was the weight of her in his lap, the caress of her breath on his face, and the scalding heat of her pussy wrapping him in agonizing delight. He hadn't thought about it either, how it would feel to be inside her, so deep and hot that every nerve was screaming for more, more, sweet elements, more now. Before he could catch his breath, she began to move. Long, slow lifts, squeezing with inner muscles all the way up, quick hard falls, slamming hard enough to jiggle his balls and send echoes of sensation sizzling along his spine. 53

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His body went stiff, toes curled, and he dug his fingers into the bedding to keep from grabbing her, flinging her beneath him and pounding away until they'd both burned to cinders, swept away by purifying fyre and wind. "Zevan!" Her voice broke on the breathy cry, and she leaned down, clutching the headboard on either side of his shoulders. "I'm so close," she panted. "You feel so good inside me." "Come for me, Princess," he groaned. "Please, come. Let me feel your fyre bathe me." He didn't know where the words came from, only that they came from his soul. "Help me," she gasped, and guided his hand to the warm nest of her sex. He was inexperienced, true, but Zevan was a voracious reader on any subject that caught his imagination, so he immediately understood what Temair wanted. With a sweep of his thumb, he found the tiny bead of her clit, and nearly howled with delight as it swelled under his touch, and her sheath rippled in reaction along his cock. Remembering the feel of her lips on his flesh, he arched up, catching her hard nipple between his lips and sucking her into his mouth. Her body arched sharply, head falling back so that her hair fell in a silky tangle over his thighs. He rubbed harder at her clit, sucked deeper, and felt her entire body go still and taut. The moment froze, then she was breaking around him, flooding him with a rush of fyre and rayne that stole his breath and his sanity. Somehow, though, he managed not to come. His body was in revolt, each nerve at the snapping point, but he wanted, needed, to experience her orgasm first. 54

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She was still shaking, body jolting with aftershocks, when her eyes finally met his again. Warm brown eyes. Flecks of crimson and amber. Slow swirls of cobalt blue. And now, jagged bursts of stormy gray. He came with a roar, a sound he'd never dreamed he could make, dragged from his chest by a pleasure he could never have imagined. She fell on him, holding him through the storm, taking the agony and ecstasy into her own body and sheltering him from a pleasure so intense it was destructive. When he came back to himself, she was still wrapped around him, stroking his face, his hair, pressing kisses along his cheekbone. "You are mine, Lord Aire," she murmured, brushing her lips against his chest as she settled in to cuddle. He stroked a thumb along the dark wing of her brow and allowed himself a little smile, remembering the streaks of gray that now marked her eyes. He was most definitely hers. Nabal knew he had no logical excuse for being in the hallway outside Zevan's chamber, but then, he wasn't used to having to explain himself to the likes of the princess's hired thugs. He was on his third pass by the chamber when the princess herself emerged, and he jerked back around the corner and out of sight. She was a round little thing, and not nearly as biddable as he'd hoped, but right now there was a sensual pout to her waspish little mouth that made him imagine how it would look wrapped around his dick. One of her guards quirked an eyebrow toward the chamber, and the little slut laughed out loud. "Oh, yes," she 55

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answered his unspoken question. "He's most certainly the one." Oh, no, Nabal thought as he stomped off in the direction of his aunt's sitting room. Zevan was most certainly not the one. Not if he had any say in the matter. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Six Sick of the oppressive silence in the Aerie, Miach and Dathan decided to take a tour of the inner city of Aire. Its placement among the jagged cliff-tops didn't lend itself to an agricultural society. Instead, the city had a rough, minimalist feel that might have had some appeal if the faces of the citizens hadn't been as cold as the temperature. The aire was still chilly, but the wind had finally died down enough that Dathan wasn't quite as frozen as he'd been in the Aerie. The sun tried to peek through the heavy cloud cover, but did little to add any warmth or brightness to the land. Damn, but this was a miserable place. He longed for the warmth of Rayne. He cast a sideways glance at his fellow Consort who, of course, refused to willingly share his warmth. His attraction to the warrior was getting stronger by the day. Hell, by the hour. It was only strengthened by their mutual bond with the princess. The closer Dathan was to Temair, the more he wanted to be with Miach, too. He suspected Miach was finally beginning to admit, if only to himself, that he returned at least a little of that attraction. Alas, the warrior was too stubborn to admit as much to Dathan. It was enough to drive him crazy. Every flicker in those hell-black eyes went straight to his dick, and he knew damned well that Miach felt it, too. But Dathan had made a promise to his wife—and to himself—and he planned on keeping that vow until the time when Miach worked up the balls to take what he offered. 57

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For now, Dathan dragged his cold, hungry gaze off the Fyre Lord and observed the buildings and people around them. They were on foot, accompanied by two of Temair's personal guard, and two of the Aerie guards. Miach had protested that they didn't need babysitters, but the head of the Aerie guard had looked hunted and insisted, and rather than cause a scene Miach had grudgingly agreed to let others join them. The Aerie was cleverly constructed on the face and jagged tips of the highest cliff in the Aire Land's mountain range, which meant a sharp descent on roughly carved stairs if one wished to visit the city. Upon entering the stone gates, their group slowed, observing the shops as they came into view. The buildings were as rough and bland as the stone used to build them, but were quite busy, with men, women and children going about their business. He pointed to what was obviously a local drinking spot. "Let's have a drink. I hear the Aire liquor is quite potent, even compared to your Fyre brandy." As usual, Miach merely grunted, but since he turned toward the tavern, Dathan assumed he was in agreement and they all headed to the pub. Dathan opened the door and heard Miach direct the guards to wait outside. He was grateful the Fyre Lord was so fierce; the Aire guards started to balk but with one scalding look, Miach stopped them in their tracks so that Dathan and Miach entered the pub alone. Dathan sought out the empty table nearest to the fyre and held his hands out toward the blaze, rubbing them together to 58

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try and restore some heat. Miach rolled his eyes and sent a pointed glance to the bar. A male of medium height limped quickly over to them. "Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?" He had very short, very light gray hair, and Dathan remembered something the Lady Alta had said about darker hair indicating more powerful magic. "Yes, your best ale," Dathan said easily because, teasing aside, he knew better than to indulge in anything stronger in such uncertain territory. The server bobbed his head quickly and hurried off without ever meeting Dathan's eyes. Dathan was casting his gaze around, amused but not surprised to note that Miach was doing the same, when a crash followed by the sharp sound of flesh against flesh echoed through the room. Dathan's attention instantly jumped to the source of the sudden disturbance. The man who'd gone to get their drinks was standing before a young, beautiful woman, a dark red splotch on one cheek where he'd obviously been struck, hard. Dathan watched in astonishment as the woman brought her hand back again. "You fool! You are truly useless. I should send you to my sister. I'm sure she could whip you into shape. She's much sterner than I am, and it is obvious you didn't learn your lesson the last time." The man's eyes widened. "I'm sorry, Drea. Please, I beg you, let me stay here with you." Dathan's stomach churned with disgust and distress as he watched the sneer distort the lovely woman's face, and the abasement of her servant. 59

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"Fine," she finally huffed. "You may stay for now, but I'll expect you to remember the mercy I showed you today." She held out her hand and the man grabbed it, pressing a small kiss to her first finger which bore a large Aire gem. "Thank you, Mistress." Dathan frowned, unable to understand why the man was determined to stay with a woman who treated him no better than a rodent she found under her feet. A deep growl next to him drew his attention away from the ugly scene, and over to Miach. The Fyre Lord's pale face was rigid with fury as his eyes narrowed on the woman who'd retreated to a comfortable chaise near the fyre. "I do not like what I am seeing in this place." Eyes crackling with inner fyre, tone silky with menace, Miach was a dangerous temptation, and if the situation hadn't been so disturbing, Dathan might just have given in to that temptation after all. "I agree, Consort. But I'm afraid that if we interfere, we'll just make things worse for the poor wretch." Miach frowned, but he didn't disagree. "I think the only thing we can do is relate what we've seen to Temair. Perhaps she can convince Lady Alta to intervene." Not that he believed the Aire Lady would. After witnessing her castigation of that poor faceless male at the Aerie—a situation he realized he'd never shared with his wife or the Consort—Dathan suspected Lady Alta would be more likely to applaud the abusive woman than to punish her. "I fear you're right." Miach sent another scathing look toward the Lady-Innkeeper, who sipped daintily at a steaming 60

