The Warlord (Rise of the Warlords 1)

As the shifter gasped for air he could no longer catch, his face darkened to a deep purple. Blood leaked from his mouth.

“Had you let me finish speaking,” Roc calmly explained, “you would have heard me instruct my warlord to put you in the cell next to the harpies.”

He watched, uncaring, as the wolf fell over, twitched, then sagged onto the floor.

To protect your people, you maintained order. To maintain order, you took decisive action. Exactly as he’d done since dispensing with his first bride. Precisely what he’d do in thirty days.

He met Roux’s gaze. “Before you return to the prisons, display his head on the front lawn.”

* * *

Roc ain’t here to mess around. He’s here to murder brides and slay wolves. And he’s all out of wolves.

Taliyah gaped at the male she’d married. She’d entered the throne room with just enough time to scope out a couple of the concubines. Then he’d murdered someone’s consort without a shred of remorse—without even looking at the guy—because of an interruption. No, he’d struck because the shifter had disrespected him.

Honor and respect mattered to Alaroc to an insane degree. And his power...

Am I turned on by the thought of besting him...or by the man himself? Because hello, exhilaration. Her veins fizzed like never before.

She had no business desiring the dude who planned to kill her. The “monster” who’d already conquered her world and imprisoned her people.

Floating closer, she studied him more intently. He remained alert, his eyes brightening. Something had excited him, too. The kill? Or something else?

What would the brutal male do next?

What would she do?

Alaroc wandered about the throne room, silent. Ugh. Did he have to move so seductively? Muscles flexed. Despite his incredible size, his motions remained as fluid as water.

Again and again, he switched directions, closing in on her, as if he sensed her. Wait. What if he sensed her?

To gauge his reaction, she gathered her resolve and walked through the warlord. Upon contact, he grunted and planted his feet.

Oh, yes. He sensed her. Did he suspect the truth of her origins?

A minute passed. Two. He scanned the room, looking past her. His excitement remained. Well. That answered that. If he suspected the truth, he would project hatred.

Finally, he gave his beard a couple of strokes and flashed.

Where had he gone now? Did it really matter? In thirty minutes, he’d be in the dining hall. Why not join him? The man clearly enjoyed a type, his concubine basically Taliyah’s doppelganger. She could resume her inquisition. He was too smug to guard his words. If she asked nicely enough, he might even tell her where he kept a key to the duplicate realm.

Another win for the bride.

Her exhilaration redoubled, keeping her usual dissatisfaction at bay as she raced to the bedroom reserved for special guests. There, a closet overflowed with garments of every size and type.

My honey had a hard day at work, overtaking a realm. He deserves a delicious meal and a gorgeous companion at his side.

“You can’t surprise me, Taliyah,” she mocked, brushing her fingertips over sheer silk. Watch me, warlord.

7

Roc sat at the harpy General’s table, in the harpy General’s hand-carved chair, his plate piled high with the harpy General’s food. The scent of roasted meat, butter-drenched vegetables and freshly squeezed lemons saturated the air.

Colorful tapestries decorated the walls, depicting General Nissa’s victories, of which there’d been many. Those tapestries hung alongside cases displaying the skulls of her enemies. Vases and other ornaments sparkled in the light, each piece adorned with precious gems. The table itself was molded from solid gold. The floor possessed a pearlescent sheen. A room fit for the most beloved of queens.

Would Taliyah show up?

Anticipation shaped his every breath, honing molecules of air into razors, slicing at his calm. Because he had questions for his lovely bride, and the strength to insist on answers, not for any other reason.

Three Astra occupied seats at the other end of the table. Halo, Silver and Ian. Roux had chosen to remain with the prisoners, social occasions often too difficult for him to navigate.

“Is this supposed to be a celebration? Very well. To Roc and his new bride.” Halo lifted a goblet of mead, his eyes aglow as yellow, green and brown striations revolved around his irises. Over the years, the stubborn male with unflappable calm had proved to be an excellent second. There was no task he couldn’t complete in record time, no man he couldn’t break when the occasion arose. “May her death bring us new life.”

Silver lifted a goblet, as well. “May she accept what she cannot change and never change what she cannot accept.” Roughly the same height as Roc, he possessed long black hair, bronze skin and eyes like mirrors. A scar bisected his left brow.

The last one raised his goblet in solidarity. Roc merely bobbed his head once. As much as he loved these men, he rarely joined in their fun. At any time, any Astra had the right to challenge his rule. A battle would then take place. Whoever won earned the Commander’s helmet. If the loser survived, he received the bottom rank. A position none wanted.