Page 4 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)

I nodded. "My wife had a way of making me feel ten feet tall and invincible, just with a look. Like I was a hero instead of just another soldier trying to survive another day."

"What was she like?"

"Strong," I said immediately. "Stronger than me in every way that mattered.

She could birth a calf, bake bread, tend the sick, and still have energy to argue politics with the village elders.

Had a laugh that could wake the dead and a temper that could strip paint.

" I smiled at the memory. "Beautiful, but not in the delicate way.

Beautiful like a storm is beautiful—powerful and wild and impossible to tame. "

"You loved her very much."

"Aye. Loved her with everything I had. Still do, I suppose." I looked down at Livia, this complicated woman who'd somehow worked her way past my defences. "Love like that doesn't die just because the person does. It changes shape, maybe, becomes something quieter. But it endures."

"Is that why you've never..." She hesitated, then forged ahead. "Marcus told me you've had women, but never anything serious. Never let anyone close."

I was quiet for a long moment, feeling the familiar knot of guilt and fear tighten in my chest. "Hard to let someone close when you couldn't protect the last person who trusted you with their heart."

"You couldn't have saved her, Antonius. Not against a whole legion."

"Couldn't I?" The old anger flared, directed mostly at myself. "I was supposed to be her protector. Her husband. Her shield against the world. And when the test came, I failed. Let them take her, hurt her, kill her while I watched from chains, I was too weak to break."

"You were one man against dozens. You did everything you could."

"Everything I could wasn't enough." The words tasted bitter, twenty years of self-recrimination condensed into a handful of syllables. "It's never enough."

Livia shifted beside me, turning so she could look directly into my face. Her hand came up to cup my cheek, the touch gentle but firm.

"Look at me," she commanded quietly. When I met her eyes, she continued.

"You are not responsible for what evil men choose to do.

You are not a failure because you couldn't perform miracles.

And you are not condemned to spend the rest of your life alone because you couldn't save one person from an entire army. "

The conviction in her voice was absolute, brooking no argument. But the fear that had lived in my chest for two decades wasn't so easily dismissed.

"What if I can't protect you either?" The question escaped before I could stop it, raw and vulnerable in the pre-dawn quiet. "What if I fail again?"

"Then you'll have tried," she said simply. "And that's more than most people do."

Her words settled something restless inside me, though the fear remained. She made it sound so straightforward—as if the possibility of failure wasn't reason enough to avoid the attempt entirely. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps the trying mattered more than the outcome.

"You make it sound simple," I said.

"Simple doesn't mean easy. But hiding from life isn't really living at all."

The truth of it hit harder than I'd expected. How many years had I spent merely existing, going through the motions without really feeling anything? How many nights had I lain alone, telling myself it was safer that way?

"Stay," she whispered suddenly, her voice small in the darkness. "Please. I don't want to be alone tonight."

Every instinct screamed at me to leave, to maintain the distance that had kept me safe for so long. But looking into her eyes, seeing the vulnerability she was offering along with the request, I found myself nodding.

"Aye," I said quietly. "I'll stay."

We settled under the covers together, Livia curling against my side with her head on my chest. She fit perfectly in the curve of my arm, like she was made to be there.

Her breathing gradually steadied as exhaustion claimed her, but I remained awake, hyperaware of every point where our bodies touched.

This was different from the women I'd been with since Helga's death. Those encounters had been about physical need, nothing more—quick releases that left me feeling empty afterward. I'd never stayed the night, never held anyone while they slept, never felt this sense of... rightness.

Livia's hand rested over my heart, her fingers splayed across my chest. Even in sleep, she seemed to be anchoring herself to me, drawing comfort from my presence.

The trust implicit in her relaxed posture humbled me.

Here was a woman who'd faced down arena champions, who carried herself with the confidence of someone accustomed to violence, and she felt safe enough with me to be completely vulnerable.

I pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. She smelled incredible.

As the minutes passed, I became increasingly aware of other things—the thin nightgown she wore, the warmth of her bare legs against mine, the soft curves pressed against my side. Her breathing had deepened into the rhythm of true sleep, and each exhale whispered across my chest like a caress.

Gods, she was beautiful. Even in the dim moonlight, I could see the delicate line of her profile, the sweep of her lashes against her cheeks.

What would it be like to wake her with kisses?

To slide my hands beneath that thin fabric and explore the body that had been forged in combat but was still utterly, devastatingly feminine?

The thought sent heat coursing through me, and I had to bite back a groan as my body responded with embarrassing enthusiasm.

