His jaw ticked in frustration when her hands found his chest, and her mouth on his neck. He would've claimed her here and now, fucked her until there was no breath left and wisdom in her brain, but the urge was missing.
All because of one damned wolf Princess.
Fuck.
In an instant, he grabbed her by her neck, slamming her body roughly against the table.
A cry tore from the young woman's lips at the impact but it was replaced with a moan. It was supposed to feel painful, but she only smiled to disguise her grimace in acknowledgement. That's it, she thought. He could never resist her.
But what she failed to understand was that she was the one who could never resist him.
Parting her legs, his knuckles graze the heavy silk of her skirt as the gown shifts beneath his touch. The skirt was so thick and heavy, but it came undone within mere seconds to the creature who had done it a thousand times, and inserted his finger into her.
"Ah!" A moan tore from her lips, and she threw her head back, biting her lips to prevent them slipping. Agnes had been with him long enough to know how much the sound irritated the creature, and she definitely didn't want anything stopping him this time.
He worked his finger deep into her, faster and faster and faster without remorse, eliciting more hushed moans from her as she anchored her weight to him. It was rough… painfully rough, yet she savored it like honey to the mouth of a child.
It's been so long she felt this, so long she felt him because he disappeared. Last night had been a surprise. She didn't expect him to show up on her balcony, but was overjoyed when he didn't waste a single breath taking her.
She assumed he probably missed her. There were times she existed to him because her body could handle his insatiable desires, though he only showed half of what he could do, but those times made her feel powerful.
Agnes knew there were others, but she was the most in demand. Most loved, or so she thought.
Last night had been short, terribly short, where she did not miss the irritation that doubled in his gaze when he was fucking her.
As if that wasn't enough, he added another finger and a cry escaped her lips.
"Shh," he warned, watching the face of the woman who came around his fingers. Around his table. In his most private study.
It would have been her. It would have been fun watching her come undone as he preached the wonders of his fingers and licked the magic he created. It would have been her he watched and the woman who was flushed in so much desire it jealoused him to feel.
What he would give to hear her voice again. What he would take to see those innocent eyes filled with confusion and dark curiosity. How much would she take? How would her mouth feel around his cock?
Shut up.
"AH!" This time, it was painful.
Vaeron drew in a sharp breath and pulled away. What was that?
It took him great willpower not to run his hand through his hair before muttering, "Leave," his cold voice cut through the silence and shifted the air, seizing the breath before him.
Lady Agnes froze at the timbre of his voice and the threat in those words. One minute, things seemed to be going well, and the next, it seemed like Lucifer had returned.
Stuttering, "D-Did I do-" She knew he stopped because of her. She made a sound when they were barely near half of what was to come and feared it was enough reasons to destroy the little pleasure.
All her life, she'd learnt to absorb the art if silence whenever they made out, but this one was… excruciatingly painful. It wasn't sex. It felt like a punishment.
"I won't repeat myself," he said, this time much colder, and the young woman stepped down from the table in embarrassment before quickly fixing her half-damaged skirt to order.
She didn't stay for more than five seconds before leaving. Though her lower part hurt, she walked in elegance like someone who had concluded an important meeting.
The moment the door closed, Vaeron released a harsh breath, staring coldly at the window. He knew he needed to fix himself fast, and his hunger wasn't helping. Because if he didn't, it would attract the last person he wanted to ever see.
Throughout his existence, nothing ever ticked him to the edge. It didn't tick only him, but was beginning to break something inside him he had built for thousands of years to keep tall and standing.
Not wealth. Not power. Not succession. Not dominance. A living. A breathing being.
A woman.
And the worst of it all, was from a kind he was meant to destroy. A kind that mission burned brighter than any other thing because he was built with that weapon. Then why? Why did it suddenly feel impossible to get those eyes away from his head, his mind, and his thoughts?
A knock suddenly interrupted the silence, thankfully breaking him out of his reverie. There was no way Lady Agnes would return after he had almost killed her, so it had to be someone else.
And he knew who it was. Focusing on the map table that now looked a bit destroyed as a result of the earlier ordeal, "Come in," his cold voice echoed in the dimly lit room.
In contrast to the thud of his boot, entered the familiar blonde-haired and still this time, without his helmet on or anywhere around him.
The illumination from the blazer cast upon his roughly captivating features. He was tall, almost taller than the man in the room, broad-shouldered and grim, standing a few feet behind.
His voice was low and steady when he opened his mouth to speak, "My Lord," he began, bowing his head slightly. "It's done. The body's been disposed of. There's nothing left but ashes."
Vaeron's gaze lifted slightly from the table causing those hazel eyes to glint in the wavering firelight. "What about them?"
The Commander straightened as his jaw tightened only slightly. "As you commanded, my Lord. I gathered them myself. They await your word,"
For a moment, silence lingered, stretching between them until he spoke. "Good," he said. "I'll decide what becomes of her remains when the time is right. Any news from Stormhill?" He inquired, changing the course of the conversation.
"Aye. Word from our spies came at dawn. They've confirmed the pull of the attack. They're preparing to strike within the next forty-eight hours,"
"Confirmed?"
He nodded. "They're already marching south along the Brown Ridge. Another spy ascertained their weapons in full assembly forged under the guidance of the Ironwrights. It might interest you to know it was mined by the Blackstone,"
Vaeron didn't reply immediately. Then he moved one piece across the board, setting it with a hard clack echoing in the hollow chamber.
"As expected," he said. "Good enough it finally dawned on them to consider my mercy by burning them alive. Fair they summon their gods now," he deadpanned.
