Her body shivers under my touch. “Go on,” she whispers. “One more can't hurt.”
“Greedy, aren't we?” I murmur to her, now pressing my lips along her jawline, tasting the salt and sweat upon her skin. “We should really get going...”
“Not before you fuck me one more time,” she growls, and I shiver from the aggression in her words, already going hard. What she does to me. Oh, what she does to me.
“You asked for it,” I growl back, and pin her hard against the bed, arms above her head, pressing my body into hers. She wriggles, legs instantly spreading open, and I sink my cock into her without resistance, groaning at how wet she is, how eager she is. We don't take our time with this one. We go at it hard and fast, with her clawing at my back, her throat letting out all sorts of interesting sounds, her breathing fast, shallow and ragged as I pound into her. I love the way her hair splays out beneath her, or sticks to her forehead from exertion. I love the way she tilts her head back, squeezing out those delicious sounds that urge me on, straining my muscles until that sweet burn resonates through my arms and thighs, until heat builds up in my groin, and a pressure begging to be released. It's hard, dirty, raucous, and I quickly reach one hand down to play with her, knowing I'm seconds away from coming, knowing she's not quite there yet.
Watching her shudder and cry and become undone beneath me is like a kick to my heart and stomach – the kind that shocks me into an orgasm right after her, emptying myself once more.
“We keep this up,” I pant, “and we're going to have a child in no time.”
She grins, bobbing her head in a lethargic way. “I hope so.”
I pause in the middle of my triumph and pleasure. “You do?”
“Of course I do. I mean, I always expected this of me some day, but you'd make a great father. I really think so.”
Oh man. I rest my head against her shoulder. “I'm glad,” I whisper into her skin. “I'm glad you want them.”
“Let's get an entire battalion,” she says, and I feel her shake with laughter. “Pave the way in good examples of how a Hartson and Claymore can get on.”
“Don't be greedy,” I say, though I'm grinning as well, and my body feels ridiculously light inside. “An adult one of you is bad enough. Imagine multiple little ones. Going to be a nightmare.”
She snorts, but we peel apart from another, and finally get out of bed to make ourselves presentable. We almost slip again while washing, because it's just so tempting to touch one another, but somehow we manage.
When she emerges wearing a new, freshly bought dress, one with fake roses blooming over her shoulders, each with a glinting red gem, I have to say, the effect suits her well. Not that I know a lot about woman's wear other than the fact their clothes seem to be far more complicated than ours. And really, what's the point in covering up so much – but that's how it is. My own three piece pales in comparison, but that's okay. We walk out of our rooms, elbow in elbow once we head down the corridor, and I'm glad to see some of the servants stare in silent approval, or keep their hostilities to themselves. Since if they do direct a filthy look her way, I'm going to be rather free with my response.
We bump into Rayse, unfortunately, on the second floor. It's intentional on his part, for he stops and bows to Pearl. My wife's so amazed that her mouth slips open.
“Did you just bow to me?”
“Don't get used to it,” Rayse says, his eyes still hardened chips of darkness. “I still don't like you. In fact, I hate you,” he says, but the way he pats at his chest is a strange enough gesture for us not to comment, and instead wait for him to go on. “But I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I'm too hateful. If maybe I wouldn't be as good a leader as I think I could be.”
Pearl examines my brother for a long moment. Then she bows to my brother, whose eyelid twitches from the gesture. “I understand your hate,” she says quietly. “And I think it's the hardest thing to admit to, and to let go of.”
“I feel so justified in it,” he whispers. “I really do.”
“So do we,” she says.
Rayse works at his words for a moment, before he says, “I hope our children will do better than us. Because we can't.” He reaches into his pocket, and this time, it doesn't look as if he's reaching for a knife. “When I tried to visit you in the ward, and was barred, I did want to bring you something.” He takes out a small silver brooch, with what looks like a splash of blood trapped in the stone that sets it. “This is blood,” he says, confirming my suspicion. “My own blood. I want to give it to you as a sign of my... accepting. That you are here. That you are a part of our family. That I will not hurt my own flesh and blood.”
“You did a good job trying to do that at the last feast, if you recall,” I point out, and Rayse nods, wincing slightly.
“I did. I wasn't thinking clearly. I just wanted everything in our house to be normal again. I wanted the Hartsons out, and thought you were weak for being with her. Not my finest moment.”
Pearl hesitantly reached out for the brooch, and he dropped it into her hand. Not quite initiating direct physical contact.
“I don't forgive you for what you did,” I say to him, and he nods again.
“I don't expect you to.”
With that, he leaves us, and we stand there, momentarily befuddled.
“I have no idea what the fuck's going on in his head,” I say. “Feel free to throw that thing away. Blood in a stone? Christ.”
“He's fucked up, that's for sure,” Pearl replies, but tucks the brooch away, rather than discarding it. “I suppose that was almost friendly for him.”
“Don't expect him to suddenly start treating you nicer. He's still an absolute dick,” I grumble, as we make our way to the third floor. Morgan and Danny are guests within the banquet hall, positioned to the right of where Pearl is about to sit. Opposite me and Pearl is her father and that hulk of a guard he owns. We're seated directly below my father, and I notice that the guest list for this banquet has mixed up many clans, so it's not just Claymore and Hartson. There's a few more Graves, some Tielmans, the sour-faced Bonecleaver, Rosewinds, and a few Endmores related to Ethel Endmore, though she's nowhere to be seen.
This is a guest list of people least likely to trigger a conflict, while still having the proper representatives.
Pearl's father comes over to me, eyes shining as he regards his daughter. “You look radiant,” he says. “You're not too bad, either,” he adds to me, and I shake hands with him. He squeezes perhaps a little too tightly, and Pearl's brother watches with keen eyes to make sure nothing more happens.
Today, we're making history. This will be the first Claymore and Hartson feast to be shared together in centuries. Perhaps ever. Even with all the hostility and difficulty of letting go of our hate, I think it's clear to everyone that they are part of something momentous.
We survive the feast, more or less. And it dawns on the Claymore and Hartson vassals that they are able to conduct an entire event without slaughtering one another to pieces. Pearl is happy, too – happy to see the change.