Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Hi,” I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t said anything at all.
“So. This is the female wolf who has somehow avoided my harem,” he says, stalking around me, his hands behind his back, his eyes narrowed not in annoyance, but in intense concentration as he inspects me.
I don’t know what to say to that. I am awed. It’s not every day I meet a king. I am sure that my innate smart mouth will resurface soon, but if I picked up one thing at the academy, it’s that it isn’t a good idea to annoy someone who has their own army.
I wait to hear what his conclusion will be. I am sure he will be impressed with my exploits in the city. After all, I came to his attention after handling a gang of robbers on my own. He’s probably going to ask me about my fighting prowess, or maybe what position I’d most like in his guard.
“You should have been on your hands and knees begging for my cock on the very hour of your eighteenth birthday. You should have produced at least two heirs by now. We have some making up to do.”
Oh, no. He’s gross.
All of the majesty of the most impressive and majestic man can be stripped away in a moment when it becomes apparent that all he wants is sex. Filthy, unpleasant, cloying sex. The kind of sex that comes from men you do not want to touch you, who have everything going for them and yet somehow still manage to make your skin crawl.
I let out a laugh that I hope he will find charming.
“I’m not really a producing heirs type of girl,” I explain. “I’m more of a career woman.”
“Ah, yes. I’m informed you left the academy in order to pursue recklessness and murder on the streets of Eclipse.”
I think this man and Einar would really get along well if they met under different circumstances, given the king is unlikely to say gross sex things to Einar. They seem to share the same stern judgment of everything that does not fit into their world view.
“You won’t be doing that again. Now that you are where you belong, you will be put to the sort of work you were made for.”
“Protecting your majesty with my years of combat training?”
“No,” he laughs, as if what I just said was adorably ridiculous. “Taking my cock and bearing my babes.”
It is getting increasingly hard not to punch the king in the face. But even me, impulsive and terrible as I am, knows better than to hit the king. Those guards outside would fucking dismember me in a second if I attacked him.
“I thought this was a meet and greet.”
“All female shifters are property of the king,” he says. “I find it hard to believe that you were not informed of that fact as some point in your existence. Your presence at the academy was dubious. It would have been better if you were raised in the palace…”
It is at that moment that I suddenly realize that everybody I have ever known has tried to protect me from this precise moment, and I have never done anything but rush headlong toward it.
I feel cold, and slightly nauseous. He’s not going to let me go, and this place is far better guarded than the academy. This is where the guards who actually graduate top of their classes go to serve. I might get out eventually, but not before all manner of terrible things are done to me, I am sure.
The king continues his disgusting explanation of how things are.
“You belong to me, the same way that chair does.”
“Oh, does the chair also want to punch you in the face?”
He smirks at me as I snap verbally.
“Do not threaten me with a good time. I like how feisty you are. Feel free to resist. I will enjoy it more if you do. Tears are nice, too.”
I really hate this man a lot. He’s a terrible person. I’m not sure why I thought a king would be nice. I suppose it’s the endless propaganda from growing up in an institution designed entirely to serve him. Kind of messed my mind up.
“These are my sons. I have twenty-one sons. You will bear me another.” He gestures to a painting in which his boys are lined up in the throne chamber, from oldest to youngest, I have to assume. The oldest one looks around my age, or older, the youngest one is either being held by his mother, or a nanny. The artist has captured the expressions of the various progeny very well. The eldest looks cruel and complacent, those slightly younger than him look as though they’re plotting to kill him. Those in their teens look bored, and those younger are blissfully unaware of the quiet horrors surrounding their existence. The baby seems chill.