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mug. "There is something more foul in this land than the fucking dreary weather. Come, I've lost my desire to drink in this place." The warrior didn't bother waiting for Dathan as he stood and stalked out the door, his anger sending tendrils of heat through the cold interior of the pub in his wake. Dathan quickly followed. Outside he heard Miach attempting to dismiss the guards. "My Lord Fyre, we cannot leave you to your own devices," one of the Aire guards was saying. The young woman was built for fighting, and dressed for it, too; her body covered only in thin breeches, tunic and leather vest. Her companion, a male guard with a haunted face, stayed silent, but his eyes flicked anxiously between his partner and the First Consort. "You aren't about to tell me what I can or can't do, are you?" Miach's voice was all silky menace again, and the female guard shivered even as she looked pissed. "I am First Consort to the future Queen, and thus only subject to her directions." He turned on his heel and walked away further into town, leaving the Aire guards speechless behind them, while the royal guards looked on in amusement. Dathan had to move fast to catch up with him. With each step they took, each street they passed, the set of the First Consort's jaw became more rigid, the slashes of angry color on his cheekbones darker. Finally, Dathan couldn't stand the silence. "Miach, what is wrong with you?"

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Miach turned his fiery gaze on him. "What's wrong with me? Are you blind, man? Take a look at what's going on around you." As he'd hurried along beside Miach, he'd only spared the minimum attention for their surroundings. Now, Dathan turned his attention back to the buildings lining either side of the street. As they moved slowly down the lane one thing became starkly clear, the men of this land walked around with fear plastered on their faces. None would look at the Consorts as they passed by. Once Dathan caught sight of a man with a bruised face; another man was locked tightly in a wooden stockade. Dathan felt bile rise as the details of the city were seared into his brain. The men here were being mistreated, abused. Out in the open, as though it was perfectly natural to humiliate and berate another human being. He stopped Miach from walking any further into town with a light but unbreakable hold. Dathan himself was ready to commit murder; he didn't trust what the warrior would end up doing if he came to his breaking point. "Let's go back to the Aerie, Consort. We need to let the Crown Princess know exactly what is happening in her Queendom." Miach didn't want to run back to his wife. He wanted to gather up all the broken men around them and unleash cleansing fyre on the whole fucking Aerie. He knew Dathan was right, he'd even caught the Rayne Lord's distinction that they should inform the Crown Princess, not their wife, but he was still pissed as hell and wanted to incinerate something. Or, failing that, to punch something. Repeatedly. Until it bled. 62

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This was the reason he'd sympathized with the rebels. It was one of the reasons why he'd chosen the life of a warrior instead of marriage. He'd heard enough rumors, had witnessed harsh looks, and knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn't be happy married. He still didn't think he'd survive marriage to anyone but Temair. She was different from any other woman he'd ever met. She wore her compassion and her heart on her face. She was kind and loving, but she was also wise and more ready every day to take her place as Queen of Emetra. Today all the feelings he'd put away when he married the princess came flooding back, filling him with impotent rage. He stalked off toward the Aerie, desperate to burn off some of the rage. He needed to practice the Fyeria, he needed to be buried in his wife's purifying depths, he needed something, anything to stop feeling so fucking helpless. Dathan was trying to keep up with his stride, but Miach was like a whirlwind thundering across the water. He didn't want to have a conversation with the Rayne Lord, didn't want to look into those too-knowing blue eyes and try to ignore the hard, lanky body hidden by layers of down and rough cotton. No, he needed to spar with Darmon and release the anger that was burning him inside and out. Dathan ducked in front of him, grabbing his shoulders and halting him. There was a surprising amount of strength in the Rayne Lord's arms, and it sent a lurching flutter through Miach's stomach. He stilled, telling himself it was anger making his voice rough, not the feel of those long fingers digging into his shoulders. 63

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"Let go of me, Lord Rayne. I'm not in the mood for your touchy-feely wisdom." Dathan shook his head, slanted blue eyes glowing in that mesmerizing, unnerving way. Instead of loosening his hold, Dathan moved in on Miach, pressing his body against him, and pressing his lips with a firm, inescapable caress. Miach was utterly stunned, too shocked to move, let alone react. Dathan continued his assault on Miach's mouth, pressing full, smooth lips against Miach's, teasing with a scrape of teeth until Miach opened for him, and Dathan's tongue slipped tentatively inside. Miach thought he should be pushing the other man away, not bringing his own hands up to clutch Dathan's forearms. He should be pulling back, instead of sliding his tongue along the Rayne's Lord own rayne-sweet one. His cock shouldn't be hard and throbbing, yearning to know what it would feel like to have Dathan's wicked tongue glide along his balls. The thought brought him out of his daze, and he used his grip on Dathan's arms to push the Rayne Lord away from him. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The smug bastard crossed his arms and gave a small smile. "I thought it was fairly obvious." "I've told you more than once that I am not interested in fucking you." But the words felt false leaving his mouth. While the kiss had been brief and incendiary, Miach felt something pass between them on a level far more than just physical. "Kissing you wasn't about fucking, Consort." Dathan's smile warmed, became less smug, almost serene. "I saw the look on your face back there. I recognize pain when I see it, 64

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Miach. Seeing that... it affected me, too." The Rayne Lord shook his head, sending the heavy fringe of his hair into his eyes. "I wasn't making a move this time, Miach. I was offering you comfort, understanding, hell, I don't know what to call it. All I know is that I couldn't stand to see that look on your face. I prefer you surly, even angry, rather than how you looked back there." Miach opened his mouth, only to close it without speaking. What was he supposed to counter with? For once he really believed Dathan wasn't trying to piss him off with sexual innuendo. No, his fellow Consort was offering solace, a comforting embrace. The family that Temair kept insisting they become. Miach felt a small pang near the vicinity of his heart. He didn't know what disturbed him more, the desire to grab on to that comfort and hold it deep inside, or the fact that he could still feel the imprint of Dathan's mouth on his own, and he wanted more of that, too. "Don't do that again, water boy." It was a struggle not to pull the man back in, to press against his body. Especially when the bastard gave that catlike smile, his blue eyes glowing. "Not unless you want a fyre ball shoved down your throat." He forced himself to let go, to step back. "Not until I'm invited, First Consort," Dathan agreed. Miach refused to smile as Dathan made a showy bow. "Come on," he continued, heading back toward the stairs leading to the Aerie. "We need to get back and inform our beautiful wife of what we found." Dathan made a little "after you" wave, and Miach moved past him. He was filled with so many uncomfortable feelings 65

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and desires he could hardly think straight, but now was not the fucking time to get caught up in them. Getting to Temair and trying to help the men of the Aerie was the only priority he'd allow himself to have for now. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Seven Temair paced back and forth in front of the familiar window in the sitting room of their suite before stopping to face her two Consorts. "Are you certain?" Their description of their visit to the city below had left her feeling sick and filled with guilt. Guilt that she hadn't known. Guilt that she hadn't done anything. Guilt that she was furious her mother had allowed things in the Aerie to deteriorate so far through her neglect. Miach approached her, placing his hands on her shoulders, sending soothing heat into her skin, but even he could not warm the chill she felt in her bones. "Yes, Spark. The abuse is real, and seems to be the way of things here in Aire." "I can't believe it," Nuriel said, grief filling her musical voice. "Why would any woman want to do that?" Temair forced back tears and let her anger swell. "This can't go on any longer. No wonder the men of Emetra want a rebellion." "You need to confront Alta and find out if this is her philosophy," Sorcha commented from her spot by the fyre. Temair knew her foster sister was correct, but she also knew she needed to tread carefully with the Aire Lady. She did not trust her, and until she had claimed Zevan as her Consort, she would rather not alienate the woman. After, though, when she was sure Zevan was safely bonded to her, she 67

