The Harem Wife

The View From the Dais (Revised)

If he could get away with committing murder in front of hundreds of greedy, power-hungry wedding guests, he would slaughter Jakkar and the whole of the Vazimir Council—for making him go through with this disgusting farce of a wedding. He'd been awake all night, angrily fucking Rameela, Ros, and one of their handmaidens, knowing that for the next however long it took to breed his wife, he would be trapped putting his dick in one cunt. And from what he'd been told of her, his wife's cunt would be as boring, ugly, and useless as her.

He could only hope that she was compliant enough to lay there, keep her fucking mouth shut, and take her fucking—if he could even get his cock hard. He'd do his duty, send her on her way, then pray to all the gods that his seed took as quickly as possible. Certainly, as the khan, he could then send for his harem and actually find some pleasure after his duty fucking, but he knew the Council had eyes everywhere, and they were looking for any reason to summon him to their council chamber. Keeping the council happy and fat was no easy task—he'd rather just slit their throats and be done with it. The people would revolt, the sons of the current council members would take their fathers' places, and call for his head. They'd gleefully watch him beheaded, then they'd choose his successor. But he hadn't spent decades warring, sacrificing, and almost dying of thirst in the desert just to hand his hard-won kingdom over to a lesser man, a man the council would choose. A weak man they could puppeteer for their own power and gain.

Beside him, standing as his traditional second man, Jakkar was stiff, his movements jerky. The ass knew exactly what Kamal was thinking; that his life was in immediate danger from a pissed off barbarian king.

He leaned in, dropping his head so only Kamal could hear his words. "She might not be as bad as they say. You, of all people, know how rumors can be. For years, you were a marauding demon, the bastard half-human son of a displaced god, and you drank the blood of women and children to remain immortal."

Kamal snorted. "The only thing wrong with that rumor was the women and children," he drawled, deadpan. Though his father was no god, he fancied himself one, and he'd been more than happy to treat his own son as a demon. Simply for being born of the wrong woman. Jakkar knew the deepest, ugliest, and darkest of Kamal's secrets, ones that ripped Kamal from a restless sleep night after night. It was one of the reasons he exhausted himself on harem pussy each night, fucking until he couldn't move...or think. Or dream. And Jakkar knew that if Kamal had drunk the blood of anyone, it was that of their enemies. He doubted children and women could taste as sweet.

"If the gods will it, you will have her bred and hidden away in the harem within the month," Jakkar remarked, a poor attempt at appeasing his angry khan. "Then, you may return to your debauchery with the knowledge that you bested the Council. You gave them their wife and heir, and you lost nothing."

"Except the choice to remain unmarried," Kamal snarled, nearly laughing when the high priest jerked at the sound. Tall, thin as a reed, and oozing pomposity, the high priest was there to perform the traditional Tamiriani wedding ceremony...with a slight deviation. Kamal would make his vows, but he refused to make the same vows he'd made the first time—to welcome the woman as his wife and queen. This time around, he would make no such mistake.

The strike of the drums and horns brought Kamal's gaze to the three-story tall arched opening of the great hall. Standing there, tiny and alone, was a figure dressed in wedding garb, her long, black hair adorned with fragrant white and gold jashir blooms rather than jewels, and a veil obscuring everything but her eyes. He could see no detail from this distance, but he could tell from the way she held herself, she was scared.

Good.

Scared meant easy to manipulate. Just what he needed in his wife.

As the volume of the music rose, she began to move toward him, her pace measured as though she were moving to the beat of the drum.

As though to her death by the executioner.

He fought a smirk at that thought, because how true it was. Kamal would be as death to her; everything she knew and loved before would be gone. As a desert princess, she was no doubt spoiled and vapid, as well as ugly and fat.

Though.... He took her in, really looked at her as she walked toward him. Yes, she was rounder and softer than most Tamiriani women of higher ranks. But he wouldn't call her fat. From what he saw of her in her flowing robes, she was thickly formed but proportionate. It could have been worse. She could have been shaped like a river horse.

I haven't seen her naked yet—and he wouldn't. Not if he had his way. He'd fuck her in the dark, imagining Rameela beneath him, otherwise his cock would curl up inside his body and refuse to cooperate.

As the music built to a crashing crescendo, his bride reached the dais on which he stood, her face tipped up to gaze at him over the gold edged veil over her face.

Her eyes startled him. They were the richest coffee in color, rimmed with thick, black lashes, long and curling. They were striking eyes, eyes that held something other than the ennui and greed he'd expected.

There was fear there, yes, but there was also...anticipation, and interest...and admiration.

What is it about her eyes...?

He shook off the fog of a memory that remained just this side of obscure. He didn't need to know anything about her eyes, or her, for that matter. She was just a hole to fuck and a womb to fill, he cared not what she thought of him. Her thoughts would never matter to him. She was nothing to him.

She drew near, and he put out his hand to grasp hers, nearly gasping at the zing of a sensation, hot and sharp, that zipped through him. She did gasp, her bright coffee and milk eyes widening as she gazed at him. Fear and apprehension clear in her expression—what he could see of it, anyway.

Once again, there was something there...in her eyes. Something he couldn't place. Couldn't name—and he didn't want to. He only knew that, in that moment, he was powerless. He'd given his power, his choice, to wed this woman before him. And he hated it. He hated the position the Council put him in.

And his new wife would pay dearly for it.

As the high priest began the ceremony, Kamal peered down at the woman he was to marry, the woman who would carry his heir. The woman he would fuck then forget. His harem wife.

Not his queen.

Never his queen.