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Chapter sixty-one

D imitri sat in bed with a drawing pad against the bend of his knee. He sketched in silence, his pencil gently rasping over paper, complemented by the crackle of the fire.

A strange sensation settled in his chest throughout the evening. An emotion akin to comfort he couldn’t pinpoint. He glanced over his shoulder. Astrid lounged beside him, engrossed in her book.

His wife was the source of his ease.

She wouldn’t leave him. Couldn’t be taken from him. She’d fought for him, insisting upon a diadem to match Ledivion’s Crown of Daggers.

Her kingdom would have two crowns.

Two thrones.

His neva wanted him to rule beside her, and he agreed. Not because he had any desire to reign over the Ledivites who saw him as a curse, but to stay close. If he was near, he could keep her safe.

Dimitri watched Astrid curl the page into itself before turning it.

His little scholar sat cross-legged with her book laid open over Ambrose’s aquarium.

A short black silk robe draped over her curves and fanned over their sheets.

He would slip it off her shoulders and use the sash to tie her wrists behind her back when she finished reading for the evening.

When he’d imagined their future, he’d known books would be piled beside their bed. He hadn’t been prepared for the near dozen leather-bound towers set so close together he needed to raise his wings to keep from knocking them over.

She’d requested the war archive encompassing the past century, then sent Dobromil after any documented Death Spirits, which she devoured.

“There have to be more accounts,” Astrid grumbled.

Dimitri arched his brow, and she exchanged the thin booklet for a heftier tome.

“There are only three accounts of Death Spirits. The start of The Blood-Cursed Plague, another royal, and you,” she said counting her fingers. “How can there be no records of Death Spirits being born among the common folk?”

“Why would Vinceret curse commoners?” They didn’t war and certainly didn’t boast about their unborn children being greater warriors than the God of Conquest and Blood.

Aggravation gleamed against midnight, and she turned to face him fully. “Why do you still think it’s a curse?”

Bitterness coated his tongue as he answered, “Because these famished shadows could be nothing else.”

Astrid dragged the book off his brother’s encasement and the eyes swam to the front of the glass as though they were listening.

“I think they are born and Ledivites kill them in secret,” Astrid said, opening the book and pointing to a passage.

His ever-scheming neva saw conspiracies on every page, because she herself was constantly plotting. “Where are you going with this?”

“Fire weavers come from earth weavers. They’re produced every thousand souls.”

Dimitri nodded. This was common knowledge.

“I believe a Death Spirit is a rarer magic, like fire weavers and air weavers,” Astrid announced as her expression lit with excitement. “But your union is a Ledivite and a soul weaver.”

“And you’re concluding this off two documents?”

“I’ve met your soul weavers. They’re weak,” Astrid said pointedly. “Death Spirits can’t help they’re born hungry. Your mother was strong enough to hold your shadows. She taught you to control it.”

“She did,” he confessed, mildly concerned about what else she would infer from his admission.

“I’m going to overturn the decree of the Blood-Cursed—”

“No,” Dimitri bit out. “I have given you your temples. You will not commit heresy against mine.”

Astrid tossed the book aside and crawled into his lap.

She took his face in her hands and spoke softly, leaning so close her breath fanned over his cheek.

“Death Spirits aren’t a curse from Vinceret.

” Her forehead touched his and she caressed his jaw.

“They’re a blessing from the Three-Faced Mother. ”

We aren’t. The painful truth replayed through his mind, and he couldn’t find his voice. His chest tightened, and he couldn’t breathe.

Astrid held him closer, smoothing his hair. “You were born in the wrong kingdom, Dimitri,” she whispered to him. “The Three-Faced Mother fashioned you and her serpents guided you to me. You’re mine now. My perfect sword.”

She contradicted the foundations of his beliefs. His mother may have worshiped fate, but she lived beneath the shadow of the God of Conquest and Blood. Whether it was fate or his mother’s own thoughts that offended Vinceret didn’t matter.

Dimitri’s voice hallowed and he grated, “My blood is cursed.”

Astrid’s lips met his and he leaned into her comfort, only to have the snap of her teeth across his lip. He caught her by the throat and squeezed as malice slipped through his heart.

The corners of his wife’s mouth lifted into a smile. She opened her mouth wide and flicked the tip of her tongue over the injury she’d inflicted.

“Your blood is not cursed,” she said, kissing him again and sucking on his bottom lip. “You are closer to the gods than any of us.”

By the blood, she infuriated him and had him hard the next instant.

“I’ve sent letters to the temples in Clorea asking for their strongest soul weavers to join me here.”

“It doesn’t matter how many soul weavers you bring to Ledivion. She belongs to Vinceret.”

“I don’t want Ledivites to worship a new god,” Astrid argued. “I want every birth taken to the major towns to be registered.”

Dimitri pulled back. His wife was a tactician, and this was her first step, not her end game.

“And why would you want to oversee thousands of births?” he asked.

“Because your people spent centuries cultivating fire weavers, when they should have been searching for Death Spirits.”

Dimitri’s lips parted. “You—”

“How many battles did you win single-handed?” Astrid pulled his hand away from her neck and held his gaze as she kissed his fingertips. “How many times did you turn the tides of war?” She smiled not waiting for his answer. “Now: what if there were a dozen of you?”

His little wife wanted more swords at her disposal.

“By your own logic, you and I would have the highest probability of producing another Death Spirit,” Dimitri purred.

Astrid reached between them and palmed his hard length through his slacks. “Stop thinking with your cock.”

“Lie back and I’ll use it instead of thinking with it.”

Astrid held his jaw and slid the tip of her tongue over his mouth, collecting the blood from his lip. His cock ached and he needed to be inside her. Dimitri opened his eyes and found her staring past him.

“Do you see how big your wings are?” Her gaze lowered to meet his. “Labor would kill me.”

“You have a penchant for theater,” he said, stroking her cheek.

“If you suggest I lay back and allow myself to be butchered so you can cut your offspring out of me, I’ll slice your dick off.”

Her threat sounded like a vow, but it was progress. She carried his heir in her statement.

“You’ll need something bigger than those little daggers, neva,” he teased.

Astrid rolled her eyes and pressed a palm to his shoulder, attempting to rise from his lap. He dragged her against him and held her close as she squirmed.

“Dimitri, stop.” Astrid laughed. “I want to read a few more chapters and I need to visit Keres before the Ascension tomorrow.”

“She won’t save you from me,” he said, grazing his teeth over her pulse.

“I don’t need saving,” Astrid insisted, then softened her voice. “I want to add something to our box.”

Dimitri grinned. “For when I have you at our spring?”

Astrid hummed her agreement and slipped from their bed. “This will be something you wear for me.”