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would take care of Alta and what she allowed to happen within her borders. "You're right, Sorcha. At dinner tonight I will claim Zevan, and insist on an immediate bonding ceremony. And then I will demand an accounting for what we have observed here. I will not tolerate the abuse of any of our citizens, be they male or female. It will stop." As she thought again of the scenes Dathan had described as Miach looked on in silent fury, Temair wanted to choke the Lady Aire. She also wanted to ask her mother why these things were allowed to happen to her subjects. Temair knew the answer already, though. Her mother loved Emetra and all the people of the four elements, but she had become obsessed with conceiving another child to the point that she lost sight of anything else. For that very reason, Temair knew she wasn't going to tell her mother what she'd found. Not until they were sure that this pregnancy would come to term. The conditions at the Aerie would fill her mother with too much guilt and stress, and Temair was determined not to do or say anything that would jeopardize this child's healthy birth. "Come, let's go to dinner." She accepted Miach's arm and allowed him to escort her from the room, but was too upset to accept her Consorts' or her foster sisters' comfort. This land was hers, and it would be up to her alone to right this wrong. Sitric leaned back against the frigid stone wall of a rarely used passage into the guest chambers. Zevan had once taken him on a tour of the Aerie, pointing out all the hiding places 68

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and forgotten passageways, and Sitric had taken to using them to listen in on the conversations of not only the Queento-be and her Consorts, but also to Nuriel of the Beasts, and Sorcha of the Mystery. What he'd heard had him rethinking his earlier plans in regards to the Crown Princesses. Obviously their attempts to kill the princess had been a colossal disaster. Now Sitric wondered if they'd also been a mistake. The woman he'd been spying on could possibly be reasoned with. He thought it might be so, but he couldn't afford to trust her blindly. There were too many people depending on him. Sitric began the silent trip back to his own small chamber. Only time would tell if the Crown Princess was trustworthy, or if she was too good to be true. "Princess Temair, you look as lovely as always." Lady Alta smiled sweetly and it took all of Temair's will not to jump across the table and attack the woman with her bare hands. "Thank you, Lady Alta. Where is Zevan? I have something to discuss with you and I wish him to be here, as it concerns him as well." She didn't like the sudden tightening around Alta's eyes. Alta took a sip of her wine, then set it down demurely. "I'm afraid that my son has taken ill yet again. As I've told you, he has a weak constitution and is often afflicted with one thing or another. But Nabal is here, and you may discuss anything in his presence." Temair did not even acknowledge the nephew whom she despised, and instead looked to her Consorts, then back to 69

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the Lady. "Are you certain he's ill? He was in good health when I saw him this afternoon." Alta's lip twitched and Miach leaned over to whisper in Temair's ear. "She's lying. I suggest that we look in on Zevan ourselves. I think perhaps it's not a good idea to leave him alone until you have claimed him." Temair smiled at her First Consort and touched his cheek briefly, thankful for his strength. "I agree, my love." Miach's face froze as the L-word escaped her mouth. It rather surprised her, too, to hear it, but she didn't have time to worry how shocked either of them might be. Still, the realization that she was in love with her First Consort sent a thrill of warmth through her belly. Standing, she turned to Lady Alta. "Since Zevan is too ill to join us, I shall find him and see if he is well enough to share a small bite with me." Without waiting for the Lady's response, Temair turned and walked out of the formal dining room, both Consorts, her foster sisters and their personal guards falling in neat formation behind her. She headed straight to Zevan's room, ignoring the strident voice of the Lady calling out behind her. Arriving at the door to Zevan's chamber, she knocked briskly, but there was no response. After a moment she tried to open it, but it was locked. "Miach, please," she asked and stepped back. Miach placed his palm against the door. A whiff of smoke, a lick of flame and a soft whump of heat later, the door split in two. Miach gave his hand a brisk shake, extinguishing small whips of 70

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flame, as the two pieces of door hit the ground with resounding thuds. Temair stepped through the opening and found Zevan's manservant crouched defensively over the Aire Lord, obviously ready to defend the man. Zevan himself lay crumpled on his bed, face bruised and swollen almost beyond recognition. The servant, she thought his name was Tric, was clutching a damp cloth that he'd been using to clean the blood from Zevan's face. "By the Elements, what happened?" she cried, rushing forward to Zevan's bed. She knelt beside him. "I don't know, Princess. I left to do some chores and when I returned I found him like this." Temair gazed at the servant and saw the truth in his eyes. There was something else in his gaze, too, just below the surface. A seething anger he was clearly pushing back. Temair understood his feelings. Looking down at Zevan's bloody face, she even shared them. "Could you please get us a fresh bowl of hot water and some bandages? Also, if possible, the Aerie's head healer." The servant nodded and backed quickly out of the room. Sorcha moved through the crowded room and knelt next to Temair on the floor. "Let me have a look, Temmie." Temair watched silently as Sorcha ran deft, gentle fingers over Zevan's body. Touch light as aire, she palpated his stomach and checked both legs. Temair could only stare into his black and blue face. His beautiful eyes were nothing more than slits nestled inside two large purple bruises. His lips were split and there was an abrasion on one cheek. He was breathing, but each breath 71

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came out on a distressed moan, and he wasn't really conscious. She gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. "We have the healer coming for you. Do you know who did this to you?" He moaned and tried to speak, but the effort was clearly more than he could manage. "Shhh, don't try and talk until we can get you patched up." Temair placed a kiss to his palm, the only unbruised part of him that she could find. "I promise everything will be okay. From now on I will keep you safe." An ear-piercing shriek sounded from the doorway. "My son. Who has attacked my son?" Lady Alta pushed her way past everyone to loom over Zevan's bed behind Temair. Temair gave the Lady a long, measuring look. "We don't know but we will find out. From this moment forward Zevan is under my protection." "Nonsense," Lady Alta sniffed. "I am more than capable of protecting my own son." Temair opened her mouth to point out how very clearly that was not true, but held her tongue as the healer entered the room. Everyone cleared out except Temair, who refused to leave Zevan's side. Miach and Dathan refused to go far, as well, and stood guard outside the Aire Lord's chamber as the healer tended to her wounded lover. "Lady Alta." Temair's voice was firm and implacable. The voice, she realized, of the Queen she was becoming. "I formally petition you. I have chosen Zevan, only son of the 72

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Aerie, as my Third Consort, and ask the Lady if she is agreeable to my choice." "You must be joking!" Her brows rose, but somehow Temair wasn't surprised by the Lady's reaction. "He's completely unsuitable." Lady Alta paced agitatedly around her receiving room. "Unfit." She spun to face the royal party, and her pale eyes were icy. "I am not agreeable," she said quite emphatically. "You are welcome to take my nephew, Nabal. He would be an acceptable choice." Nuriel gave a low gasp, and Sorcha gave the Lady a long, speculative gaze. Even Nabal, at his aunt's right hand, looked shaken by the woman's gall. "My Lady, you mistake me," Temair responded gently, when what she really wanted was to grab the foolish woman around the throat and shake until she passed out from lack of oxygen. "I ask your agreement, your blessing if you will, as protocol." She locked gazes with the Lady Aire, and knew the gray flecks that had appeared in her eyes when she'd bonded with Zevan were blazing by the way Lady Alta's own eyes went wide and horrified. "I do not ask your permission," she continued firmly. "I do not need your permission." The Lady's expression turned grim as the meaning of Temair's words sank in. "Are we clear, my Lady?" "I will be clear on this, Your Highness." Lady Alta's voice was as cutting as her eyes. "You will not take Zevan. You may have Nabal, or you may search for your Consort among the commoners." The lady stepped forward, her intent so obviously threatening that Temair couldn't really believe her eyes. 73

