The Warlord (Rise of the Warlords 1)

Silver Stilbon, the Fiery One, was a merciless metalworker, with an ability to read hundreds of minds at the same time. Though it cost him dearly.

Roux Pyroesis, the Crazed One, was their torture master. The horrors his broken mind cooked up for their foes... Roc shuddered.

Some men had a moral compass. The Astra Planeta lost theirs long ago.

—How much did the prisoners protest their new accommodations?—Roc asked.

—They screamed insults, vowed to wipe out our entire familial line and clawed Roux’s face when he stepped too close to the bars, so nothing out of the ordinary.—

He sighed as he eased onto his newest throne. The women would act as an insurance policy, keeping Taliyah tied to the palace.

—I have a job for you, brother. I told my bride that we’ll be eating dinner in an hour. Therefore, you must plan and prepare a dinner. In less than an hour, in case that part wasn’t clear.—

Ian sputtered for a moment. —Your black heart is showing. You know that, right?—

—Make it a feast. I wouldn’t host anything less.—

Grumbling filled his head before the connection dropped.

Roc loved his men, but he loved his brother. Teasing him provided endless entertainment.

He and Ian were sons of Dawn and Dusk, both born at the moment night crashed into day. Mostly ignored by their parents, they’d spent their days with Aurora and Twila.

Raised by unconcerned, often cruel nannies, the siblings learned to rely only on each other.

After Dawn and Dusk had sold the girls, Roc had been racked with more guilt and rage than any man could bear, much less a little boy. He’d frothed at the injustice, the helplessness, desperate for change. The moment Chaos entered the picture, he’d gotten his wish.

At first, Roc hadn’t just despised the god. He’d despised the god as much as Dawn and Dusk. The male had touted daily beatings, endless trials and constant battles as training. The moment Roc defeated his first opponent, however, he’d understood the god’s methods. Hardness bred strength. The stronger you were, the less you lost.

Never, for the rest of eternity, would Roc be weak, unable to protect and defend what belonged to him.

Ian’s voice cut into his musings.

—I have an army of chefs installed in the kitchen. Your bride will have her feast.—He paused before asking, —You reacted to the harpy a bit strongly, eh?—

His mouth turned down at the corners. —What do you mean?—

—You’re going to make me say it? Very well. Your hard-on nearly busted your leathers open.—

—It did, didn’t it?—Wasn’t like he could deny it. —That kiss...won’t happen again.—Taliyah’s virginity didn’t just purchase Roc a weapon. Her untouched state prevented Erebus from receiving it.

Any and every loss came with consequences of the worst kind.

In all his years as leader, Roc had only parted with a lone weapon. The Blade of Destiny. A dagger able to cut into the threads of fate, helping the wielder advance his agenda. The forfeit rankled even now.

Roc wasn’t sure how Erebus had used the blade against him throughout the centuries; he only knew the god had used it.

He drummed his claws into the arms of the throne, a habit he’d developed since coming to Harpina, and cast his voice into Silver’s head. —How is the chastity belt coming?—

Oh, yes. He planned to lock Taliyah in a belt by morning.

He’d lost the Blade of Destiny when Erebus sneaked in and secretly slept with his bride. The male could’ve killed her instead, as he’d attempted to do to so many others, but he hadn’t. He’d allowed Roc to complete his task, discovering the truth after her death.

At the time, Roc hadn’t understood the man’s motivation for such an act. Why settle for half when you had the means to enjoy the whole? Only later had the answer become crystal clear. Erebus wanted Roc defeated—but only after he’d ensured his misery.

Now Roc kept his brides in belts. As soon as Silver finished fitting the device to her species-specific strengths, she would sport one.

How would Taliyah react when Roc sealed her up?

And once again, he shot harder than steel. His blood heated, his every nerve pulsing with arousal.

—How do you feel about lemon tartlets?—

Roc focused on his brother’s ridiculous question and inhaled. Exhaled. Some of his tension ebbed, but not all. Not even close.

—Do you want to lose your tongue, brother?—

Ian laughed, a nice sound to hear today of all days. —You seem on edge. Shall I flash your concubine directly onto your lap?—

He pinched the bridge of his nose before grudgingly admitting, —I’ll be...seeing to myself this month. I gave my word.—

His brother laughed harder. —You’ll want to tell the concubines you have no need of their services, of course.—

Not particularly. Why bother? Concubines signed on for two hundred and fifty years of service, traveling the realms with the warlords. They were free to bed whomever they desired. Partners changed often.