Thrust.

"The thought⁠—"

Thrust.

"Of touching⁠—"

Thrust.

"Another and then using the same hands to touch you—" His muscles tighten. He lifts my thigh higher, angling me, holding me like a doll for his hard final thrust.

"Fills me with rage.” He comes inside me with a throaty growl that projects through the room, warning every inch of space, every fibre, that he claims me. As he spurts inside me, rumbles of his pleasure vibrate against my spine and blanket me in pride. I can bring this man, this beast, pleasure with my body. I suppose that is powerful… But one should not think such things. Not about a king.

His long exhale beats down on me as he relaxes, lowering my thigh to meet the other, but he does not drop the muscle. Instead, kneads the tension.

“That’s my good girl.”

I press my head back into his heaving chest, feeling him. Feeling his heart thumping like a well-worked machine. His length still slowly pulsing.

“I mean no disrespect, my king.” I breathe. “But monogamy is self-serving. I do not own you, and it would be⁠—”

“You own me.”

My breath lodges beneath his palm. “Pardon?”

“I am the king of The Cradle.” He relaxes his grip around my throat, resting but not releasing. “I was built to protect and serve the land, but I swear to you that no part of it is more important than the piece beneath your feet.”

“My king,” I sob, happy.

I love you. I love you.

My heart feels like it may burst through my chest. I want to cry, because this is terrifying. Want to shake the moment, pinch it, because it isn’t real. Can’t be.

“Say it.”

I blink. “Say what?”

“What you are thinking. I demand it.”

I snuggle backward into him, and he doesn’t tense. He relaxes. His heavy bicep surrenders to his fatigue, becoming a heavy band that pins me down. His palm continues to cradle the pulse in my neck.

The pulse that he owns.

That speeds for him.

Slows for him, flutters.

Beats for him, hard.

“I love you, my king.”

The beast inside purrs under the affect of my words, and I feel something shift. Something deep inside him that was black and hard. I feel it soften.

Then he says, “Rome.”

My eyes fill with tears, but I don’t know why. I am a silly, little girl. It’s only… I have never said his name. I have heard it, thought it, but never, wouldn’t dare, say it.

The word comes from a smile. “Rome.”

“Say it all again.”

“I love you, Rome.”

OceanofPDF.com

A Silk Girl’s

Second Trimester

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Aster

of the Aquilla Silk Aviary

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Chapter Six

Rome

Breathing heavily, I stride into the courtyard, desperate to see her—just for a moment. Blood paints my leather vest, the crimson guts of cats drying under the crown-light.

Usually, my time in the forest flies by, but these days, away from her, they crawl on all-fours.

It’s been long enough. She has had time with her Collective, as requested.

But now, I am wired; tight muscles tremble with endorphins; my mind reels in the death calls of animals, in the silence before a kill, in the climax of the blank stare. It is tangible energy, and it fuels the black parts inside me.

It is hard to snap out of…

Then I see her.

She strolls around the gardens, a cape of dark hair swaying gently down the back of her silky white dress.

I drop my gaze.

Grin.

Fuck me.

From hip to hip, her swelling womb shows beneath the silken fabric, pulling it taut as she leans to pick another flower, feeding the purple bloom into the bunch in her hand.

My attention is literally paralysed.

Her Collective strolls alongside her, gathering flowers of different colours. Aster’s side brushes the hip of Darwin’s Silk Girl, the round one, mere days shy of birthing. Such a pity Darwin opened her before Bled or Medan had a chance. I look at her large stomach—she has carried the babe with ease. My eyes war to get back to Aster… I look at her as she smiles and converses, unaware of my watchful gaze.

Above me, a winged silhouette hovers in the red haze. Odio maps a grid of sky, every inch of land near her is within a second of his descending razor-sharp talons.

My body vibrates, being too far away, can’t smell her, can’t feel her heat, but she begged me this first-light for time with them, and I allowed it. I will always grant her… anything.

Despite my approval, the distance meant I needed to kill something. So, I hunt… Something that used to be my preferred pastime, but now. Fuck. I can just stare at her.

I lean on the courtyard wall, watching her.

A screech from the depths of the haze alerts me to... In my peripherals, I note one of our Trade doctors approaching me from inside the Silk Girl Wing. An older Common man, intelligent—and castrated. That’s important if he is to touch what is mine. Might cut his hands off one day… Maybe. Keep them in a jar beside my father’s head.

“She is swelling fast,” he advises in a quiet tone, stopping beside me. Not in front. He wouldn’t dare block my view; I would cut a window into his flesh.

I’m in a volatile mood.

I smile at his words—she is swelling fast—my attention roaming her swollen abdomen again, my cock thickening inside my pants. I am certain he can see it. Of that, I am glad.

I adjust myself, my bloody hands palming my cock to the thought of her smooth skin, stretching to grow my heir, matching the smooth, strained pussy that I fuck and lick. I’ve never felt more ownership. Never felt more possessive greed.

“What I mean, Sire, is that the baby grows fast. A high Xin De genus. I am certain. We should keep the babe in the Silk Girl for as long as possible, even if it means sh⁠—”

Now you have my fucking attention.

My stare snaps to him. “She what?”

His eyes widen on my fist, and I realise I have reached for the gutting knife in my belt, and now I hold it erected in front of me.

“Sire.” He swallows and takes a single step backward, as if that distance will aid him. My arm is longer.

“She what?” I repeat.

“Degrades.”

“Say that sentence again.”

Sweat instantly mists his pasty skin. “We should keep the babe in the Silk Girl for as long as possible, even if it means she— She degrades.”

I spin the blade in my hand, using the rhythmic motion to soothe myself. A mild comfort. “You pull the heir out as soon as she feels any discomfort.”

His brows weave. “But, Sire, there are other silk gir⁠—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

Eyes gape at me as I carve a scarlet smile into his throat. Blood rushes from the flapping slit, the crimson fall chasing gravity’s inevitable draw.

Thick, hot blood blankets him.

Quick, so my sweet creature doesn’t see, I drag him through the courtyard gate, position his swaying body on the outside wall, and watch him slide down the limestone. Stare at his wide, startled eyes. That is the energy… Neck down, he is a blood-dyed mannequin.

He flops to the side. Dead. “And there are other doctors,” I hiss.

Odio lands beside him, talons already extended. His keen, piercing eyes lock on the corpse, his curved, sharp beak slightly open, ready to pull pieces from it.

“I’ll watch her,” I state, leaving him to pull the old man apart, and walk back inside the courtyard.