The Alpha King Marked Me. I Still Haven't Told Him I'm A Girl novel Chapter 93

Chapter 93: Ninety Three

Valka

We rode west for three days without stop. Voss is crawling with guards, the walls holding unflattering portraits of us with bounty prices that seemed to double with each passing day. Ten thousand gold coins for a tip off, and double that price for leading the enforcers straight to us.

As such, we couldn’t afford to stay at an inn, for the sake of ambiguity. But it got better on the third day. Lucien’s ruse must have worked because the Silvermoor patrols were drawn east, leaving us with a mostly clear path east.

I hated having what few friends I have facing the line of fire on my behalf, but I could do nothing on that account but hope they were alright. The plan, after all, was to get close enough to be seen, far enough not to get caught in the pursuit.

We’d split the trail to aid in their confusion and rode around in circles until we lost them.

I hope it made a difference.With Trenton and Evadne carrying Lucien’s missive on the approaching war, it was important they got back home soon. And if Rafe’s plan worked--if he kept Ebonheart blind until the attack, completely unaware of the approaching danger--there wouldn’t be a kingdom left to save.

Lucien had figured out Rafael’s intentions when we learned the roads in and out of Voss were blockaded, preventing goings and comings for most.

Which is why we’re taking the longer, most dangerous route. Through the steep mountains. My legs are sore. My ass is sore. My stomach is cramped. I feel faint. I’m so cold, I can barely feet my toes and fingers. Exhausted. I haven’t slept in three days. I’m grouchy and in a poor mood. And the only reason I haven’t fallen off this horse is because Lucien’s arms are around me, clutching the reins tight.

The horse slows as Lucien sniffs the air. "There’s a stream nearby," he murmured. "It might do us good to make camp."

I blink blearily. We’re in the middle of nowhere, with oak trees forming thickets that are scattered around with mossy boulders. It’s so thick, I can barely make out the moon from here. "Here?"

He guides the horse to one of the enormous oak trees. "We’re deep enough in that no one will see a fire," Lucien says, dismounting. "And we both could use a bath."

I flush instantly and fight the urge to take a sniff at my armpit. We both need a bath? He looks completely unruffled and smells like winter and sin, it’d distracted me for most of the ride. Ever just want to pull up a man’s shirt and press your nose to his skin because he makes you so damned hungry? Yes, that feeling had choked down on me the whole time and worsened my mood.

Meanwhile, I’m fairly sure I smel like horse sweat. Maybe this is an indirect way of saying I reek? Gods, do I?

Before I can argue, his hands are at my waist, lifting me down easily. My knees wobble from sitting too long, and just as I brace against him to regain my footing, the man cups the back of my head gently. My gaze jerks to his then, his fingers searing such heat into me, the night air stops being so cold.

Light fingertips brush my hair over my shoulder and he leans in, slowly. My body warms, my exhale somewhat breathy. And just when I think he’ll kiss me, just when I start to think of what I might do if he does that--because gods, I’d be such a liar if I said I didn’t want it, he lowers his head to the crook of my neck.

He breathes in deep.

Somehow, this is worse than a kiss to my neck. Because my knees give out as his fangs graze my pulse and puncture my skin. I gasp at the gentility of it, my fingers gripping his arm and holding tight. His other hand finds the hem of my shirt, sliding underneath to cup my waist. His hands are hot. His mouth is hot. My blood is hot. My spine arches, wanting for more than the chaste touch of his hand gripping my waist.

But his teeth leaves my skin and his tongue lavs at the small wound, until I feel it close. My heat quivers, contracting once. Twice, as he drags his tongue over me slowly.

"Lucien," I breathe and it is a pathetic whimper.

"Hm?" The vibration of his deep voice makes my nipples pebble.

Please, I want to say. Lower, I want to plead. But I have way too much pride to plead. "Get the fuck off me."

He chuckles and pulls away, but not before dropping a soft kiss to my jaw. "Did you never wonder why I marked you on the journey back from Velryric?"

"Because you’re a strange individual?"

He makes a hum in his chest. "Not quite. I just..." His ears turn red. "I was going to tear your throat out with that bite. But... you smelled very... sweet."

My brows nearly jump to my hairline. I hadn’t seen a bath in more than eight days. I reeked of sweat and blood and death. I don’t even know what to say to that, but he adds as he strides off, pulling his coat off his back. "Your thoughts often run down the bond. Your anxiety. Your insecurities. Your fear. Amongst other things. My point is, you’ll always smell like something I’m far too obsessed with the thought of tasting."

"Huh?"

He peels off his shirt next and I whip my gaze away before my eyes can run down the length of his toned back. But he grunts halfheartedly. "You can look, Val. It’s all yours, after all."

My mouth dries because I do...well, I look. He takes off his boots next, tossing them with the rest of his clothes and my pulse quickens at the sight of those muscles, that tapered waist. He runs his fingers through his hair and standing off to the side with his back arching. "Where are you going?" I ask, as he disappears through the dark veil of the forest.

"Hunting for dinner," he calls back from the dark. "The lake’s to your left. Listen for the trickle."

He doesn’t seem as disgusted by it as I thought he might. "It proved rather effective. No predator wants his meal coated in the scent of another, much less when the other is an apex." His eyes ghosts over my body frame, at every point where his clothes touch my body. "So when a female coats herself in the male’s scent herself, it says, I want you all over me. I want your scent in my mouth, under my skin. I want every male out there to know I am yours. Other days, it might even mean, I want your pups."

My scowl is one of revulsion, but something intimate, obscene and tender all at once passes between us. "I do not want your pups. And I am not your meal."

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