Her tongue came out. She licked the shaft. From the base to the head. A long, slow, deliberate lick. The kind of lick that is not about pleasure. About ownership. About display. She was showing the delegates. Showing them what she was. What she did. Who she served.
His hand was on her head.
His fingers in her emerald hair. His palm on her crown. Not the crown — the gold and emerald crown was on her head, and his hand was on top of it. His fingers tangled in the hair that framed it.
"Tell me," Raven said. His voice was low. Calm. The voice of a man who is receiving a lick and who is addressing an audience. "Why are you here?"
The delegates stared.
Their mouths were open. Their eyes were wide. The first delegate — the diplomat — his face was white. The second — the military man — his jaw was clenched.
"I am the king of this place now," Raven said.
The words hung.
In the air. In the throne room. In the silence.
