Page 4 of The Second Marriage

That day passed, and another. Sejun hadn’t thought it would take so long for Taral to fall into full heat, but perhaps his people were being cautious and waiting until he was in very deep. That was Hasri’s concern, to hassle Iniya about when Taral might be ready. Sejun occupied himself by riding into town with Batsal to look in the shops and roaming the palace to find the best, sunniest spots for reading. There was no more dancing, and he hardly saw anyone from the royal household except at a distance, going about their business with no concern for him. On the whole, Tadasho had an air of desolation; there were far fewer retainers than he would expect for a keep of this size, and as he explored the fortress he found a good number of dusty, unused rooms. This was not a vibrant place.

Sejun wasn’t one to stew in his anxieties, but he did somewhat succumb to nerves by the end of that second day of waiting. He didn’t want to disappoint Taral, but he had no experience with omegas, and knew nothing about heat beyond the vague, flowery depictions from his novels, and Hasri’s assurances that he would know what to do when the time came. Would he? He wasn’t so sure, and the thought of inadvertently doing something wrong was horrible to contemplate.

Well, he would do his best, and would have to hope that was good enough.

He slept poorly that night, but he slept poorly most nights, and he woke in the morning with fresh determination to please his husband and honor his parents. Before noon that day, Hasri found him sitting on a balcony with Batsal, idly playing capture stones, and said, “Prince Taral awaits you, my dear.”

Sejun looked at her for a moment, bewildered, then let the stones fall from his hand into the carved pit of the board he had just scooped them from. “I’m ready,” he said, and prayed that he was.

* * *

Taral wentinto confinement before he strictly needed to. Sejun’s earnest efforts at conversation had made it clear he would seek Taral’s company again and again, no doubt doing his aunt’s bidding to ingratiate himself to his new spouse. A farce, all of it. He seemed like a sweet boy, eager and charmingly effeminate, and it would be best for everyone involved if Taral didn’t encourage any attachment.

His room had windows on two sides, and one set overlooked the courtyard. He spent long hours sitting on his low bed with the shutters open so that he could watch the children playing there, the retainers bustling around, the monks doing their morning salutations to the sun. He saw Sejun again and again, walking with his brother or his father, once sitting beneath the fig tree with a book. A sweet boy. What had his parents been thinking to submit an offer to an omega so long in the tooth as Taral? He was twelve years older than Sejun and still unmarried—hadn’t that given them some pause?

Taral should never have agreed to this scheme of Iniya’s, even though he knew better than she did how dire their financial straits had become. There was nothing left to sell and not enough land remaining to support the household. Taral was their one last item of any value.

So be it.

At last he felt his heat stirring in truth. When a retainer came to lay out his meal, he sent her off with a note for Iniya. She should wait at least another day before sending Sejun to him, so that he was filled with desperation and would, perhaps, tolerate Sejun instead of refusing him.

No response came from Iniya, which wasn’t unusual. His sister was distracted by her family and tended to ignore matters of governance even when they involved, for example, her only sibling’s marriage.

He waited in increasing restlessness for something to happen. He was sweaty and uncomfortable, too big inside his skin. This was the point at which he would usually bar the door and tend to himself until his heat was done. Where was Sejun? Had Iniya not received his note? His frustration simmered over the low flame of his oncoming heat. Patience was in short supply.

He tried to sleep, to make the time pass. He woke from a sticky doze to the sound of voices in the hall: Abiral’s familiar voice, the vowels somewhat softened by the lingering traces of his northern accent, and another voice answering him. Sejun.

The room was filled with afternoon light. Taral floundered from the tangle of his bedding and sat up on the edge of the mattress just as a knock came at the door. “Enter,” he said, then had to clear his throat and try again when his voice emerged as a thin rasp.

The door opened. Sejun stood at the threshold, and into the room came his scent in a vast billow, sliding into Taral’s nose and down his throat so that his head swam. He had never smelled anything like it. His mouth dropped open to take in more of that smell, rich and musky and potent.

Abiral was saying something. Taral heard his words but they held no meaning. He could only look at Sejun and see Sejun’s wide, dark eyes and his flushed face.

The door closed again as Abiral mercifully went away. Sejun came toward the bed, untying the belt around his waist to open his robe. Taral yanked fruitlessly at his own robe, his hands leaden and useless. He managed to pull the fabric down far enough to bare his shoulders, and then Sejun said, “Let me help,” and Taral sat still and let Sejun’s careful hands undress him. Each brush of his fingers sent a flood of fire washing through Taral’s body.

“Are you,” Sejun said, “do you want,” and Taral said, “Yes, yes,” shocked that he did, actually, want Sejun, that he wasn’t fighting and clawing until Sejun went away.

Sejun pressed him down into the rumpled bedding. Taral wrapped his legs around Sejun’s hips. He was so wet he could feel himself dripping onto the blankets, and he felt so empty, a vast aching emptiness that only Sejun could satisfy.

“Can I,” Sejun said, for some reason still asking for permission as if he couldn’t read the invitation written over every inch of Taral’s body.

“Yes,” Taral said again, reaching down between them to touch Sejun’s hard cock, and at last Sejun pushed into him, sinking all the way in, and the noise that emerged from Taral’s mouth was nothing he had ever heard from himself before.

With only a few cautious rolls of Sejun’s hips, Taral felt the tension building deep in his belly that meant he would soon reach his peak. He gripped at Sejun’s shoulders, feeling entirely out of control of himself, a stranger in his own body. He moaned to let some of the feeling out, but it didn’t help at all. His chest and back flushed with warmth, and then he was spilling helplessly, shaking and shaking as Sejun moved inside him.

Sejun slowed—a good boy, trying to think first of what Taral would like. But Taral wasn’t sated; there was something else he needed, and although he was a virgin, he wasn’t an innocent. He knew what Sejun could give him.

“Keep going,” he said, wrapping his arms around Sejun’s neck to hold him close. He turned his head aside, an opening that Sejun seized immediately, his mouth against Taral’s throat, breathing him in.

He had worried there might be pain, but there was none, only the perfect fullness of Sejun deep inside him, the head dragging over sensitive spots Taral hadn’t even known existed. He was going to come again, which was shocking even for heat.

Sejun’s quiet noises grew louder. Taral clung to him and waited, knowing it would happen soon, and somewhat nervous despite himself. His friend Gurratan had assured him that knotting was pleasurable, but that was only one man’s experience.

“Taral,” Sejun said, with a note of strain in his voice, and Taral did his best to relax and let it come.

The swelling happened more rapidly than he had expected. The slight initial pressure bloomed in the blink of an eye to a massive lump lodged inside him. But it didn’t hurt: quite the opposite. Taral’s thighs trembled with the sudden shock of sensation, his body responding in exactly the way it was meant to. He clamped down around Sejun’s knot, shaking hard as he came again, as though the orgasm had been forced out of him. As he cried out, he felt the warm rush of Sejun’s spend fill him.

“Ah,” Sejun sighed, relaxing on top of him, heavy in Taral’s arms.