I tried to think of other things—tomorrow's training schedule, the accounts from the tavern, anything but the warm, willing woman in my arms—but my imagination had other ideas.

I could picture it so clearly: trailing my lips down her throat, feeling her arch beneath me as I worshipped every inch of her skin. She would be responsive, I knew—passionate and giving, meeting my touch with her own fire. The soft sounds she would make, the way she would whisper my name...

I shifted, trying to create a fraction of an inch of space between us, but it was a fool's errand.

The movement only made her nestle closer, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she settled more fully against me.

My breath hitched. I was painfully hard, an ache that was both pleasure and torment.

This was wrong. She had sought comfort, not a clumsy seduction from a man old enough to be her father.

My mind screamed at me to be a gentleman, to be the shield she needed, but my blood was a traitor, roaring with a need I hadn't felt since Helga was alive.

It wasn't just lust. It was a desperate, primal urge to claim this woman, to mark her as mine, to feel her surrender and know that, for a few stolen hours, she belonged only to me.

To erase the ghosts of the men who had come before, if only for a night.

She murmured something in her sleep, a soft, incoherent sound, and her hand flexed against my chest. Her thumb brushed against my nipple through the thin fabric of my tunic, and a jolt of pure electricity shot through me, straight to my groin.

I bit down a curse, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth.

What would she do if I touched her, I wondered. Would she wake, responsive and willing, or would she continue to sleep oblivious of my hands on her body? I imagined cupping her breast in my hand, circling her nipple till it rose hard under my fingers.

My hand trembled with the urge to do it, to slide down from her shoulder and cover the soft swell of her breast. To feel its weight, its warmth through the thin linen.

My thumb ached to graze her nipple, to feel it pebble under my touch, to wring a soft gasp from her sleeping lips.

It would be so easy. A small sin in the dark, a secret I would carry to my grave.

Or maybe a bigger transgression. Pulling that nightgown up slowly, to reveal what lay between her legs.

Moving them apart, so gently than she would barely stir until I could taste her.

Slipping my tongue deep into her pussy, hearing her soft cries as she slept believing she was dreaming as she grew wetter under my tongue.

I could kneel between her legs, fisting my cock, rub the head over her clit till she moaned.

Would she wake then? Or would it take the sensation of me guiding my hard length inside her?

I could move slowly, so slowly, just revelling in the feeling of her pretty cunt taking me in.

I would fill her completely, stretching her, claiming her in the most primal way a man can claim a woman.

My own release would be a secondary thought, the main pleasure coming from the slow, deliberate conquest. From feeling her body yield, from knowing that deep inside her, she was taking all of me.

My whole body shuddered with the force of the fantasy, so vivid it was almost a memory.

I could feel the slide of my cock into her heat, the tight clench of her muscles as she took me in.

I would fill her, stretch her, own her in the dark while she dreamed, and she would wake slick and sore and wondering at the ghost who had loved her in the night.

I wouldn’t, of course. I would never touch her without her consent, but the thought had my cock harder than it had been in years.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, I shifted my weight, trying to ease the pressure of my arousal against her leg.

The motion caused her to murmur in her sleep, her fingers tightening on my tunic.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I was her protector, her friend.

I had to be stronger than this. I drew a slow, ragged breath, focusing on the scent of her hair, the fragile weight of her hand over my heart.

This was what mattered. Her safety. Her peace.

My own base needs were insignificant. I would chain this beast inside me.

I would stand guard over her sleep, and if it was the last honourable thing I ever did, I would not fail her. Not like I had failed everyone else.

This was going to be a very long night.

But as I lay there, watching the play of moonlight across her peaceful features, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing against my chest, I found I didn't really mind.

The wanting was almost sweet in its intensity, a reminder that I was still capable of feeling something beyond mere physical need.

And if the price of holding her was a few hours of uncomfortable arousal, it seemed a small cost for such a precious gift.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the steady beat of her heart, on the soft weight of her head on my chest. I was her shield.

Her friend. I would not betray that, no matter the cost to my own sanity.

That was the promise I had made to myself, the role I had chosen.

A shield didn't take. It protected. It endured.

And I would endure this fire in my blood, this ache in my groin, and I would keep her safe, even from myself.

The dawn couldn't come soon enough. If I happened to suffer a bit in the process, well, that was just proof that some kinds of suffering were worth enduring.

The thought brought a wry smile to my lips as I settled in for what would undoubtedly be the longest—and most treasured—sleepless night of my life.