But he’d expanded the staff when we’d returned from the Arsadia…and I knew it was for me alone. He’d hired more cleaners—for it was a large house, one with rooms that I’d yet to even explore—two cooks, and personal helpers for me, should I require their assistance.

“My apologies, Karath, Sorrina,” Droshin said, though he was no stranger to finding us in compromising positions in the last few months.

“What is it?” Sarkin asked, recovering more quickly than I did, though his hands never left my hips. I knew he preferred to have as few people in his home as possible, even though the citadel was grand and we very rarely ran into a single soul, as discreet as they were. He was fonder of our home in Rysar, in the Arsadia. Our quaint little dwelling up on the hill at the base of the mountain, where we had more privacy than we knew what to do with.

“Brear would like to know if you prefer the wine from Grym this evening or the brew from Elarin.”

Decisions like that my husband hated most of all, I knew, and so I smiled at Droshin. Kyavor was partial to brew, not wine, and he was our honored guest tonight.

“The brew will be fine. Thank you, Droshin,” I replied.

He inclined his head, seemingly eager to leave us be, and I chuckled after he left.

“Three more months,” Sarkin sighed, pressing a more chaste kiss to my lips lest we get carried away again. “And then I won’t have to worry about interruptions when we are back in the Arsadia.”

Another riding season would begin soon.

“There will always be interruptions, Karath,” I murmured, untangling myself from his arms before intertwining my hand with his, pulling him through the back door of the citadel. “But if it means having you, then I don’t mind them.”

“Then let’s go lock ourselves in our wing until our guests arrive,” he suggested. “Tonight will be long. I want to savor you while I can.”

It always felt like I was free-falling off Lygath’s back when he said things like that. The rush and flurry in my belly felt like a sweet, exciting thrill.

“All right,” I whispered, anticipation surging, and he led us up to our private section of the citadel, where even Droshin wouldn’t bother us unless it was absolutely necessary.

Our rooms in Sarroth had once been…sparse. The first time I’d seen them had been the night I’d dreamed of Lygath and taken a tumble off the cliffside. Sarkin had brought me here to bandage my wounds and tie me to him in sleep. Other than a table near the fireplace, a large cushioned chair that had been well-used, and the bed, it had been bare bones, befitting the Sarrothian king who always seemed to be on the move.

It hadn’t worked for me, however, and Sarkin had given me free rein to change whatever I saw as necessary.

Over the last few months, I’d made various purchases throughout Sarroth. Smooth and soft rugs for the stone floors—which had already gone a long way toward adding color and life into the room—window dressings, paintings and glass mosaics that glittered in sunlight, decorative silver vases filled with blooms and greenery that reminded me of the Arsadia. A new foot stool here. An expertly woven blanket there.

Sarkin had often observed new furnishings within our wing with soft yet bemused amusement, his eyebrows quirking on me whenever he spied new decor on the gray walls or a trinket that I’d purchased from the marketplace, displayed proudly on the mantel.

My husband never made comments or gave his opinions about specific items I purchased…but I knew he enjoyed seeing them. He’d told me once that he liked me “nesting.” Feathering our home with things I enjoyed. He liked seeing my mark on our dwelling, evidence I was burrowing into our life. I’d often caught him observing the little pieces I’d acquired, a peculiar yet pleased expression on his face.

My favorite addition to our wing, however, was the wall of books in our sitting room by the hearth. The citadel did have a dedicated library, much to my endless delight. It needed some love and care, a project that I planned to focus on after the bulk of my interviews were done in Lakir. Most of the books were in Karag, however, and while I did work with a tutor in the nearest village to help me with my husband’s native tongue, I’d decided to lug all the books in the universal language up to our rooms for safekeeping.

Having shelves built into the walls had been one of my first projects upon arriving to Sarroth, as any good scholar worth her ink might do. Most of the books in the universal tongue had been trade ledgers from village to village, oddly enough, but I’d still read nearly every single one. Others, however, had been translated Elthika tales, mostly fables meant for children. But some were useful tomes on Elthika and Karag history, much like the book Sarkin had gifted me from Elysom. Those were the ones I repeatedly reached for whenever I needed a break from my research or if my husband was away from Sarroth.

“Thinking of your books again,” Sarkin said, cutting through my thoughts. I averted my eyes from the shelves as he drew me into his arms, now that we had a brief but private moment together. “I always know when you do. Should I be jealous of them?”

“Of course not. How can you be jealous when you know how much I love you?” I teased, laughing.

“Mmm,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my lips. “How much?”

I thought about it, trying not to get distracted by his touch. The truth that came to me was humbling. “Enough that if I was forced to choose, I would choose you over ever touching another book again.”

For someone like me, that reality was tortuous.

But that was how much I loved him.

Sarkin made a sound in the back of his throat, those eyes flickering between mine. He frowned, briefly, a slight pulling of his lips, and then he said quietly, “Then it’s a good thing that you never have to. Because I wouldn’t ever want that for you, my love.”

I grinned, my gaze going to his lips. I reached up, pressing my index finger to their full softness. Such soft lips for such an intense, intimidating male, I couldn’t help but ponder.

I went to my tiptoes, desperate for a taste of him. The kiss was hungry and raw. His fingers dug into me, and I pressed as close as I possibly could, like I was trying to climb inside him.

It was the same ache that had possessed us at Lishara’s temple, all those moons ago. Only now it wasn’t heartstone induced.

Lishara’s blessing had been a promise, I realized, a glimpse of our future come early.

I gasped when Sarkin pressed me up against the wall, caging me in. Against my belly, I felt his cock thicken with a surge.

I had just popped open a clasp of his riding armor—which I was getting quite good at—when he groaned, “Wait, aralye. The kana.”

I moaned. “You didn’t get it?”

“No,” he rasped, lowering his forehead to mine, even though his fingers began to dip into the waistband of my riding pants. He stroked my skin. Maddeningly. “Sina is still drying out the leaves. She said the next batch won’t be ready for two more days.”

Kana was a plant, I’d discovered, that grew in both Dakkar and Karak. A shared plant with a shared purpose. The deep green leaves of it were stripped and dried to be used in tea to prevent pregnancies. I’d used the last of it yesterday morning.

We both shared a desperate look.

“I can’t wait,” I pleaded. It was unlikely I would get pregnant at this part of my cycle. Not impossible, but not likely.

Sarkin’s gaze burned, his fingers flexing on my hips. There was a primal part of him that loved risking it. That part of him that ached to see me heavy with his child. He’d spoken of his fantasies, his deeply buried wants, and it was a fantasy we often played out in our lovemaking.

My words set him on fire, just as I’d known they would, and before I knew it, he had my pants pushed down, his fingers finding me wet and aching. He huffed out a sharp breath and flipped me around, pressing me down until my arms were braced on the wall and my back was flat, ass exposed to him.