He knew it was only a matter of time before those foolish harpies tap into dead magic to dethrone him. After a short while, "How many armies?"
"Rough counts put them at twenty thousand," he answered, taking a step forward. "They've allied with Wallowail. That doubled their strength, and their defenses have been reinforced along the coastal path. They've constructed new fortifications on the eastern ridge, strong enough to stall our cavalry if we meet them there,"
Vaeron exhaled through his nose in a quiet scoff. So the illiterate Lord seeks safety in the arms of his greatest enemy, he thought in false intrigue. "How unfortunate for him that desperation should lead to such poor judgment,"
The blonde-haired finally moved, walking to the other edge of the table. "I've gathered information about what Stormhill promised them. Trade rights along the Iron Coast and access to the western ports. The Wallowailers want what they have always desired. Ships, salt, power…"
"And someone to die first," he completed, followed by a humorless laugh. "And the Lord thinks that makes him clever, forgetting that allies born out of fear crumble willingly,"
It didn't surprise him much. When the sea turns red, Wallowail will seize their freedom and be the first to abandon him.
He had witnessed this path a thousand times already. Alliances born out of desperation and fear, where in return, they always crumble to ashes or bones.
While some are merciful on his hand, he disappears into nothingness.
His eyes landed on a city with the sigil of a serpent in between a rod and its head stuck at the tip, darkened with a grey hue, an indication among the ones perished.
Draegor, he thought. A land once ruled by Lord Alaric Draegor, the first werewolf king to kneel, and the first he ever turned to ash. Draegor had been a place of hunger and sin: slavery and brothels, thieves and mercenaries. It had been so easy for them to create strong alliances, and difficult when their strongest defenses happened to be their greatest downfall.
One way or the other, he thought, the living seek survival by all means: a cowardly escape—which is death, accepted by a few—and a foolish retreat, which many chose with open arms.
But he hadn't been a generous grant neither but the sweet mercy of a pain-striking death.
The wind outside had grown harsh, clawing against the window slits like something trying to get in. The fire in the hearth was low again, a little more than a restless glow that breathed against the stone.
"What of their approach?" He asked after a moment. "Where do they plan to strike next?"
"The spies say their focus is on the southern gate," The Commander replied almost immediately. "They intend to hit the fortress at Irongate. It's the weakest of our border defenses, and they believe they can breach it before reinforcements arrive," he explained. "The main host will then sweep northward to cut off supply lines to the capital,"
"Mm," he crooned, a thoughtful sound that bordered on contempt. A smart move. "And the supplies?"
"We've moved most of them inland as you ordered. The decoy wagon is already in play. If they take the bait, they'll lose time and position before reaching Irongate,"
Vaeron nodded once, as the faintest hint of satisfaction marred his face, even hardening his expression the most. "Good. Let them think they're winning. All kinds grow careless when they smell victory,"
Then he turned his head slightly and his eyes narrowed. "Send a word to General Corwin. I want the western flank reinforced before dawn. And have the Black Guards ready to march in two nights," he ordered. "We'll meet them before they reach Irongate. We'll bleed them before they even reach our gates,"
If they strike in two days, they'll strike in one. It was a cold and final promise, and the flames from the hearth seemed to cackle in accord.
"The numbers…" The commander started. "We lack the numbers for that kind of preemptive strike. Seven thousand armies cannot march against twenty thousand. Our numbers are low. We've only seven thousand able men—strong ones, aye, but still outnumbered three to one by Stormhill's forces. If we lose our coast, we lose our hold."
He didn't reply immediately, tracing his fingers on the cracked line between Stormhill and the coast.
Indeed, they were outnumbered by their armies, but even two thousand of his can defeat five thousand of theirs. Although, seven thousand against twenty was a death sentence. He needed enough armies.
"What about Lord Thornveil?" he asked. "How many soldiers did he recruit for this war?"
"Seven hundred. After that mysterious plague swept his lands, his numbers fell to less than a third. Those who survived can fight but most are untrained, and the few who are seasoned cannot hold the capital. We could send them to the front as a diversion, though their losses would be certain."
He nodded slightly. "They'll hold the western fields until Corwin arrives,"
The Commander bowed slightly in acknowledgment. "And Greymarch?"
At that, Vaeron's mask shifted as his lips tightened. He pressed his thumb against the carved sigil of Greymarch—three ravens around a sword—carved into the map.
"Their lord remains silent," he said. "Coward or traitor, time will tell. But if he hasn't sent word by dusk, send riders. If the gates remain closed, burn them open."
"Understood."
Lord Vaeron straightened, his white long-sleeved shirt shifting in the firelight. Two buttons were left undone, revealing his chiseled chest. Although his expression was calm, beneath it ran the cold current of calculation.
"What of Dravaryn?" he asked. "The fortresses along the frostline?"
"Holding, for now," the Commander said. "But the garrisons are thin. They've been feeding refugees since the fall of the lower villages. Food is short. Morale is worse."
"And the Westbrook?"
"Battered," the Commander admitted. "After the raids last week, they've lost a third of their horses and nearly all siege engines. We can't rely on them for a month, perhaps more."
Lord Vaeron's eyes narrowed as he studied the map. He could almost feel the heat of Stormhill's advance pressing against the painted borders with a tide of men and fire swelling closer with every heartbeat.
"They're tightening the noose," he murmured. "Westbrook south. Greymarch west. Dravaryn starved," It was cold emphasis on each word. "But that isn't enough to burn them all,"
They were marching quicker, nearing their defenses, but that wouldn't be enough to defeat their armies. Or him.
They could lose quite a number to them, but still, the impossibility of victory on their side was very thin.