Chapter 1717: Not a Wimp
Myrasyn’s ears stilled.
She pressed them flat against her skull by force of will alone, and when she spoke again her voice carried none of the frantic energy from before.
"My best friend is dying and she needs my help," the queen explained. "I refuse to remain a wimp."
Then she sank to her knees before him, her ears trembling, her hands clasped in front of her chest, and looked up at Quinlan with eyes that burned green and wet.
"Q-Quinlan Elysiar... Son of Luminara... Will you let me touch you?"
Hearing those words, Quinlan’s gaze shifted to Sera.
No words were uttered, just his eyes finding hers, asking the question his mouth wouldn’t form in front of the queen already kneeling at his feet.
Sera met his look and nodded once. Resolute, without a trace of hesitation. "I don’t mind..."
Then she grinned, shameless. "In fact... Having the woman who almost ruined it all for me blow my man only after getting my explicit permission to do so doesn’t sound terrible... Not at all..."
She didn’t waste any time. "Elf Queen Myrasyn Ael’vyrn. You can go ahead and suck the love of my life off. I’ll allow it."
"!!!" Myrasyn almost died of shame on the spot while doing her utmost to pretend she wasn’t hearing anything.
Quinlan chuckled at his lover’s antics then leaned down and pressed his lips to Sera’s forehead, lingering for a breath, and the healer’s eyes closed beneath the kiss.
Then he straightened and looked down at the queen.
"I’ll be in your care, Queen of all elves," Quinlan murmured, while reaching out to clean her up a second time.
Myrasyn’s whole body shuddered at the title he used and his warm water rushing through the crevices of her body.
Her cheeks burned so hot she could feel her own pulse in them, and the shame and the wanting twisted together into something she had no name for and no defense against.
Her trembling fingers found his waistband and pulled.
The freed length caught her across the cheek with a weight that rocked her head sideways, and the sound it made on contact was loud enough to echo in the stone cell.
"Hiya?!" Myrasyn recoiled with one hand on her cheek and both ears standing at full mast, staring at what had just slapped her with eyes the size of saucers.
Quinlan cleared his throat. "The, uh... blood loss probably messed something up."
"Mhm." Sera didn’t look up from her work. "Yes, sure, my saintly husband, devout follower of the Goddess of Purity and her holy teachings. Your throbbing erection has nothing to do with holding Black Fang in your arms while she sucks your blood, with me permitting the queen to go down on you, or with the woman renowned as the most beautiful elf alive kneeling between your legs and begging for permission to blow you."
"Right," Quinlan was in full agreement.
Then he quickly added, "And just for the record, she can at most be equal in beauty to the most beautiful-"
Sera wasn’t having it, not here, not now.
Her fingers came up to his lips, and with a dry look, "Shush, Quin."
...
Silver’s mouth opened. Blood came out instead of words.
"You always were a coward. Just a mere, lacking replica of what his aura would’ve been had he heard your hideous words spoken toward me... That alone was enough to freeze you up..." she whispered, and drove the steel another inch through him.
His soldiers turned at their lord’s choked scream, and what they saw was the Fox King impaled from the front on a blade held by a dark-haired foxkin with five black tails fanned wide, demonic eyes burning with incredible satisfaction and cruelty.
"LORD SILVER!"
They rushed her from every direction, blades drawn, foxfire blazing.
Wings erupted from Kitsara’s back and she launched upward with Silver still skewered on her blade.
Twenty meters. Thirty. Fifty.
High enough that his soldiers looked like ants, and Silver’s blood fell on them like warm rain.
"Shoot her down!"
Bows rose and arrows streaked upward in a volley dense enough to blot the canopy gaps.
Every arrow curved toward Kitsara’s silhouette, and struck Silver.
His body jerked with each impact, shaft after shaft burying into his back and legs as his own soldiers’ volley found the target Kitsara’s illusion told them was hers.
She hung behind him in the air, grinning as his body absorbed the friendly fire.
"Stop! STOP SHOOTING!" A captain’s voice broke through the chaos, but the second volley was already airborne, and a third of those found Silver too.
Kitsara’s laughter rolled down from above dark and sadistic, resonating with a demonic harmonic that crawled through the foxkin soldiers’ spines and settled in their guts like ice water.
The treeline to the west exploded.
Chieftain Vargis burst through at the head of his dogkin column, his massive frame crashing through branches.
Prince Darius ran at his flank, using the prosthetics Quinlan and Kaelira made for him.
Both men looked up.
"Is that..." Darius started.
Vargis’s eyes widened.
"Daughter?!"
"Sister?!" Darius’s shout followed.
Kitsara looked down at them, and in the span of a single blink the demonic edge vanished from her posture. Her head tilted, her ears perked, and the smile that replaced the predatory snarl was so innocent it belonged on a girl asking for seconds at dinner.
"Quinnie and the hottest demon lady ever made me a bit stronger!" she called down, bright and cheerful.
Then she looked at Silver.
His mouth moved, but only wet sounds came out.
Kitsara pulled the blade free and caught his chin with her other hand, angling his face up so the last thing he saw was her eyes.
"Even if you managed to enslave and turn me into your wife," she whispered, soft as silk yet more poisonous than any concoction Aurora ever produced all at once. "After experiencing true womanhood by the hands of Quinlan Elysiar, you never could have made me feel a single damned thing, you pathetic, limp-dicked, spineless, howling bitch."
The blade came across in a single clean arc, and the Fox King’s head separated from his shoulders.
...
Myrasyn lifted both hands toward the length in front of her with the solemnity of a priestess approaching a relic, and the trembling in her fingers undermined the ceremony entirely.
Her index finger poked it once.
She pulled the finger back, examined it as if expecting it to be different now, then reached again with both hands.
Two pokes this time, one on the side and one beneath, and the shaft twitched on the second contact. Her ears shot upright so fast they nearly left her skull.
"’The male organ exhibits involuntary responses to light tactile stimulation, with heightened sensitivity along the ventral ridge,’" she recited under her breath, quoting the forbidden text that had apparently eaten an unreasonable number of her private evenings.
"’Chapter eleven of A Good Wife’s Chronicle of Marital Warmth recommends first timers conduct a baseline assessment prior to oral ministrations to establish response thresholds.’"
Her palm was sweating. Her ears knew it. The rest of her was pretending otherwise.
She wrapped her fingers around the shaft, adjusted her grip, re-adjusted, tilted her head and narrowed her eyes with the focus of a woman grading an exam.
"The chronicle claims the underside is more sensitive than the top. Page thirty-eight. Let me verify..."
