Page 6 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)

Tarshi turned from the window, his obsidian eyes searching mine.

For a moment, a flicker of something that looked like longing crossed his face—a brief, unguarded glimpse of the man beneath the warrior.

The idea of peace, of a life without bloodshed, was a powerful lure for both of us.

But then his expression hardened, the familiar resolve settling back into his features.

"Stay here? And do what? Tend goats? Weave baskets? That's not who we are, Septimus. It’s not who I am." He gestured with the wooden wolf toward the window, toward the peaceful village scene. "This is what we fight for, yes. But you don't protect it by hiding in it."

"It wouldn't be hiding," I argued, my voice softer than I intended. "It would be living. We've done nothing but fight our whole lives. Don't you ever wonder what it would be like to just... be?"

“We almost died, Tarshi,” I said, my voice low.

“Livia almost died. For what? So another emperor can take his place? So the fight can continue for another generation?” I reached out, my fingers brushing against the back of his hand.

His skin was warm, the familiar ripple of scales just beneath the surface a comforting texture.

“I’m tired of fighting. I want to live. With you.

With Livia. I want to wake up in the morning and not wonder who will be dead by nightfall. ”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he slowly turned his hand over to lace his fingers with mine. His thumb traced the scars on my knuckles. “You think it’s that simple? That the war will just leave us be because we wish it?”

“No,” I admitted, my grip tightening on his. “But for once, I want to choose life over duty. I want to choose us.”

"I know what happens to people like us who 'just are'," he replied softly. "The Empire finds them. Burns their homes. Puts them in chains. And this isn’t just about them. It’s about Livia. It’s about Octavia, and every other person who died in that square. The Emperor started this. Kalen executed it. I will not rest until they have both paid for what they’ve done.

Livia is still out there. Marcus, Antonius.

They're still fighting. We can't just abandon them to build ourselves a quiet life while the world burns down around them. "

He was right, of course. My desire for peace was a selfish one, born of exhaustion and a desperate, newfound love. It wasn't a real possibility, not while the Emperor lived. Livia would never stop fighting while that man lived and nowhere would be home without her.

I squeezed his hand, a silent acknowledgment of the bitter truth. “I know,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “But a man can dream.”

“We’ll have time for dreaming when the Emperor is dead and the Talfen are free,” Tarshi replied, though his voice had lost its hard edge. He squeezed my hand back, a flicker of that same desperate longing in his own eyes. “When we find Livia. When we’re all together again.”

The simple word—together—carried more weight than a thousand declarations of love.

This was Tarshi's way of saying what we'd both been dancing around since the night we'd nearly died.

That whatever came next, we'd face it as partners.

As lovers. As whatever we needed to be for each other.

The promise of it, however distant, was enough to bank the embers of hope in my chest. We would fight, not just for vengeance, but for the chance at that quiet life.

For the possibility of a world where we could simply be.

"I'd like that," I said simply.

A smile tugged at the corners of Tarshi's mouth. "Good. Because I wasn't really asking. Now stop talking and kiss me.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I leaned across the narrow space between us, my hand sliding from his to cup the back of his neck, my fingers tangling in the soft, white hair at his nape.

His skin was warm, alive beneath my touch.

His lips were softer than I remembered, yielding under mine with a sigh that I felt more than heard.

The tension I hadn't noticed he was holding bled out of him, and he sank back against the pillows, pulling me with him.

His good arm came up to circle my neck, his fingers tangling in the short hair at my nape.

The kiss deepened, becoming a slow exploration, a mapping of shared grief and a desperate, fragile hope.

It was a promise whispered without words—that we would survive this, that we would find our way back to Livia, that we would earn the peace I so desperately craved.

When we finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, the air in the small room felt charged, sacred.

“Better,” he murmured, his voice thick.

“Much better,” I agreed, my own voice rough with an emotion I couldn't name. I wanted to stay like this forever, suspended in the quiet warmth of the afternoon, with his hand in my hair and the taste of him still on my lips.

Tarshi made a sound deep in his throat, a low groan of surrender and need, his good hand coming up to grip the front of my tunic, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us, and kissing me again, this time less gently.

His mouth was demanding, hungry, and I met his need with my own, the careful tenderness of moments before consumed by a fire that had been banked for too long.

My hand slid from his neck down his chest, careful of his bandaged ribs, tracing the hard lines of muscle I knew so well.

He winced, a sharp intake of breath, and I pulled back instantly, my own desire turning to ash in my mouth. "Did I hurt you?"

"Don't stop," he rasped, his eyes dark with a pain that had nothing to do with his injuries. "Gods, Septimus, don't stop."

The plea undid me. I kissed him again, gentler this time, a slow, deliberate claiming.

My fingers fumbled with the ties of his tunic, needing to feel his skin against mine, to erase the memory of finding him broken and bleeding in the square.

The rough fabric parted, baring his chest. The faint shimmer of blue-black scales caught the light, a landscape I was desperate to explore.

My mouth followed the path my hand had taken, tasting the salt on his skin, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart beneath my lips.

He arched against me, a low groan vibrating through his body, his good hand fisting in my hair, holding me to him.

This was more than lust. This was worship.

