Mated to the Warg (Wargs of the Outland, #1)

Epilogue (Mothersnight)

"This is going well," Thrax muttered, sighing into his flagon.

At the far end of the dais, Torgon leaned around the High Lady, and Rowan. He answered Thrax's glare with a shrug. His look of consternation nearly had Thrax spewing the ale.

All Tor did was to flash Lord Something-or-other's timid daughter a toothy grin and the pretty maid had swooned with fright. All evening, he'd been winking at old biddies and pretty maids alike. But it'd proved too much for the milk-blooded lady draped in her father's arms.

Thrax shook his head. These humans... He watched as the father rushed out of the feasting hall with his boneless daughter. He shot Rowan a flat look, not bothering to hide his disgust.

But she pressed her thumb over the crease between his brows, ostensibly to iron out his scowl. "Don't look at me like that," she said, "I'm not the one making obscene kissy faces at every flouncing skirt."

Thrax grunted, eyeing the culprit. It was easier to muzzle a golrag than fix Tor's wandering eye. Thrax leaned back, sneering at his flagon of weak piss. He ignored the rankling glare coming from the Marwort woman. She was a gnat and nothing more. But she was not his gnat to squash.

He quaffed the tasteless ale, his gaze returning to his mate. She was fiddling with the mating knots around her wrist. She used to do that a lot with her father's ring—fiddle distractedly—whenever she was mulling things over, or plotting schemes. Red was his family's color, and he'd always thought it fitting that his mate should have such glorious red hair. He'd chosen those outland pearls for just that reason.

Outland pearls came in many colors, depending on the source, and were known by different names. In truth, they were mowrath knots. Little seeds from Mowrath plants. These red ones had come from a mowrath lily—he'd nearly lost his left testical snatching them for her. He loved the way her fingers played across the pearls as though she was plucking at a harp. He wasn't the only one watching her, though.

He hadn't missed the way Elgret stole glances at her daughter, her face betraying very little. The High Lady seemed to be searching Rowan's features, perhaps looking for the girl she'd once known inside of this woman who was all but a stranger to her now.

The girl he'd once deemed something of a curse, was now his most cherished treasure. He'd thought her pretty at first. Now, knowing her inside out, she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever beheld. In fact, he now understood what it was to be a mirok—to want to horde his treasure to himself and never let her out of his sight. But his treasure had teeth and claws, and a will of iron. Only a fool would try to snare her.

He shifted in his seat, his cock stirring at the memory of her teeth and claws raking his skin early this morning. His fingers tightened around the flagon, the lingering scent of her arousal still coating his tongue. Desire pooled in his mouth, remembering all the ways she'd ridden him before dawn had spilled across her dewy skin. All the ways she'd possessed him, her hair splayed about her moon pale shoulder like silk.

The flagon collapsed in his grip with a loud snap. Rowan turned a question on him, her brow arching. He smirked and dropped the pieces, ignoring the many wary eyes flitting to his hand. He locked her in his gaze, watching as heat flooded her cheeks. The bond snapped and popped with warmth, the fire in his belly shooting to his cock. But she broke eye contact and faced forward, her teeth snagging her underlip in the most erotic way as she swallowed. Sighing, he shifted position, his trews uncomfortable.

He grunted his thanks as a skittish servant replaced his damaged flagon with a new one. The little hands trembled as the cup was refilled with more weak piss.

The hall was aglow in festive firelight, with pinecones crackling in the braziers and fragrant cinnamon scattered in the rushes. The tables were decorated with fir and winter fruits, the vases flush with holly and mistletoe. Beakers were steaming with spiced wine. But Thrax had eyes only for his mate. There was no earthly creature more beautiful than his Rowan. Especially when her face was awash in pretty blushes and warm firelight.