No Man Can Tame (Dark-Elves of Nightbloom #1)

by Miranda Honfleur

He’d saved her life. She reached up to him, to where his long hair swept over his shoulder, and she pulled the tie binding his braid, slowly, gently. His eyes opened just a sliver, pale lashes catching the sunshine’s luminance, and his breathing slowed. The coppery tang of blood was overpowering, and with his arms crossed, those sharp claws rested on his biceps. But she pulled that tie down and off. Looped her finger through the weave of his braid, undoing it, unbinding it, freeing it. He didn’t move, simply watched her through those slitted eyes, let her do as she willed. I’m open to your wishes, he’d told her the night of their wedding. You shouldn’t fear rejection should you express them to me. He’d saved her life—and she could kiss him just for that. But when she did, she’d want him to kiss her back. And not just because of his mother’s orders, nor because of duty, but because he wanted to. Which at worst was an impossibility, and at best, a challenge. But challenges were made to be answered.

“I’m glad it was you, Aless.” Her heart skipped a beat. Blinking, she fixed her gaze upon the parquet floor. “Glad it was me?” she whispered, daring to meet his eyes as he now fastened the jacket’s golden toggles. Holy Mother’s mercy. Seeing him only confirmed her misplaced attraction. But he’d said he was glad. Maybe it wasn’t misplaced? Holding her gaze, he abandoned the toggles midway and took a step closer. Her heart pounded. Had he noticed her awkwardness? Was he teasing her? She swallowed. He carefully took her hand, her shaking hand, and raised it to his chest, pressed it there, over his heart. “When I arrived in Bellanzole, I’m glad it was you.”

“Am I alone in this, Aless?” He blinked, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She shook her head slowly. No, he hadn’t misread her. He wasn’t alone in… “I think there may be something here that—”

It was time, and their discussion had been cut short, but it didn’t matter—he knew. He knew, and he felt the same.

Aless spoke not a word of Elvish. Didn’t worship Holy Ulsinael. No combat prowess whatsoever. Couldn’t hunt, nor even pitch a tent reliably. But she was devoted to peace, generous with her things, loved her sister fiercely. She was determined, a strategic thinker, passionate about knowledge, and eager to learn new things. Charismatic and inspiring. Above all, honest. The more he learned about her, the more he liked her—something he hadn’t expected in this arrangement.

Next to him, she practically glowed, darkly gleaming ringlets cascading over her shoulders, drawing his gaze down to the neckline of her silver-trimmed purple gown, plunging just past the curve of her breasts. He shouldn’t look, but— Human fashion had certainly changed in two thousand years. Drastically, gloriously changed. Just like the sheer red thing she’d worn on their wedding night. A sheer red thing that now lingered in his thoughts. With a sharp breath, he looked away. The softest of giggles came from her, quickly stifled. “Something the matter?” Quite the opposite. “Just an uncommon sight.” “Breasts?” she teased. He cleared his throat. “The dress.”

How had he not noticed her strange beauty? She had dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin—outlandish among his people. No fangs, no claws, a soft—too soft—body. She was human. So different from dark-elf women, from the most beautiful of them, but… It didn’t make her ugly. No… Among a sea of stars, she was the moon. It was as though he hadn’t looked up until now.

He shielded her from the breeze, his shoulders taut. He wanted to meet that coldness with warmth, that loss with comfort, destruction with creation. Nothing would harm her like that again, not while he drew breath. Against a field of lavender, she gazed up at him, her face tear streaked, and he brushed the wetness from her cheek with a thumb, and leaned in. She raised her chin, and his lips met hers, so soft, her skin the smell of salt and summer flowers as she relaxed in his arms. Her palms glided up his back, her fingers pressing, no prick of claws, just her touch, her wanting. She leaned into him, opening her mouth to his, the sweet bloom of a dark red wine on her exploring tongue, slow, sensual. Her breaths warmed his mouth as they fell into rhythm, longing, urging, and by Deep and Darkness, it was all he could do to cup her face, deepen his kiss, meet her tongue’s sensual taking with his own.

She turned back to him then in his embrace, beaming a smile, her eyes shining, reflecting the ethereal glow in the starlit night. His breath caught. Alessandra Ermacora was his wife, and he would do anything for her sake. And he knew it as clearly as the stars shone above them.