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"We shall see about that, Alta." It wasn't the first time Temair had given deliberate insult by neglecting to use the woman's title. It was, however, the first time the Lady responded. "Nabal." Alta flipped a hand in her nephew's direction and, with a sick look on his face, Nabal raised his hands. Temair watched in utter disbelief as small whirlwinds became visible on his palms. "Your Highness," the contempt in Alta's voice rode the air like a foul odor. "I am entirely weary of working around you. Nephew," she threw an imperious glance toward Nabal, "show their royal pains-in-the-ass how we deal with obstacles in the Aerie." Still looking sick and terrified—at least one of them had the sense to realize the consequences of treason—Nabal lifted one hand palm out, and pushed. The heavy double doors slammed shut instantly, blown by a violent burst of aire. Temair heard Darmon shout and begin pounding on the solid wood, but she knew they'd once again underestimated their enemy. She and her foster sisters would have to deal with Alta on their own. She spared a glance at Nuriel and Sorcha. Sorcha, of course, was glowering, all but growling at the rogue Lady of Aire. Eyes snapped venomous emerald and promised retribution terrible and unending. The sight tugged a small smile to the corner of Temair's lips. Sorcha had always been strong, but this journey had honed her into a warrior. Temair didn't know whether to be proud of her foster sister, or worried about her. 74

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Nuriel's reaction was far more troubling. Blue eyes wide and confused, Nuriel was giving Alta a look of utter disbelief. Poor Ellie. This journey, this rebellion, had shaken her beliefs so profoundly. "Alta," Temair kept her voice level. "You are making a crucial mistake here." She spared a glance for Nabal, who was holding the doors closed with no visible effort. "And you." He flinched under her gimlet stare. "You realize what your actions are leading to." "His actions are leading to freedom," Alta snapped, breaking the spell Temair had been weaving over Nabal. His hand, which had been drooping, whipped back up and Temair heard curses as her guards obviously felt the renewed strength holding the door. "Our actions are leading to an autonomous Aerie. One ruled by women strong enough to take their rightful place as rulers." "You're insane," Temair breathed. Alta's face went red with rage; then the color drained, leaving her white as ice save for slashes of angry scarlet high on her cheekbones. "Haven't you read your history? Of course not," she answered herself, remembering Zevan's comments about the book she'd given him. "Alta, our relationship with our men is one of checks and balances. We may rule," she continued, flipping a hand around the nearly empty room, "but without the respect and cooperation of our men, Emetra—sweet mother, all of Merab—will fall back into chaos." "You are young, Princess. In time you would learn better. It's a pity you won't have the time to learn." 75

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"Oh, this is ridiculous." Sorcha's disgusted voice cut the trembling silence like a knife. "Enough." Red hair confined to a tight coronet of braids, cloth-of-gold gown fitting closely, split at the sides to give freedom of movement, the Princess of the Mysterious Continent strode forward, wrapping one hand in the heavy wool fabric of Alta's dress. "You will release the doors now, and prepare to be confined, you crazy old bitch." For the first time fear showed in the Lady of Aire's icy eyes. She clawed at Sorcha's grasp with thin, hard fingers, finally managing to pry them loose, and sent a frantic look toward her nephew. "Nabal!" Teeth gritted, Nabal lifted his free hand, making a fist, then opening it in a jerky motion aimed at the princesses. A wind unlike anything Temair had ever experienced battered her, moving her inexorably toward the rough stone wall no matter how she fought. In mere seconds she found herself pinned to the wall, Nuriel on one side of her, and Sorcha on the other. She felt the anger building, but before she could let it fly, Nabal was once again making a fist, and she felt a deep, terrifying suction, as if all the aire in her lungs were being dragged out, leaving those tender organs to fold in upon themselves. For the second time in her life, Temair became sure she was about to die. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Eight They all felt Temair's terror at the same time though, surprisingly, Zevan was the first to react. The young man was, most likely, not in any physical danger at the moment, but Miach had insisted on staying with him while Temair went to claim him, and Dathan wouldn't leave Miach alone. Not with the bleak look in those chaosblack eyes proclaiming the man's helpless guilt over Zevan's injuries. So Dathan made himself at home on the floor by Zevan's bed, a pillow wedged behind his back as he studied Miach from half-closed eyes. The Fyre Lord chose to stand, back against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He'd been watching Zevan for hours, but now fatigue dragged his eyes closed. Dathan had to smile a bit, though, because he knew that at the slightest sound, the slightest twitch of movement, Miach would be all fluid menace, ready to destroy anyone or anything that threatened him or his. That's why it was such a surprise that Zevan was out the door, lurching down the hallway before either Miach or Dathan could even catch their breaths. Temair's terror, laced with healthy doses of anger and despair, ripped through him like a boulder through still water. He lunged to his feet, vaguely heard Miach's whispered, "Spark," then all three of them were racing down the corridor, of one desperate mind: to get to their princess. 77

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By the time he and Miach skidded to a stop outside Lady Alta's receiving room, Zevan was already there, leaning against the door, breath sawing painfully in his chest. "It's blocked," Darmon growled, slamming a fist against the dense wood. "Every time I try to burn through, that fucking asshole Nabal sucks the oxygen out of my fyre." Dathan sent a quick glance at the Rayne guard, who shook his head grimly. "I can pour on the water, but he's strong enough to hold the door." "Shit." Miach was seething, heat rising visibly from his pale skin. Dathan thought he was terrifying and beautiful, and if he hadn't been so frightened for Temair, he'd have tackled the First Consort to the floor and forced him to acknowledge the thing throbbing between them. "Temair!" Miach's shout was anguished, and even Darmon trembled. "Open the door, Nabal, you fucking corpse." "Yeah," Dathan muttered, elbowing Miach in the ribs. "That's really gonna convince him to open the damned door." "Fuck this." Zevan's voice startled them all. "Back up." Zevan's gray eyes were nearly black, striations of pure white streaking through like lightning. The younger man's face was set and hard, giving him a sudden and unexpected look of maturity. Dathan raised an eyebrow. And danger. When Miach and Dathan didn't move fast enough, Zevan flicked his fingers and an irresistible rush of aire pushed both men away from the door. Miach growled like a rabid beast, and Dathan felt his own rage rise again, a monsoon stirred up by the fact that his mate was in danger, and he was not only 78

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being kept from her, he was being fucking pushed away from her. "Ze —" His control, which he'd been clinging to by a thread by distracting himself by observing things like an outsider, slipped drastically. But before he could complete the thought, Zevan had moved back, facing the door squarely, swaying a little with the effort of standing while so grievously injured. "Mother," the Aire Lord screamed, and his voice sliced the air like razorblades. There was no answer, but Zevan didn't look like he'd expected one. Instead he closed his eyes and let his head drop forward. Just when Dathan was certain the boy's strength had failed him, he realized the aire in the corridor had gone utterly still. Moving up to protect Zevan's vulnerable flank, and realizing Miach had done the same thing, Dathan prepared for the battle he knew was about to begin. Zevan had never experienced anything like it. Temair's fear and pain had ripped through him, tearing him from a restless, pain-filled doze. He'd been out the door and halfway down the hall before he'd completely awakened. Then the rage. He'd known anger; known fear and pain and resentment. But never, never had he felt anything like the rage howling through him with the knowledge that Temair was in danger. The knowledge that the only woman to ever show him tenderness, the woman who'd shown him there was a life for men that wasn't ruled by pain and fear, the woman who'd opened his heart and offered him glimpses of her own, was in danger at his mother's hands, snapped the thick restraint that had bound him for so long. 79

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It was the rage that kept him standing, putting strength in his trembling legs. It was the rage that wound through his power and shattered the strict control he'd held his entire life. The rage freed him from the final chains left on his soul. Bursting the door open was almost effortless. He was aware on some level of Nabal's hand faltering, of the three princesses crumpling to the ground. In his peripheral vision he saw Dathan skid to his knees at Temair's side, saw the guards crouching by Nuriel and Sorcha, saw Miach flow toward Nabal, graceful and lethal. But that was all incidental, because Zevan's true focus was on his mother. Lady Alta's mouth hung open in shock, her fists balled up at her sides ineffectually. She cast a brief glance at Nabal, clearly expecting her nephew to leap to her defense. That wasn't happening, though. Not when Nabal was wrapped in a lash of fyre, screaming in agony as it burned without consuming him. Seeing her hope of physical force writhing in agony, Zevan's mother reached for an even more effective weapon. "So, the Consorts break down the door, then leave you to fend for yourself." She shook her head pityingly. "They're awfully quick to sacrifice you. They must finally have seen what I've always known, how useless you truly are." A week ago, even a day ago, her words might have hurt. Temair had seen the wounds his mother had left, and had drained the poison that had kept him weak for so long. "If I'm so useless, Mother, why are you backing away from me?" Because she was. With every word, she took a step farther back, aiming for the door to a servant's hallway and 80

