Her tongue came out. She licked the shaft. From the base to the head. A long, slow, deliberate lick. The kind of lick that is not about pleasure. About ownership. About display. She was showing the delegates. Showing them what she was. What she did. Who she served.
His hand was on her head.
His fingers in her emerald hair. His palm on her crown. Not the crown — the gold and emerald crown was on her head, and his hand was on top of it. His fingers tangled in the hair that framed it.
"Tell me," Raven said. His voice was low. Calm. The voice of a man who is receiving a lick and who is addressing an audience. "Why are you here?"
The delegates stared.
Their mouths were open. Their eyes were wide. The first delegate — the diplomat — his face was white. The second — the military man — his jaw was clenched.
"I am the king of this place now," Raven said.
The words hung.
In the air. In the throne room. In the silence.
The delegates processed. Their brains — trained, educated, the minds of men who had spent their lives in politics and war and diplomacy — processed.
The queen was on her knees. The man was on the throne. The queen was licking his cock. The man was claiming to be the king.
The first delegate thought: ’This is not right. The queen is a puppet. The man is the ruler. We need to report this to the Empress.’
The second delegate thought: ’The barbarian nation was destroyed by this man. By this kingdom. He is not a king. He is a conqueror. We need to report this to the council.’
They turned.
To leave. To report. To carry the message that the Athoria Kingdom was not what it appeared. That the queen was not the ruler. That a man — a man with violet eyes — was the power behind the throne.
Their heads flew.
Off. Their bodies. The heads — severed, clean, the cut through the neck, through the spine, through the flesh — flew. Through the air. Arcing. Spinning. The blood — arterial, bright, spurting — sprayed. On the floor. On the walls. On the green banners.
The bodies stood.
For a moment. Headless. The necks — the stump, the open wound, the severed spine — geysered blood. The bodies swayed. Then they fell. Forward. Face first. On the marble. The sound — the wet, heavy thud of dead flesh on stone — echoed.
The women were revealed.
Behind the delegates. Behind the space where the delegates had been standing. The space that the delegates had not seen. The space where the women had been waiting.
Celia. Her red dress. Her sabre. Her dark hair. Her bright eyes. Her sword — wet. The blade that had cut the heads. The steel that was red.
Nara. Blonde. Tall. Her long sword. Her armor. Her face — calm. Focused.
Fatima. Thick-bodied. Not fat. Thick. The body of a woman who was built for power. Her sword — a broadsword, heavy, the kind that most men could not lift — was in her hand. The blade was wet.
Gia. Petite. Slim. Young. Her body was small. Tight. The kind of body that looked fragile but was not. Her weapon — two short blades, the kind that assassins use — were in her hands. The blades were red.
Ada. Behind them. In her dragon scales. Her white hair. Her yellow eyes. Her presence — the aura, the mana, the weight of a dragon in a human body — filling the room.
They removed their clothes.
Not all. Not Ada — she was in her scales. But the others. Celia. Nara. Fatima. Gia. Their dresses. Their armor. Their clothes. Removed. Dropped. The fabric on the floor. The steel on the stone. The women — bare. Naked. Their bodies visible.
Celia — her body was lean. Muscled. The body of a fighter. Her breasts were small. Firm. The nipples pink. Her stomach was flat. Ridged. Her pussy was bare — shaved. The slit visible. Tight.
Nara — her body was tall. Athletic. Her breasts were medium. Round. The nipples light brown. Her stomach was toned. Her pussy was trimmed — the dark hair short, the lips visible.
Fatima — her body was thick. Full. Her breasts were large. Heavy. The nipples dark. Wide. Her stomach was soft. Rounded. Her hips were wide. Her ass was round. Her pussy was full — the lips thick, the hair dark, the inner flesh visible.
Gia — her body was petite. Small. Her breasts were barely mounds. The nipples tiny. Pink. Flat. Her stomach was concave. Her hips were narrow. Her pussy was bare — naturally hairless. The slit tight. Closed.
They needed their breasts.
Their hands went to their chests. Celia’s hand on her small breast. Nara’s on her medium. Fatima’s on her large. Gia’s on her tiny mounds. They squeezed. They kneaded. They displayed. Not for the dead delegates. For him. For the man on the throne.
Two knelt.
Celia and Gia. Before the throne. Before Raven. Their mouths went to his lap. To his balls. The heavy, dark sack. Celia’s mouth found the left testicle. She sucked. Her lips sealed around the orb. Her cheeks hollowed. Gia’s mouth found the right. She licked. Her tongue traced the wrinkled skin. Her small mouth worked.
"My king," Celia murmured. Her mouth full. The words muffled.
"My king," Gia whispered. Her lips on the sack.
Ada arrived.
From behind. The dragon woman. The scaled. The old grandmother with the yellow eyes and the dragon heart. She walked — her bare, scaled feet on the marble, the sound soft, the claws clicking — to the throne.
Her hand went to her breast.
The scaled breast. The large, heavy mound. The dark nipple. She squeezed. She lifted. She brought it to his mouth.
Raven sucked.
His mouth found the nipple. His lips sealed around the dark peak. His tongue worked the stiff flesh. His cheeks hollowed. He sucked. The taste — the scales, the skin, the faint, mineral taste of dragon — on his tongue.
Ada moaned.
"Ahhh..." The sound was deep. From her chest. The vibration of a dragon’s vocal cords. Her hand went to his hair. Her fingers — clawed, scaled — tangled in the black strands. She held. She pressed. His face against her breast.
"Hahh... my king..." she breathed. The sound was hot. The breath visible — the mana, the heat, the dragon’s breath, the steam from her mouth. The fog hung in the air. White. Dense. The exhalation of a being whose lungs contained fire.
"I have fulfilled your orders," she said. Her voice was low. Against his hair. Her lips on his scalp. "To kill the barbarian king."
She paused.
Her yellow eyes — slitted — looked down. At his face. At his mouth on her nipple. At his violet eyes — looking up at her.
"Any further?" she said.
Her voice was warm. Willing. The voice of a woman who has just killed a king and who is asking for the next order. Who is ready. Who is eager. Who exists to serve.
Vivian heard.
The queen. On her knees. Her cheek against the cock. The cock that was against her face. She heard the words. "Kill the barbarian king."
The barbarian king.
The man who had killed her mother.
The man who had strangled her. Who had fucked her. Who had said "is she dead?" and laughed. Who had said "does she not have a daughter?" and "send her to me."
The man who had been promised her. As a concubine. When she came of age.
Dead.
Killed by Edda. By the dragon woman. By the woman who served Raven. By the woman whose nipple was in Raven’s mouth. By the woman whose order had come from Raven.