And Raven.
The temporal magic — the time stop, the freeze, the ability that only the most powerful beings could wield — affected everyone. Except them. Because they were — above. Above the magic. Above the time. Above the power that could freeze a room.
The Empress’s sea-green eyes were on his.
"You..." she whispered. Her voice — in the frozen world, in the gray, in the silence — was the only sound. "Are you really strong enough to fight someone like them?"
’Them.’
Not him. Them. The demon subordinates. The beings that served the Demon Lord. The beings that — even the Empress, even a dragon, even a being who had ruled for a hundred years — feared. Knew about. Understood.
Raven’s hand was in his pocket.
His violet eyes — bright, glowing, the only color in the gray world — looked into her sea-green ones. Directly. Without flinching. Without wavering. The gaze of a being who is not afraid. Who has never been afraid. Who does not understand the concept.
"I am the patron of the royal bloodline," he said. His voice was low. Not loud. The volume did not need to be high. In the frozen world, in the silence, the words carried. "Do you get it, Miss Little Pussy?"
The words.
’Miss Little Pussy.’
The insult. The degradation. The filthy, vulgar, pornographic words. Spoken to an Empress. To a dragon. To a being who had ruled for a hundred years. To a woman who had never been — spoken to. Like that. By anyone. Ever.
She trembled.
The Empress trembled.
The woman who controlled everything. The ruler of the greatest human nation. The sea dragon. The being whose power rivaled the demon lords. The woman who had never flinched. Who had never bowed. Who had never — submitted.
Trembled.
Her head went down.
The sea-green eyes — the eyes that had held his — dropped. To the floor. To the gray, frozen, colorless floor. The chin lowered. The neck curved. The posture — the imperial, the regal, the proud posture — crumbled. The body language of submission. Of defeat. Of surrender.
The temporal magic vanished.
The color returned. The motion returned. The sound returned. The room — the delegates, the guards, the king, the merchants — unfroze. The people did not know what had happened. Did not know that time had stopped. Did not know that — in the frozen moment — the Empress had been broken.
They saw.
The sight. The Empress. The ruler. The dragon. Her head lowered. Her eyes down. Her body trembling. Before a man. A man in a dark coat. With violet eyes. And a smirk.
The delegates stared.
"Why is the Empress..." a merchant whispered.
"Her head is lowered..." his companion whispered.
"What is happening?"
"What did he say to her?"
The whispers spread. Through the room. The sound of confusion. Of shock. Of disbelief.
Raven moved.
His hand went out. To the Empress. His arm — the arm that had fucked her, that had held her, that had broken her — went around her. He pulled. She came. Into him. Against his chest. Her body — the hovering body, the scaled body, the imperial body — came down. Her feet touched the floor. For the first time. In a hundred years. She stood. On the ground. Like a human.
He hugged her.
His arms went around her. His hands on her back. The dress — the elaborate, ceremonial dress — was beneath his fingers. The scales — the sea-blue scales on her shoulders — were beneath his fingers. He held. He pulled. He brought her close.
She cried out.
"Ahh—!"
The sound. The moan. The cry of a woman who has been touched by the man who violated her and who is — confused. Whose body remembers. Whose body responds. Whose brain says ’fight’ and whose body says ’yield’.
Her hand went to his shoulder.
Her large, scaled hand. The claws. The fingers. They gripped. His coat. His shoulder. The muscle beneath. She held. Not to push. To grip. To cling. To anchor.
Her body trembled.
Her whole body. The massive, powerful, ancient body — shook. The way a leaf shakes in a storm. The way a child shakes in the dark. The way a woman shakes when she is held by the man who took her and who is — holding her. Gently. Firmly. The way she has never been held.
Her face went to his chest.
Her forehead. Her scaled forehead. Against his coat. Against his chest. She buried. Her face. In his body. In the warmth. In the mana. In the presence that was — overwhelming. That was — everything. That was — the only thing in the room that mattered.
"Should I take you somewhere," Raven said. His voice was low. Close. Against her hair. The silver-blue strands. His mouth near her pointed, scaled ear. "To fuck you hard?"
The room heard.
The words were not whispered. Not murmured. They were spoken. At a volume that carried. Through the silent, frozen, shocked room. The words — "fuck you hard" — spoken to an Empress. In front of delegates. In front of guards. In front of the world.
The shock was absolute.
"Did he just—"
"To the Empress—?"
"He said fuck—"
"What is—"
"I am going to die," the fat merchant whispered. His face was white. His body was trembling. "We are all going to die."
Raven smiled.
His arm around the Empress. His hand on her back. His violet eyes — looking over her shoulder, at the room, at the delegates, at the guards, at the king with the sword — were calm. Amused. The eyes of a man who has just propositioned an Empress in front of everyone and who finds the reaction entertaining.
The Empress spoke.
Her voice was muffled. Against his chest. Against his coat. The words came — small, quiet, barely audible — from the face that was buried in his body.
"Whatever you want," she whispered. "My lord."
~ The Palace — Private Chambers
They vanished.
From the tavern. From the city. From the eyes. The portal opened — the blue-purple rift, the tear in reality — and they stepped through. The tavern was behind them. The delegates. The guards. The shocked, frozen, terrified room.
They arrived.
In a palace. A huge hall. The Empress’s palace. The imperial residence. The room was large — the size of a ballroom. The ceiling was vaulted. The walls were marble. The floor was tile. The windows — tall, arched — overlooked the ocean. The moonlight — silver, cold — came through the glass.
He held her.
Like a girlfriend. His arm around her waist. Her body against his. Her large, scaled body — the body that was twice his size, that was massive, that was dragon — was against his. Not hovering. Not floating. Standing. On the ground. Against him. The size difference was visible. She was taller. Wider. Thicker. Her head was above his. Her shoulders were broader. Her body was — bigger. Everything about her was bigger.
"Call me master," he said.
His voice was conversational. The voice of a man who is giving an instruction. Not a request. Not a suggestion. An instruction.
She trembled.
"Okay," she whispered. "I will."
Her voice was small. The voice of a woman who has ruled for a hundred years and who is now — calling a man master. The voice that had commanded armies was — broken. Reduced. To two words. ’Okay. I will.’
He looked at her face.