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escape. Zevan paced her, taking two steps closer for every step she took in retreat. "You look frightened, Mother. But that can't be the case." He was close enough to touch, but he didn't reach out, couldn't bear the thought of her icy flesh beneath his hand. "You won't get away with this, Zevan," she hissed, defiant even in obvious defeat. "No, Alta." Temair's voice was slightly raspy, a little breathless. Zevan imagined her Consorts flanked her; her royal foster sisters lending their power and support, but he didn't look back, couldn't take his eyes off his mother's venom-filled face. "You are the one who won't get away with this. Your reign of terror is over." His mother hissed in outrage and lunged around him, aiming not for escape, but for Temair. Zevan didn't think, just acted. Perhaps he'd meant to pin her to the wall, as she'd done to Temair, Nuriel and Sorcha. He'd like to think that was the case. But then, perhaps not. Regardless of intention, what he did was catch her up in a whirlwind, rip the aire from her lungs with one fisted hand. What he did was fling her like the piece of vile filth she was, so that her body shattered the glazed surface of the wide window that took up most of one wall. What he did was push, push with every bit of power he had, until she was plummeting through the aire with a shriek. When he came back to himself, the room was silent except for Nabal's nearly silent sobs, and the rustle of fabric. He was on his knees, swaying with exhaustion, feeling more completely empty and numb than he'd ever felt before. 81

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Then warm, strong arms were around him. Slender fingers speared through his hair, careful of the bruises he couldn't quite feel, and his face was tugged down to press against a soft, fragrant neck. Rich brown hair, tangled with wind and struggle, fell against his cheek, shrouding him from the room, shrouding him from everything but the softness of the body pressed against his. Then there was more, the murmur of voices, Nabal's sharp cry and sudden silence. Another body, cool and light, pressed against him, against them, he realized. Dathan. Holding Temair, but holding Zevan, too. And a hot hand on his nape, squeezing lightly, sending soothing warmth into his icy, numb skin. Miach. Surrounded by the people he'd only begun to hope would make him theirs, despair flooded him, and Zevan slid into darkness with a pitiful burst of gratitude. "I'm worried about her." Sorcha stood at Temair's side as they watched Nuriel gaze pensively out the window. Their usually exuberant friend had been strangely quiet since Lady Alta's attack, refusing to talk about the experience. "She'll be all right," Temair assured her friend, though she worried, too. "Give her a wedding to plan, and she'll be right as rayne." "And I guess that wedding will be sooner rather than later," Sorcha mused. They were waiting for Zevan, who'd slept for nearly forty-eight hours after sending his mother plummeting to the abyss she so richly deserved. Miach had insisted, and Temair had agreed, that Zevan should be present when sentence was passed on Nabal, and when Temair announced her intentions for the Aerie. 82

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When Dathan led Zevan into the room, Temair couldn't help but catch her breath. When Miach joined them, the aire seemed to evaporate from the room, leaving her lightheaded. Miach was gorgeous, imposing and intimidating. Dathan was beautiful, sleek as a well-fed cat, and completely comfortable in his skin. Zevan was... something else. Slighter than her Consorts, slender but wiry, Zevan radiated a sense of vulnerability, which Temair now knew was completely deceptive. Her soon-to-be Third Consort was anything but harmless. And, sweet elements, but he was a delight to look at. Features almost too delicate, saved by the strong line of his jaw, and the intensity of those hematite eyes. Those eyes were currently fixed on the floor at his feet, and Temair found she did not like the diffident expression on Zevan's fine features, or the subtle slump to his shoulders. Did he not want her? He'd been through so much, had been forced into so many things against his will... She wanted him desperately, and she knew Miach and Dathan were in total agreement with her. They all needed to make him theirs; theirs to love and protect. But she couldn't bear the thought of taking another choice from him. Sorcha's hand on her arm snapped her attention back to the task at hand. With a gesture, she called her men to her side. Nuriel drifted to stand in her accustomed spot beside Pelagia. A number of servants stood silently against the walls, men and women both, all looking haunted, angry, frightened. Temair was sick at the thought of what they'd been through because of the Queen's ignorance and distraction. 83

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Nodding silently at Darmon and Pelagia, Temair moved to a large chair that had been placed directly in front of the window Alta had flown through. She both hated and appreciated the statement it made, just as she both hated and recognized the necessity of the power base she was building in this room. Nuriel and Sorcha seated themselves quietly in smaller chairs on either side of her, as Dathan and Miach moved to stand at her back, each man with a hand on the high back of her chair. She frowned a bit as Zevan moved to stand before her, dropping to one knee and lowering his head deferentially. Before she could correct him, tell him to join her Consorts where he belonged, her guards returned, Nabal dangling limp and uncooperative between them. Drawing herself up, Temair watched as Nabal collapsed beside Zevan. Never had Zevan's strength been so obvious as it was now when compared to his cousin's disgusting, blubbering display. "Nabal of the Aerie," Sorcha spoke. Temair wasn't sure how or when, but Sorcha had become the official speaker for Temair's rule. She wondered what on Merab she'd do when Sorcha left to seek her own Consorts. Nabal shuddered and whimpered at the princess's uncompromising voice. "You stand," she paused, "rather, you grovel, accused of treason against the Crown Princess Temair, against her mother, the Most Serene Highness Queen Akasha, and against the Queendom of Emetra. What say you?"

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"It wasn't me," Nabal whined, tears and snot shiny on his face. "It was Auntie," he insisted. "Auntie Alta. You saw her. How could I refuse her?" "You mean to say," Temair interjected dryly, "you had no desire to take your place as my Consort? No longing for the power and prestige of that position?" "No! None at all! It was Auntie." The fool dissolved into tears again, and Temair offered up a brief prayer of gratitude that he had not been the heir, that he hadn't been her only option. If he had been, she knew she would have done as Alta had mockingly suggested, and sought her Consort from the commoners. "Your words and actions are at odds, Nabal of the Aerie." Sorcha glanced toward her, and Temair nodded. "The decision of the Princess, who speaks for the Queendom at large, is thus: Nabal of the Aerie, for treason, for the assault and attempted murder of your cousin, Lord Zevan, and for the willful attack of the Crown Princess Temair of Emetra, the Crown Princess Nuriel of Zirah, and of the Crown Princess Sorcha of Turnin, you are to be sentenced to death. Your execution shall be quick, a more merciful death than you intended for your victims, and certainly a more merciful death than you deserve; and it shall be immediate." Nabal drew a loud, wet breath and sobbed louder, filling the room with pathetic whimpering pleas for mercy. There was no mercy to be had, though. Nabal had made his choice, and now he would accept the consequences. Temair forced herself to watch as Darmon caught Nabal's hair in one hand, forcing his head back sharply. Pelagia 85

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moved quickly, tipping a small cup to the traitor's mouth, and Nabal swallowed convulsively. She refused to look away, watching every second as Nabal realized he'd swallowed poison, as he shook in terror, and then shook even harder as the drug stole his ability to control his body. It was less than a minute, but felt like hours when his eyes slid closed and his body relaxed in Darmon's grip. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Temair drew back up to face the people of the Aerie. Miach didn't touch her, but she felt his heat glowing through the back of her chair, a private offering of support and approval. Zevan didn't look up as Nabal was carried from the room. Temair's heart clenched. Would he hate her for her harsh judgment of Nabal? "Lord Zevan." Her voice was soft, but he still gave a little jerk, like a shock had jolted him. "You've had nothing to say to us." As if by using the royal plural she could distance herself from the pain she anticipated. Slowly those charcoal eyes rose to meet hers. She couldn't interpret his expression, but he almost looked... confused. "Your Highness. I most humbly submit to your judgment." What? "For what should I judge you?" Temair didn't even try to keep her own confusion out of her voice. She could feel similar emotions through her close bonds with Miach and Dathan, and if she'd been willing to drag her gaze from Zevan's silent, set face, she knew she'd see the same on Nuriel's and Sorcha's faces. "Princess, for the murder of my mother." 86

