Chapter 291: She Isn’t A Toy

"I know you didn’t hurt her. I could feel that, too. I felt her happy." Thorne’s jaw clenched. "That isn’t the point."

"Then what is?" Draeven asked.

"The point," Thorne said, very softly, "is that there is a council meeting at noon."

Nobody spoke.

"Carrick has asked for an audience. Cedric has arranged it. Half the nobles in the capital are gathered in the east hall waiting to see whether we are fools or kings. The ritual is days away, perhaps hours, depending on whom you believe. And she...." He gestured at the bed, helplessly. "She has to stand in front of them. She has to be seen. And you want to fuck her to death before we’ve even claimed her?"

"Thorne," Kaelen began.

"She isn’t a toy."

"I know that."

"She isn’t a thing to be shared out between us like a plate of sweets."

"I know that."

"Then why does she look like that?"

Kaelen’s mouth opened. He closed it. His face had gone gray.

Draeven rose from the bed.

He was naked, and he did not seem to notice. He stood with his hands loose at his sides and his shoulders squared, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and level.

"You’re right."

Thorne blinked.

"You are right," Draeven said. "She is tired. We lost ourselves. I lost myself. I should have stopped when she fell asleep, and I didn’t, because she asked for more, and I...." He stopped. "I wanted to give it to her. That’s no excuse."

"No."

"But she asked."

"I know she asked." Thorne’s shoulders dropped. He drew a long unsteady breath. "I know. I could feel that, too. She asked, and you gave, and she was happy. I’m not angry because of that." He looked at the bed. "I’m angry because I wasn’t there."

The silence changed.

"I wasn’t there," Thorne said quietly. "And I wanted to be. And I couldn’t tell whether I was invited, so I stood in the hall like a fool, and she screamed, and I couldn’t...." He shut his eyes. "I’m sorry. I should not have shouted."

"Brother," Kaelen said softly.

"Don’t."

"I’m sorry we didn’t...."

"Don’t."

Thorne opened his eyes. They were dark and exhausted and wet at the edges.

"I’m going to take her," he said. "She needs a bath and a bed and a few hours of real sleep. She’s not going to get that here. And at noon she is going to be bright and calm and beautiful, and every one of those nobles is going to think she is the Mother of Dragons, because she is. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Draeven.

"Yes," said Kaelen.

"Good."

He crossed the room.

His boots made no sound. The shadows moved with him, drawing in close, soft and quiet, like a cloak. He stopped at the side of the bed and looked down at her, and something in his face went very gentle.

"Morgana," he said, softly.

She stirred.

"Morgana. It’s Thorne."

Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips moved.

"Thorne?"

"Yes."

"Hm." She frowned, without opening her eyes. "You’re cold."

"I know."

"Am I in trouble?"

"No." His voice cracked on the word. "No, love. You’re not in trouble at all."

"Good." She smiled sleepily. "I was good."

"You were."

"Both of them."

"I know."

"It was...." She yawned, and her eyes drifted shut. "Nice."

Thorne’s mouth twitched.

"Would you like to come with me?" he asked. "I’ll take you to bed. A proper one, with a pillow. You can sleep."

"Mm."

"Is that a yes?"

"Mm-hm."

"Come here, then."

He bent.

His arms slid beneath her shoulders and her knees, and he lifted her away from Kaelen’s chest. She made a small sleepy sound of protest, and then her head dropped against his shoulder and she was quiet. As he drew her up, the sheet slipped, and Kaelen and Draeven both went very still.

She was bare.

Bare and marked and flushed from head to foot, with the slow wet evidence of what they had done to her running down the inside of her thighs. Her hips were bruised. Her breasts bore the red marks of eager mouths. Between her legs, as Thorne lifted her, Kaelen’s release and Draeven’s slid out of her in a slow shining stream.

Thorne’s eyes went to it.

His expression did not change. But a muscle jumped in his jaw. Slowly, deliberately, he looked up and met his brothers’ eyes, one and then the other, and the look he gave them was pure, withering disdain.

Kaelen had the grace to flush.

Draeven looked at the floor.

"Both of you," Thorne said coldly. "Wash. Dress. Eat something. Be in the council chamber at noon, and try to look like the kings you are."

"Yes, Thorne," said Kaelen meekly.

"I am fine," said Draeven, to the floor.

"You are not fine. You are a disgrace." Thorne shifted her in his arms. "Both of you."

He took his coat off.

He did it with one hand, awkwardly, without lowering her. The black wool swung free, and he swept it around her shoulders and drew it closed, wrapping her from neck to knees. She sighed and tucked herself deeper into the folds. He tightened his arms around her. The shadows drew in about him like a hood.

"Thorne," Draeven said.

"What?"

"Thank you."

Thorne’s face did not soften. But his arms tightened a fraction.

"Don’t thank me," he said. "Do better."

He turned.

He walked to the door, carrying her as though she were made of glass, and the shadows slid across the floor in his wake. At the threshold he stopped, and did not look back.

"She is to be left alone today," he said. "Is that understood?"

"Understood," said Draeven.

"Understood," said Kaelen.

"Good."

He stepped into the corridor.

***

The passage was not empty.

It had been, when he arrived. Now, in the grey light of the late morning, a small crowd had gathered at the far end, near the head of the stair. A maid with a stack of towels stood frozen by the wall. A footman, a pair of pages, a clerk in a brown coat with a slate under his arm. All of them were staring at the closed door of the First King’s chambers. All of them had very red faces.