Finally. They focused on him. To his irritation, both flashed him unrepentant grins.
"We heard of the ambush," his brother said, slapping him on the back now. "We came to offer you our aid."
"As if I can't handle a few enemy soldiers on my own." Greer, the king of the neighboring realm, wanted possession of Vasili's, and constantly struck at random times, in random ways, before scattering with the wind. "I sent the men back to their leader. Minus their heads."
"Perhaps that's why he failed to satisfy his Rose," Grigori said to Jasha. "She was too frightened of him to enjoy him."
"Surely not. That would mean she rejected him, and my brother will be the first to tell you how irresistible he is."
Enough. "Let's return to the palace. I'm in need of dinner and a bath." And a woman, damn his always aching body, but he couldn't have one of those. Unless Rose returned.
Too young, damn it! She'd lived nineteen years. He'd lived thirty-three. Until twelve months ago, she'd been his fearful little mouse. He'd been a lion his entire life.
Part of him wished he could have followed her to her world, though, where he could have her without (much) worry. No one to disturb them, no one to threaten her, no painful past to remember.
He hated that part of himself. This was his home. He wouldn't leave for any reason.
"Look at you. So serious all of a sudden," Jasha said. "You're right, Vash. It's time to return to the palace and feed you. I want my impious, pain-in-the-ass brother back."
He snorted, but allowed the men to lead him outside, puddles splashing at his feet. As the rain continued to pour from the darkened sky, he mounted his horse. Many Monstrea and human guards waited nearby, acting as his protection as he'd ordered, ensuring that no one entered—or left—his tent without his permission. Except for Jasha and Grigori. They always did what they wanted.
"Leave the tent," he told them, "and go home." No reason to have them out in the rain. Not that the rain ever stopped this time of year. And the command had nothing to do with maintaining a hideaway for Rose in case she visited without warning. Of course.
Everything taken care of, he spurred his animal into motion. He almost hoped someone else ambushed him tonight. He itched for another fight. Something, anything to release some of the tension coiled inside him.
Yet, deep down he suspected only one thing would release that tension—and he might not see her for another year.
Chapter Four
She didn't visit.
For the next year, Vasili looked for her in every shadow, waiting. Hopeful, damn him, for a glimpse of her. He spent more time in "their" tent than he did in his palace. Or training. Or hunting.
Because of Rose, he was distracted, on edge, and too f**king needy. His people were now leery of him, afraid he'd snap their heads off. And he just might. Damn her!
He liked women, and he liked sex, but the two had a place in his life—and that was right after everything important. Doing without shouldn't have bothered him. But he kept thinking about Rose, and his body kept reacting. He wanted her. Badly.
In one week and twenty-three hours, she would be twenty years old. No longer too young for him.
And despite her origins, he could finally have her. But only after he punished her for reducing him to this. A grumpy king, a disgruntled suitor, and a terrible brother.
She owed him, and he would collect. You didn't ask someone how to reach them, and then never try to reach them. It was rude. And Vasili had always believed in the power of civility. Fine.
He was a recent convert. But because she'd made him wait—and wait and wait—he was having one of his night-rose tattoos removed.
Yeah, he'd gotten another one. Stupid wine. He hadn't meant to consume so much last week, but his mind had wandered—about Rose, of course—and he'd thought a second tattoo would look amazing on his other arm.
Jasha hadn't stopped teasing him since.
He would punish Rose for that, as well.
After he tasted her. By now he'd realized that she was nearly too lovely to resist. Too stubborn, too. Which, despite everything, made him proud of her. Hell, these days he was always proud of her.
She was resisting him with a strength he himself did not possess, and he was proud.
Last time, she'd armed herself, and every time he remembered it, he was proud. She'd fought him with more skillthan he would have guessed, and he was proud. She'd asked him how she could return, and he was f**king proud. It was disgusting. Next he'd be claiming his husbandly rights. Not just sex, because that was on the menu no matter what, but everything. Her presence, her constant attendance to his needs. Her heart.
Rights that belonged to him. No one else. Any man who touched her would—Nothing. His shoulders slumped against his throne. He couldn't reach them. Which was frustrating and damned irritating. He was a king. He could control people with his mind. Their actions, their words—even rip their skin open with only a thought. Yet he couldn't cross a stupid threshold of shimmering air and check on his property.
Yes. Property. That was what she was, he decided with a smile, already imagining how she would react when he informed her of her new status. Most likely, she'd finish the introduction of her knee to his balls.
"You're scaring the guests." Jasha's deep voice drew him from his dark musings. "Honestly, that smile is evil. You look ready to torture someone."
They were seated side by side on their royal dais, a party in full swing around them. Soft music played, every note perfect. It should be; the orchestra was comprised of the best of the best.
"They don't like the look of me, they can leave." But even as he spoke, he gentled his expression. He needed a distraction, damn it. Otherwise, he'd never survive the next seven days, twenty-two hours, and forty-three minutes until Rose's birthday.
He scanned the room. Gold filigree lined the walls in circling patterns, gleaming in the light cast by the many chandeliers. Windows arched under each golden circle, rain pattering against the glass. There were too many lords, ladies, and Monstrea dancing and laughing to see the gold-veined marble floors he wanted to lay Rose upon, stripping her, touching her, finally tasting her.
His fingers curled around the arms of his throne, and if those arms hadn't been made of onyx, he was certain he would have bent them. As it was, his fingers cracked the stone.
Distraction. What to do, what to do. He continued his study until his gaze caught Grigori's. The Monstrea stood in the far corner of the ball room, armed for war.
His friend nodded, silently telling him all was well. A surprise. Half of the attendees were from the neighboring kingdom—and his enemies—so he'd expected a fight to break out. But they were here to make nice, to offer him a peace settlement, as well as one of their princesses, so they were on their best behavior.