To Rule the Alpha's Heart

15. The Mating Feast (Part 2)

It did not take long for Cyril's mead to take hold of Calla's mind.

He was right. The honey-sweet beverage slid down Calla's throat with ease, and, soon, a foreign lightness filled her head. The worries and fears that previously plagued her thoughts slowly dissipated, and Cyril handed her another chalice. By the time Einarr returned from slicing the elk for the All-Luna, Calla swayed in his chair to the beat of the nearby drums.

Calla abruptly stopped all movement when she realized that Alpha Einarr was not alone. King Rangvald walked beside him, his lips curled in a lupine smirk as he watched her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Calla saw Cyril bow at the hip for the approaching shifters, but she didn't so much as lower her chin. The mead had emboldened her.

Instead, Calla placed both of her hands on the throne's armrests and crossed one leg over the other. The silver silk of her skirts rose higher on her legs as a result.

"Have you come to reclaim your seat, marano?" Calla cooed, not too intoxicated by the fermented honey to forget her short lesson in the Nortend language. She wouldn't make the mistake of calling Einarr marana again.

Something in Einarr's eyes flared at the underlying challenge in her words, and Calla resisted the urge to glance at Rangvald's reaction. The Alpha King slowly settled into his throne nearby.

Einarr eyed the two empty chalices that now sat on the table beside Calla's chair. She knew that he was no fool. He could likely smell the mead on her breath. And yet, if he was disappointed, he made no indication of it. Rather, the dark-haired male approached the throne, silent until he stood directly in front of her.

"Drekihjar." The word left his lips with a growl, but it was also swollen with warmth. Affection, even. Calla did not have the faintest idea what the word meant.

Even so, the golden liquid that now flowed through her veins made Calla pliable, and she offered no resistance as Einarr carefully lifted her from the throne and switched their positions until she sat on one of his thighs once again.

This time, Calla eagerly snaked her arms around the male's thick neck, savoring the musky scent of him that settled over her. Nearby, Cyril cleared his throat.

The pounding of the drums echoed in Calla's mind, reinforced by the incessant pulsing of her own blood in her ears. The skin of Einarr's painted chest and abdomen warmed her skin through the silks, but little bumps still graced Calla's flesh at the sensation of his hand resting on her hip once more.

King Rangvald leaned over the side of his throne and began speaking to Einarr. "Maranate et tokan va a Mar..."

Calla did not understand the Alpha King's words, nor did she understand Einarr's gruff responses, but she did not turn to Cyril for his translation. The mead had draped a veil of contentment over her mind, and Calla found her eyelids fluttering closed as she focused on the vibrations of Einarr's chest as he spoke to the King.

The two continued their conversation even as a servant arrived with a long plate of elk meat. Unsurprisingly, Einarr and Rangvald took their fill, but Calla eyed the red meat warily.

In Eatrela, she ate fish and clams, alongside an assortment of fruits and vegetables. She certainly never ate meat that still appeared raw from the kill. She kindly refused the servant's offering, and instead took another chalice of mead from a passing slave.

She wouldn't risk sobriety until the night was over.

Thank the Seven gods, the Mating Feast passed quickly after Calla's third cup of fermented honey.