Aless tried to slow her racing heartbeat to no avail as they entered the great hall, each step echoing in the vastness. It was as though she could feel every hair on her head, and every swish of fabric against her skin, every individual thread. Where Veron’s hand held hers, the barest touch, the merest stroke of his skin against hers tingled, warmed. Holy Mother’s mercy, she wanted to marry him. She wanted to marry him, and she was about to meet with Paladin Grand Cordon Nunzio. She wanted to hide, go back to that moment outside and tuck her face against Veron’s chest, shut out the world, shut out everything but him, and live there, in that moment, forever.

“He told me about Queen Nendra, who’s the most famous warrior among the dark-elves,” she said, preparing another cup of passionflower tea. “She is,” Gavri replied, but with an exhaustion that could be a decade old. “And her queendom sits on the largest arcanir mine we’ve ever known. A really important one, worth almost any sacrifice to gain access. Dun Mozg prides itself on its weapons, and its soldiery.” Arcanir? That certainly was useful against the Immortali beasts. She handed the ready cup to Gavri, who accepted it with a raised eyebrow. “He also said his brother Zoran was chosen as her consort because of his prowess among your people in Nightbloom.” Gavri inhaled deeply, turned the cup in her hands, and nodded slowly. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Zoran’s… prowess… is well known to me.” It didn’t seem like Gavri meant battle prowess. She swallowed, pouring the boiling water. It overflowed, and Gavri caught the kettle’s handle. “Y-you and—” she stammered. Gavri set the kettle down. “Once upon a time.” She sighed. “I was a very ambitious kuvari recruit. And he was one of Nozva Rozkveta’s most accomplished warriors. The math told me I needed to best him to prove myself. I did, and…” She shrugged a shoulder. Frozen, Aless stared and stared. Never had a sentence needed finishing more than Gavri’s. “And what?” “And for eight years, we tired each other out in the training yard and in the bedchamber,” Gavri said with a grin, then took a sip of tea. “Eight years?” How had they been to...

Across the camp, a long, silky black tail smacked Veron in the face. He eyed Noc sheepishly and mumbled something to him. As she smiled, a soft laugh bubbled next to her. Gavri’s. But it soon faded. “What happened between you and Veron? You don’t speak to each other anymore.”

Zoran gusted a heavy sigh. “Better here than the fortress. Nendra is occupied with her current favorite. A werewolf alpha.” Current favorite? Veron’s grin disappeared as he shook his head, earning a shrug from Zoran. “She’ll tire of him soon enough. Too moody.” Wasn’t the queen married to Zoran?

I guess it's not a monogamous relationship of they are.

“So how do you like my brother? Is he too quiet? Too severe? With his obedience and duty and peace and all that?” Something like a bark of laughter came from Veron before he bowed his head and coughed. “He’s…” Wonderful. “I…” Adore him. “We…” “Say no more.” Zoran held up a hand. “Or it’ll all go to his head.” She grimaced. “Ah, so she does have a humorous bone in her body.” Veron elbowed his brother.

he had seen her vision, all too clearly. An ambitious, royal-blooded kuvari who had known she could never have defeated her own mother in single combat… and so had used a love affair with him in Nozva Rozkveta to try to learn Mati’s weaknesses, in a bid to seize the throne of Nozva Rozkveta. Her plan had relied on making the Offering to him, then dueling to join Mati’s Quorum—but he’d learned about Yelena’s lies first and had told Mati. Instead, Mati had betrothed Zoran to Yelena’s mother. And that had been the end of that. “Your… ‘vision’ was a pack of lies,” he said casually. “And I wasn’t about to let you try to overthrow my mother.” “Try?” A deep laugh. “I would have succeeded.”

“They’re weak. Helpless. At the slightest challenge, they scurry like salamanders. No strength at all.” “Not in the ring. Not combat strength. But Alessandra has a different kind of strength,” he shot back. Aless wasn’t weak. Wasn’t helpless. In a test of wits, Yelena would find herself vastly outclassed. “There is only one kind of strength that matters, Veron,” she hissed. This was going nowhere. “I’m asking you this as a favor, Yelena.” “A favor? For old times’ sake?” Raising her eyebrows, she looked away with a shake of her head, then crossed her arms. When her eyes met his once more, they were narrowed and dancing mischievously. A look he’d seen from her countless times. “Maybe one last roll in the moss, then, for old times’ sake?” He groaned under his breath. There was no sense in trying to reason with her when she would only toy with him for her own amusement. Yelena

“Your Majesty,” Veron called out, turning back to Queen Nendra, “I won’t—” Queen Nendra raised a hand. “The challenge has been accepted.” Yelena bowed elaborately. “Yelena,” Veron snarled. “So help me Ulsinael, if you—” Riza and Danika rose to grab Veron’s arms and forced him to his seat while he bucked their hold. Even Zoran approached to help, and they finally wrangled Veron onto the bench as Zoran murmured reassurances.