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"You're kidding, right?" Dathan's voice sounded like it wanted to be amused, but wasn't quite there yet. "He's kidding," her Second Consort insisted, placing a comforting hand on Temair's shoulder. But Temair was looking into Zevan's bleak eyes, and she knew he wasn't kidding. Her Aire Lord was truly awaiting her judgment. "Zevan." Her throat closed with emotion, and Temair had to pause before continuing. "Your mother was a monster. Her systematic abuse of the men of Aire weakened and corrupted our Queendom." A furrow appeared between Zevan's brows, and Temair had the heartbreaking realization that nothing in his life had prepared Zevan for fairness or true justice at a woman's hand. "I would have executed her for her abuses of her Lands, but for her abuses of you, who have become so precious to me so quickly, I would have had her die much more slowly and in much more pain." Zevan's eyes widened, disbelief filling their lightning-streaked depths. She thought there might have been the slightest kindling of hope flickering there, too. "My Aire Lord," she concluded softly, "you merely saved me the effort of a formal execution, and the possible emotional burden of torturing her before her death." Miach gave a low growl of agreement, and Zevan's eyes flared brilliantly. And yes, it was hope that had smoldered in the depths of his pretty eyes, because that hope was now blazing brightly. "Princess?" His voice was a whisper, his full lips soft and uncertain. 87

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Making a snap decision, Temair rose and stepped down to stand before him. "Rise, My Lord Aire." Zevan rose slowly, eyes locked on hers, a fine trembling running over slender, muscular limbs. "Tradition would have me ask this of your parent. Lacking that, you must speak for yourself." Taking a step closer, so that she could feel the energy vibrating off him, Temair spoke softly, but firmly. Even she could hear the destiny in her voice, the resonation of a Queen. "Lord Zevan, I formally petition you. I have chosen you, Lord of the Aerie, as my Third Consort, and ask if you are agreeable to my choice." Zevan drew a deep, shaky breath, and his eyes slid closed. When they opened, there was such a depth of gratitude and love that it nearly brought Temair to her knees. "Princess, I am humbled and awed by your choice." He blinked, and Temair realized that she wasn't the only one whose eyes were damp. "I am honored, and will strive eternally to be worthy of your faith." Sitric pressed his back against the wall and watched grimly as Sorcha pronounced sentence on Nabal. He'd like to resent it, to use it as further ammunition in the men's rebellion against the abuses they suffered at the hands of the ruling women, but he couldn't. Nabal had been the worst sort of traitor, betraying his gender and his family in pursuit of power. He knew he wouldn't be so calm when they pronounced sentence on Lord Zevan. He'd come to like the boy during his weeks in the Aerie. Zevan had a quick mind and, when he let it show, a wickeddry sense of humor. He was ridiculously well-educated in 88

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strategy, and would make a wonderful ally in the fight to free the males of Merab. But that wouldn't happen now, not if the Crown Princess was allowed to execute him, as she must since he'd murdered not only a noblewoman, but his own mother. When the princess rose and began speaking, Sitric thought he must be hearing things. Because, instead of condemning him, it sounded an awful lot like Temair was asking Zevan to be her Consort. He cut his eyes to the first two Consorts, and their expressions confirmed it. Filled with grief and compassion, Miach's eyes burned with approval at the princess's words. The Rayne Lord, too, looked well satisfied, a small smile curling his sensual lips. The other princesses drew his attention. Well, if he were strictly honest with himself, the fiery-haired princess drew his attention. Her eyes shone, glossy with unshed tears, and her face was so filled with compassion, it was almost painful to see. How, when she'd been so cold in judging Nabal, could she be so obviously sympathetic to Zevan? It defied everything Sitric knew of women, but then most of what he'd witnessed from these princesses had defied what he knew to be true. It confused him, and that pissed him off. The fact that her voice stroked like velvet along his spine and the sight of her hair glowing like a fiery halo sent the blood rushing to his prick only pissed him off more. He needed to study this woman. No, he needed to study these women. There was something here that didn't make sense, and he needed to figure it out so that he could remove them from his path and go on to liberate the men of Merab. 89

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Chapter Nine The wind was cutting as they stood on the flat rock that formed the top of the Aerie. Temair knew Dathan must be suffering the cold, but he'd made not a sound of complaint. Petty comforts no longer held any importance in the face of the pain and corruption they'd found in the Aerie. "Princess." The priest's voice was a dry rustle of sound, devoid of joy or approval. Temair ached for the People of Aire, who were too wounded in spirit to allow themselves to even hope. "Have you chosen your Third Consort?" "I have," Temair responded firmly, with a reassuring smile meant for the People of Aire, as well as for the young Aire Lord who stood facing her with his heart in his eyes. "And of what House do you choose, Princess?" "I choose my Third Consort of the Aerie." The very aire was still and hushed, as though Emetra herself held her breath. "And whom do you choose?" "I choose Zevan, Lord of Aire, and Lord of the Aerie." The priest blinked as she named Zevan, declaring him sole ruler of the Aerie. Zevan blinked, too, and Temair vowed that he would quickly learn his value, not only to her, but to the citizens of their Queendom. "What say you, Zevan, Lord of Aire, and Lord of the Aerie? Will you share your Aire with your princess? Will you comfort and defend her? Will you strive with her to build and protect a strong Queendom?" 91

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Zevan gave her a searching look as he answered. "I will do so." His voice was soft and wondering. "I offer the Lady my body, my Aire, and my protection." He gave a little smile. "They belong to her already." Each word hit Temair's heart like a blow, a vow made in defiance of a lifetime of broken trust. "Lady Ambassador?" The priest gestured Sorcha forward with a nervous, false smile. She gave Temair an approving smile, and sent Zevan a reassuring glance. The flame-haired princess faced Temair with two slender hematite cuffs gleaming dark gray on her palms. "Sister of my heart, fellow ruler and friend." Her words were filled with affection, but more, with new respect. "Will you accept the bonds of mating as a symbol to all that you are bound to your people, the People of the Aerie?" Temair held out her wrists for Sorcha to enclose in the cuffs. "I will do so," she answered, making her voice as firm and determined as she could, an unspoken vow resonating in her heart, a vow to heal these people, her people. Sorcha turned to Zevan, who watched her with silent awe. Temair knew he still didn't really believe this was happening, that she'd chosen him. Sorcha smiled at him, and that timid flame of hope kindled in his eyes again, squeezing Temair's heart. "Zevan, Lord of the Aerie, will you accept the bonds of mating as a symbol to all that the People of the Aerie are bound to the support and protection of their Queen?" Sorcha held up the heavy hematite bands, and the watery light of a 92

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pale sun cast rainbows across the surface as she slid them over the wrists Zevan instantly offered. As the heavy metal settled against his skin he gave a sigh that sounded a lot like relief and murmured in a fervent voice, "Yes, I will do so." "And will you respect your fellow Consorts, giving them the support and friendship they need and deserve, and allowing them to do the same for you?" Temair's eyes filled. She knew without looking that Miach and Dathan would be watching Zevan, their eyes filled with support and the promise of friendship, just as she knew they must have approached Sorcha and asked her to keep this as a part of their marriage vows. "I will do so." Zevan's voice was faint with shock. Sorcha lifted her gaze to Temair's first two Consorts. "And you?" Miach answered for them both, but it was obvious from the look on his face that Dathan was in total agreement. "We will do so, happily." Zevan shook his head in apparent disbelief, and Dathan snaked a hand out to ruffle the younger man's spiky hair. Temair laughed with pure joy, and even Zevan managed a small smile. Sorcha gestured, and Zevan laid both hands over the delicate hematite cuffs around Temair's wrists. Temair responded by wrapping her fingers around his cuffs, and Sorcha immediately layered her hands over theirs and began the mysterious, musical chant that would forever join her with Zevan. 93