This was a man finding his religion in the flesh of another, a prayer answered in a small, quiet room while the world outside prepared for war.

The world outside this room, with its looming wars and ghosts of grief, ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth, and the fierce, undeniable truth that this man, this warrior, this beautiful, broken soul, was mine. And I, finally, was his.

He wore nothing beneath his tunic, and I finally managed to let the laces untied, pulling the two sides apart so I could look at him. His cock stood up hard, only inches from my mouth.

I looked down, my gaze held by the sight of him, so beautifully, painfully alive. It was a defiant declaration against the death that had so nearly claimed us both. There was no hesitation, no thought, only a need so profound it felt like a prayer. I lowered my head and took him into my mouth.

He tasted of salt and musk, the flavour of life itself. A choked sound tore from his throat, his hand tightening in my hair, not to guide me, but to anchor himself. I moved slowly, learning the shape and weight of him, my tongue tracing every vein.

I took more of him, my tongue tracing the sensitive ridge, then flicking against the tip. A bead of pre-come pearled there, and I licked it away, savouring the taste of his arousal.

This was an act of devotion, an attempt to erase the memory of his broken body with the worship of my mouth. I wanted to swallow his pain, to take his grief into myself and leave him with only this.

I moved with a slow, steady rhythm, my cheek brushing against the soft skin of his inner thigh. He was so hot, so alive. I could feel the thrumming of his pulse against my tongue, a frantic beat that matched the hammering of my own heart.

"Septimus," he gasped, the name a broken prayer. It was all the encouragement I needed. I quickened my pace, drawing him deeper, my only thought to drive him over the edge.

He cried out, a strangled sound that was half-pain, half-ecstasy, his hips lifting from the bed in a weak, involuntary motion. I took him deeper, my own need roaring to life at his surrender.

His breathing became a series of ragged pants, his good arm trembling with the strain of holding himself up.

I could feel the tension coiling in his body, the frantic pulse at the base of his cock thrumming against my tongue.

He was close, so close. I quickened my pace, my focus narrowing to this single, sacred purpose.

His release came with a hoarse shout of my name, his body arching as he spilled himself into me, a hot, life-affirming flood that felt like absolution, and I swallowed it down.

Slowly, I raised my head, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, to find him watching me, flecks of gold in those normally ink black eyes.

“Come here,” he ordered.

“You can’t-”

“I said, come here.” He motioned to the side of the bed, and I obeyed.

Even injured, his command over me was absolute, the sheer joy I had found in giving myself up to him completely was unlike anything I’d ever known before.

I stood beside the bed, fingers tracing the bones of his face as he reached out with his good hand and dragged my trousers low enough to allow my rock hard cock to spring out.

His hand wrapped around it, making me groan.

I watched as he fisted me gently, then leaned forward to swirl his tongue over the end.

“Fuck, Tarshi,” I gasped. He groaned in pain and settled back against the pillows.

“You’re not well enough…” I protested weakly as he pulled my hips forward.

“My body is," he replied. “But my mouth works just fine, so I’m going to sit here while you fuck it.”

My mouth fell open.

“Now Septimus,” he commanded.

I moved without thought, a puppet on the string of his command.

My hips pushed forward, my cock pressing against his lips.

He opened for me without hesitation, his gaze locked on mine, dark and possessive.

The first touch of his mouth sent a jolt through my system so powerful my knees nearly buckled.

It was wet and hot, a perfect, velvet sheath.

I pushed deeper, slowly, a gasp tearing from my own throat as he took me in.

It was an act of profound trust, of utter surrender on both our parts.

He, injured and vulnerable, was giving me this intimate part of himself.

I, in turn, was giving him complete control.

I began to move, a slow, tentative rhythm at first, my hips rocking gently.

His mouth was a wet, searing heat, and the slide of his tongue sent jolts of lightning through my nerves.

The world narrowed to this single point of connection, to the sight of his face below mine, his expression a mask of fierce concentration.

His hand, still wrapped around the base of my shaft, guided my rhythm, his thumb pressing into the sensitive flesh there.

Each slow thrust was a surrender, each withdrawal a fresh wave of agony and ecstasy.

My breath came in ragged gasps. I was lost, adrift on a sea of sensation with only his dark eyes as my anchor.

This was more than sex. This was a claiming, a branding of my soul with his touch, his taste.

The muscles in my thighs quivered with the strain of holding myself back, of drawing out the exquisite torment.

My vision blurred, the edges turning dark.

All that existed was the searing heat of his mouth, the tight slide of him taking me deeper, the fierce, possessive look in his eyes.

He was breaking me down, remaking me into something that belonged only to him.

The pressure built in my groin, a tight, coiling knot of unbearable pleasure.

I cried out his name, a raw, ragged sound, as my release tore through me, hot and violent.

I emptied myself into him, my body shuddering with the force of it, my mind wiped clean of everything but his name, his mouth, his claim.

When the tremors subsided, I sagged against the bed, my forehead resting on his uninjured shoulder, spent and utterly undone.

His fingers threaded through my hair, a gentle, possessive gesture that said everything his words could not.

In the quiet aftermath, with the scent of our lovemaking hanging heavy in the air, I knew I would follow this man into Inferi itself, as long as it meant I could feel this again.