She rested a palm on his cheek. “Trust me in this, Veron, won’t you?” As he stared at her, she stroked his cheek softly before she kissed him. Then, with a nod to him and another to Gavri, she stepped over the bench and made her way to the ring.

Gavri winked at her, then she, Riza, and Zoran released Veron, who shot up from his seat. He gathered her up in his arms, holding her tight, inhaling a sharp breath over her head before lowering his mouth to hers. Her heart raced anew as his lips pressed hard against hers, his kiss passionate and deep, his body taut and leaning into hers. He pulled away, far too soon, and held her face cupped in his hands, searching her eyes with his own, his chest rising and falling in short, fast breaths. “Aless, that was—” “A success?” she offered. “—dangerous,” he said quietly, before pulling her in once more. “And a success,” he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

She started, lowering her gaze to the table, and her half-eaten plate of food. No, Veron didn’t care about that, not with Yelena, but every moment she watched them together only reinforced how perfect they looked, what an ideal couple they made, and how she could never be his equal like Yelena could. Never as strong or as skilled. Never a dark-elf warrior. And this dance, this seduction, would be something she could never do. As for what he did see in her—could it be enough? Could it ever be enough?

He returned to her, over six feet of warrior, strong, deadly, hers. Blood stained his jaw, his neck, his leather armor, and some of his hair, but she wanted nothing more than to wrap herself around him and kiss him until she forgot where she ended and he began. With a smile, he offered her a hand, and she took it. He rubbed a thumb gently over the drying blood on her skin. “Let’s get cleaned up.” He walked her toward their quarters across swaths of shining black pathways, past babbling streams and cascading waterfalls, shimmering with the soft sage glow of the bioluminescence.

Veron pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and then to her lips. Her fingers ached for him, and she moved closer, rested them on the broad expanse of his chest, let them slip slowly to the sculpted hardness of his abdomen. The rhythm of his breath changed, deepened, slowed. Another tremor, and she blinked, meeting heavy-lidded, darkening eyes. He skimmed her jawline with his fingers, raised her chin, held her gaze. Her lips parted, and a shaky breath escaped them. A couple of passersby smiled at them, and she became very aware of just how this looked. And how it felt. Veron tipped his head in the direction of their quarters, and she nodded. The sooner they cleaned off all this blood, the better.

“Veron, you’re hurt.” With a shake of his head and a smile, he pulled off his shirt and presented his bicep. The slash was already partially healed. “We recover quickly,” he said, although she dabbed at it with a clean washcloth. He took her hand. “I’m fine, Aless. Really.” He gazed down at her, his mouth curving, and there was a playfulness there. A teasing. So he thought she was overreacting. Maybe she was. But the notion of him being hurt—at all—made her worry so much that she didn’t know what to do with herself.

Slowly, he leaned in, unbearably slow, then tipped her chin up to his and kissed her, taking her in his arms. His hair brushed her cheek as she opened her mouth to him, pressed herself against his hard body. Holy Mother’s mercy, he had to know, had to understand that she’d never leave him, ever. That she’d chosen him, with everything she was and everything she had to give, no matter what she’d thought before knowing him. With every breath, she inhaled the forest-stream scent of him, and that something deeper, something primal, that she couldn’t get enough of. Veron. His tongue claimed her mouth in slow, sensual strokes—strokes that made her whimper, made her heart pound. She wanted him. More than anything or anyone she’d ever wanted before, she wanted him. I want you to know that I’m open to your wishes, and that you shouldn’t fear rejection should you express them to me, he’d said to her once, on their wedding night. She swallowed. As she leaned into him, against the hard, solid length of him—she gasped. His thoughts couldn’t be too far from her own.

He pulled away, just enough for his soft golden gaze to lock with hers, and then intertwined his fingers with hers. Candlelight flickered, its warm glow cast against his skin. Her heart skipped a beat as he searched her eyes. “I want to make love with you, Aless,” he whispered, making her shiver. “I want to know you, as closely as one heart can know another, and I want you to know me.” Every inch of her tensed and trembled in equal parts, and there was a good chance she was about to tackle him no matter what he said next.