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When Sorcha raised her hands from theirs, the thick, gleaming bands around Zevan's wrists were seamlessly sealed, a never-ending promise. Temair looked at her own wrists. The copper symbolizing her joining with Miach wrapped in delicate licks of rosy flame, wound through with the silver surges of Dathan's silver. Zevan's dark, rainbowshifting hematite wound through the two softer metals, creating a deceptively delicate latticework connecting the three bands in an unbreakable bond. "By the four elements of Emetra," Sorcha proclaimed, "by the blood of Zirah's beasts, and by the soul of Turnin's magic, you have bound yourselves together." Magic shivered in her voice, trembled in the aire. Goosebumps rose on Zevan's arms and neck, and Temair felt a chill shiver over her own skin. Dathan caught his breath, and Miach's fyre flared, sending healing warmth over all four of them. That same, soul deep connection clicked into place, only this time it was bigger, stronger, and a low sigh passed through the few People of the Aerie in attendance. The priest caught his breath, and for the first time, something like hope entered his eyes. Once again, the future had altered. Temair was building a family, but she was also building a Queendom, and she'd never felt stronger or more capable of living up to her responsibilities. Zevan held Temair's hand tightly as she led him and her other two Consorts into the bedchamber. His nerves were playing havoc with his body, making it hard to draw breath. His wife looked so beautiful this evening dressed in a traditional Aire wedding gown. The dove gray light woolen 94

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dress was embroidered in white and silver. Silver flowers were woven through her lovely brown hair. He glanced down at his marriage cuffs and smiled. For the first time in his life he was at peace. Dathan and Miach moved through the room, lighting candles and making the fire hotter. Temair didn't let go of him until they reached the side of the bed. She placed her soft hands on his shirt, her fingers deftly removing the ties at his chest. Self-consciously he peered around her to see where Miach and Dathan were. She squeezed his shoulder gently. "Don't worry, Lord Aire. They will allow us to start before joining." That wasn't the only thing he was worried about, though. Once Temair removed his clothing, his piercings would be exposed to the other men. Piercings that were clearly punitive and not decorative. Piercings that showed graphically how he'd allowed himself to be abused. He didn't realize he'd instinctively raised his hands to cover the thick rings through his nipples until Temair caught them in a gentle grasp. He let her wind her fingers through his, though his face burned scalding red. "You only have to look into my eyes, Consort. Focus on what we are creating together, and everything else will fall into place." She leaned up and kissed him. The minute her sweet lips touched his, he forgot about his insecurities, forgot about the other two men, forgot everything but the taste of her, the dizzy intoxication of her kiss. She released his hands to cup his face, and he took the opportunity to wrap his arms around her and pull her in 95

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closer, pressing against her and deepening their kiss. Her tongue played artfully with his, drawing him further under the spell of her desire. She was truly a miracle; a woman of warmth and passion. Of compassion. He began toying with buttons at the back of her dress, and when she murmured encouragement against his lips, he plucked them open one by one, brushing the tips of his fingers along her spine with each new inch of flesh he revealed. When he'd managed to open the last button, he smoothed the dress down her shoulders. He gave a gentle tug when it caught on the heavy curve of her breasts, and it fell with a soft sigh of fabric until it pooled on the floor at his feet. The sight of her struck him speechless; golden skin glowing, curves full and soft, she was as sweet and fertile as the Great Mother herself. Awed by the fact that she was his to touch, his to love, he went to his knees and carefully removed her shoes. He skimmed his hands up the back of her silky legs and over her ass. He licked his lips, leaning forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to her lower belly. She sighed and tugged at his shirt, lifting the heavy linen over his head. He had another moment of panic as the first of his piercings were fully revealed, but Dathan's low, teasing "Hmm. Sexy," brought laughter to Temair's eyes and broke the tension of the moment. Zevan still knelt at her feet, his every muscle tense with desire, but uncertain how or where to start. Once again Dathan came to his rescue. 96

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"Allow us to help." The Rayne Lord's voice shook Zevan from the spell he was under, and he watched both men sit on the bed. Miach drew Temair down between them and then each man grabbed one of her perfect thighs, bending them at the knee and draping them over their laps. She was splayed wide open for Zevan's hungry gaze. "Isn't she beautiful, Aire Consort?" Miach's low rumble matched the tremble in Zevan's stomach. "Come taste our lady. We want to see you make her scream in pleasure." Dathan was leaning forward now; full, smiling lips wrapped around Temair's plump nipple. He made a low, growling sound of enjoyment, and Temair gasped out a pleasured laugh. Her changeable eyes locked with Zevan's, inviting him to join the love play. Zevan's cock was solid and throbbing, more than ready to accept that invitation. He moved forward, his breath brushing across her pussy lips, then paused to savor the moment. When she whispered, "Please," and stroked her fingers through his hair, he moved, sliding between the juicy folds with his tongue and lapping at her silken depths. She tasted like honey and the warmth of the sun after a lifetime spent in winter's chill. She tasted like acceptance, and home, and love. She leaned back, allowing him deeper access, and he took advantage, moving his tongue first along her hardened clit and then thrusting it deep into her pussy. She whimpered and squirmed, and that was all the encouragement he needed. Zevan began to feast on his bride, taking turns sucking her tight nub and fucking her sweet pussy with his tongue as she writhed against his mouth. 97

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"She's ready, Lord Aire." He almost didn't recognize Miach's voice. The Fyre Lord's usual rumble was a rough growl, and Zevan glanced up to see those fyre-streaked eyes glued to the sight of Zevan's mouth on Temair's pussy. "Yes, Zevan. Please, now," Temair sobbed. He stood and practically ripped his pants off. The First and Second Consorts drew back, moving to the foot of the bed and clearing the way for Zevan. Crawling onto the bed, he lay back and held his arms out for his princess. Temair ran her hands up her newest Consort's thighs. She loved the shiver that wracked him from head to toe. Straddling him, she grasped his cock and pressed it to her entrance. Never taking her eyes from his, she slowly moved down his length, working from side to side when his girth resisted the tight grip of her pussy. His eyes filled with silver sparks, and she knew that her own had as well. He filled her completely. The ring piercing his cock-head scraped delightfully against her swollen inner flesh, and she moved her hands to tweak the piercings through his nipples. The pleasure of the unexpected tug caused him to buck up hard, giving her exactly what she wanted from him. Behind her, Miach pressed his large warm body against her back. He gripped her hips with hard, hot hands, guiding her as she rode Zevan. "Lean forward, Spark, and let me in." His breath was hot against her neck, a damp caress that sent tingles down her spine. She kept her eyes on Zevan's and leaned forward, curving her back until she could catch one of his nipples in her mouth. Her Aire Lord's eyes grew wide, and his lips drew 98

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back in a grimace of bliss as she toyed with the tender flesh around the heavy barbell, then tugged at the metal, drawing his nipple taut, the way she liked hers to be pulled. Cool liquid eased down between her ass-cheeks, followed by warm fingers. Miach spread the lubricant around her opening, sliding a finger across the tight pucker before pushing slowly into her. She hissed as he moved deeper into her ass, but the burn soon turned to pure pleasure that had her rocking back against him. Filled front and back, drenched in the heated rayne of desire, Temair lost track of everything except the touch of her Consorts. Zevan proved to be a quick study, reaching up to pull gently at her nipples. She arched into the sensation, opening even more to Miach's touch. The Fyre Lord took the opportunity to guide his own cock to her rear opening. Setting the thick, blunt head of his cock against her hungry entrance, he pushed forward through the tight ring of muscle, and she pushed back until he was seated fully in her ass. It didn't take long for the three of them to set a blistering rhythm of exquisite pleasure. A moment of awkward fumbling when Zevan's and Miach's hands meshed on her hips, then the hard slam of Miach's cock in her ass beat a scalding counterpoint to Zevan's grinding thrusts. Miach's heat, familiar and exquisite, shimmered over her skin. Zevan's Aire compensated, a soft, cool breeze sending delicious chills over her flesh. The bed shifted, and Dathan knelt before her, a vision of naked, golden perfection. 99

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"Help me," she panted, leaning sharply forward. Zevan seemed to understand. He slid his palms up the line of her ribcage, supporting her while she bent low enough to run her tongue around Dathan's slick cock-head. Dathan moaned at the contact, and Miach's hips stuttered in their rhythm, sending jolts of dark pleasure through her. The only one who didn't seem affected by the sight of her tonguing Dathan's cock was Zevan, who was so clearly struggling to hold off his climax that he probably wasn't even aware of what was going on behind him. "Princess," Dathan panted, clenching one hand at the base of his cock. Temair ignored his little grunts of distress, continuing to lick him like a piece of sugar candy. When she had him soaked, slick from her mouth and his own pre-cum, she finally released him. He fell back on his heels for a moment, gasping and squeezing hard around the base of his cock. Then he gave her that naughty, sloe-eyed smile that had first captured her heart, and slipped off the bed. Without Dathan there to distract her, Temair was once again captured by the sight of Zevan's face. The young Aire Lord looked transfixed by pleasure. His hands clenched tight on her hips. His own hips moved in short, brutal thrusts that rubbed his cock-piercing over a spot inside her that was almost painfully sensitive. Miach pressed harder against her, hips grinding, breath almost whistling in his chest. She knew why an instant later when a golden-skinned hand came around her stomach and slid lower to catch the tip of her clit between two fingers. 100

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That explained Dathan's smile. She looked over her shoulder to see him pressed against Miach's back, one hand braced on Miach's shoulder as the other snuck around to torture Temair's clit. His cheek rested against Miach's temple, and the silken strands of their hair tangled together. The picture of black-ruby and blacker-blue was beautiful, but it was the sight of bronzed flesh against moon-pale skin that drove her into orgasm. Choking out a cry, she felt the cream slide around Zevan's cock, felt the jerk of Zevan's hips in time to his own strangled shout, but somehow he held on. Her precious, strong Third Consort. When the world came back, she blinked her eyes open and leaned back against Miach, slowing their pace. She knew Dathan would appreciate her next words, but she wasn't sure how Miach would react. Still, she thought it was time. "Touch him, First Consort. For me." Miach stilled as Temair's request ripped through him. Dathan's rigid cock jerked against the small of his back at her words. Yes, he wanted to fulfill her every wish, but that wasn't what stopped him mid-thrust. What stopped him was the realization that he wanted to feel Dathan's dick filling his hand every bit as much as Temair wanted him to do it. Slowly he moved his hand behind his back. Dathan didn't hesitate in accepting the offer, immediately thrusting his cock into Miach's hesitant grip. "Fuck yeah, Consort," he groaned as he pumped into Miach's hand. In turn Miach began to thrust forward into Temair. 101

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It was almost disorienting; the hot, slick grip of Temair's ass on his dick, the teasing rub of Zevan's cock-head through the tender tissues of Temair's passage, and the thick, hot length of Dathan's cock in his hand. Disorienting, dizzying, destructive. Impatient hands brushed his hair aside, and Dathan's lips pressed against his neck. Water boy's tongue felt just as good as when they'd shared that surprising kiss in town; maybe even better, because now Miach was accepting the pleasure rather than trying to deny it. He moaned as Dathan scraped his teeth between Miach's shoulder and throat, the sound ripped from his guts. He pumped Dathan's cock more firmly, more furiously, and matched the rhythm with his thrusts into his wife's ass. His body was on fyre, and as he increased his pace steam began to surround the bed. His fyre combined with Dathan's rayne swirled through the room, carried by Zevan's aire. Moans filled the aire, carried on Zevan's breeze, heavy with Dathan's rayne. They were sweet music to Miach's ears. The pleasure built to a resounding crescendo, a straining four-way loop of intolerable pleasure, until Temair came again, going over the edge with a ragged scream. Zevan made a helpless sound and bucked up hard into her. The young Aire Lord's cry filled Miach's ears even as he felt the pulses of Zevan's seed shooting deep inside of Temair's welcoming sheath. Surrounded by mind-numbing pleasure, Miach worked his hand hard on Dathan's cock and felt it grow thicker with each rough pull. Finally, he could hold back no longer. Miach truly 102

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let go, burying himself balls-deep in his wife's sweet, soft ass. His balls tightened, and as if he could read Miach's mind, Dathan bit hard on that sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder. Miach shouted his release. The pleasure was so big, so overwhelming, it sprayed out in the form of his seed, and roared out in his rough cry. Dathan's voice echoed his, a jagged sound of need, and then Dathan's cock was pulsing in Miach's hand, slick and hot with the Rayne Lord's seed as Dathan's head fell to rest heavily against Miach's shoulder. He must have lost his senses for a moment, because when he was once again aware, he was leaning into Dathan's cool frame, a full body caress, utterly devastated by pleasure. When he could manage to move again, he gently grabbed his wife's chin and turned her so that their eyes met. "I love you, Spark," he whispered against her lips, and kissed her with all the emotion he felt in his heart. It was scary; both feeling it, and saying it. But it was somehow freeing, too. The kiss turned wet and salty, and he pulled back to see Temair's beautiful, multi-hued eyes wet with tears. He leaned forward and sipped the precious drops from her flushed cheeks. Miach thought this might be what happiness felt like, this knowledge that he belonged, truly belonged to Temair, and the suspicion that he might just belong with the annoying man breathing hot caresses on his neck from behind. Miach glanced down. For the first time since he'd known him, the young Aire Lord looked at peace. He thought that just maybe Zevan belonged to them all. 103

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Epilogue "I hate leaving you alone here," Nuriel whispered as she hugged Sorcha hard before climbing into her carriage. "I'll be fine, El." Sorcha meant every word. The root of the evil in the Aerie had been destroyed. Her job was just to help the new Lady take control of things. "I know," Nuriel sighed, letting Sorcha loose. "I guess I'm just still spooked by everything that's happened." She blew out a puff of breath, stirring the wisps of hair curling around her forehead. "You'll be fine," she said firmly. "And I'll join you all at Earth as soon as I can. For the bonding ceremony at the latest." Nuriel nodded again and swung into the carriage, looking like a lost little girl. Sorcha gave her an encouraging smile and waved as the entire caravan began the journey to Earth. An odd sense of being watched tickled the nape of Sorcha's neck. She looked quickly around, but there was nothing to see but the bland stone gates of the main city, and a few scattered citizens and servants who'd come to witness the departure of the future Queen and her entourage. She thought she recognized Zevan's valet, and felt an instant of surprise that the man hadn't accompanied his master. Sorcha dismissed the odd sensation with a shrug and gave her foster sister a final wave before turning toward the Aerie. She had a lot of work to do, and not a lot of time to do it. [Back to Table of Contents] 105

The Queens of Merab: Temair's Aire by Violet Summers

Violet Summers Violet Summers is a married mother of three beautiful children, including one set of twins, one rambunctious puppy, and one husband, except when she's a single mom of one spoiled teenaged godchild, three spoiled kitties, and two spoiled, elderly parents. Both of Violet's personalities are very busy! No, Violet has not suffered a psychotic break yet (though she may after dealing with creating web-pages and MySpace accounts). Violet is actually the writing team of Sierra Summers and Violet (VJ) Johnson. Neither woman can remember quite when she started writing, though VJ has a vague memory of a story written in the seventies about a girl named Carmel (that's Car-MELL) who wore designer Sassoon "shapes," or jeans. It was not, she says, her finest work. Both women read voraciously, and in a multitude of genres. Sierra classifies them as "readers, as opposed to readers of romance. This means when we write, we're as concerned with the story as we are with the sex." That said, Sierra has been known to boycott books where the characters haven't "done the deed" by page 125. Sierra and VJ live in Southeast Michigan, and the spice of the Metro-Detroit area often flavors their work. "Why look for a more glamorous setting," VJ asks, "when we've got the beautiful, re-vitalized Downtown area to draw from?" 106

The Queens of Merab: Temair's Aire by Violet Summers

Violet Summers writes in a variety of genres, from contemporary to paranormal; from soft BDSM to fantasy. The two things all her stories have in common are their deeply emotional stories and their scorching erotic love scenes. Sierra and VJ love to hear from their readers. You can contact them at [email protected], or on MySpace and Facebook!

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