“So is that how the dark-elves do things?” she asked with a grin. “Because I approve.” He laughed in his throat and shook his head. “In essence, yes,” he drawled, “but with us, everything is a test of strength. Even lovemaking.” She tried to picture pinning him, gasping as he rolled her over, dueling between the sheets. If that was how things usually went, then with her, he’d been exceedingly cautious, had submitted himself completely to her whim, to her ways, and let her do as she’d pleased while he’d resisted his instincts, restrained his body. He’d been so taut, muscles rippling, quaking, and it had been restraint.

“Believe me, I have nothing but the utmost respect for human things,” he said softly, slowly, and urged her onto her back. There was no laughter in his eyes now, only rapt attention, and he reached out to brush her lips with his thumb before taking them with his own again. His hands explored her gently, slowly, roving over her bottom, and then he went rigid. Froze. Pulled away. He stared down at his palm, glanced at her, and left the bed. Wriggling to the edge, she eyed him. “Veron?” He rubbed his face with his hand, pacing the room, then held up the other. Blood.

Every dark-elf of worth had claws—sharp, strong, battle-ready claws. Claws he had defended her with just earlier tonight. If they were broken, taken in battle, or maimed, it was dishonor. Weakness. Aless locked her arms around him from behind, her delicate, slender arms, with her supple, fragile skin. His lover, his partner, his wife. His human wife. He wouldn’t risk hurting her again, not for all the honor and strength in the Deep. Never again.

“I thought you could use some hot—” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, then kissed him again… deeper, slowly; untying her sash, he moved toward the water, unwrapped the towel from around his waist before wading into the soothing heat. She let the robe fall to her feet—and Holy Ulsinael, he’d never tire of seeing her naked—and then she followed, entering with a lengthy, quiet moan.

“People you love will let you down, Veron,” she said softly. “I’ve been let down and I’ve let down others more times than I can count. But no one is perfect. Everyone makes mistakes. If you don’t forgive, the only difference is that they’ll make their mistakes without you. Is that really what you want?” Those mistakes hurt. But never laughing with Gavri again? Or losing her, Aless, or any of his loved ones? “And may I remind you,” Aless said, kissing him lightly again as she leaned into him, “that if not for your forgiveness, we probably wouldn’t be right here, like this, right now?” A solid point. A very solid point. “You might not be pushing away just the bad, but the good, too.” Her mouth fell open as she rocked against him, water lapping about them.

“She was attacked last night, in case you forgot,” he shot back. “By fanatics and, earlier, by you.” She scoffed. “You know my mother would have me given into the Darkness if I destroyed the peace.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, let’s not pretend this is about her little tumble in the ring, or the human scouts you killed.” She gave him and Aless a stern once-over. “You were seen all over each other on the main thoroughfare. It was the talk of the cavern this morning. And then you”—she curled her upper lip—“disfigured yourself like that.” She cocked her head toward his hands. “No dark-elf woman would have you now.” Aless nuzzled his arm sleepily, and he held her closer. He didn’t want a dark-elf woman, or any other. The only one he needed was right here, would always be right here. “All that matters is she does.”

A huff. “Well, she’s no dark-elf.” Yelena’s eyes fixed on Aless. “But I heard she killed one of those scouts last night. A crossbow bolt through the head, by hand.” She whistled softly. “She may not be a warrior, but she’s not the typical scurrying salamander, either. I still don’t like her, though.” From Yelena, that was a glowing endorsement.

At the end, a regal woman sat atop a translucent crystal throne, its peaks fanning out behind her. She had a diamond-shaped face, elegant and smooth, slightly lighter than Veron’s, and voluminous platinum hair, cascading in curls sectioned with beads, a futile attempt to contain the wild tresses. Her clothes were a robe and peplos of the finest silk she’d ever seen, and Papà’s imports had not been inexpensive. Her feet were bare and clawed, their points shorter than the sharp ones on her hands, where she wore a pair of arcanir bracers. Every part of her was lithe, sleek, and even as her crossed leg bounced lightly, it did so with a catlike grace, and yet her arms and shoulders were muscled, toned. The queen sat upon a throne now, but her physique said she could have anyone pinned to the gleaming black stone within seconds. Her eyes were a warm amber, gentle and placid, and yet they glittered with innumerable facets of jeweled wisdom so deep those eyes could be infinite. Veron’s mother. The queen. Queen Zara.

The convergence of such keen anguish and the most ardent joy he had with his wife weighed like the sky of stone upon his shoulders. He held her hand, and allowing himself to feel even a fraction of that joy came with the sting of Gavri held prisoner, possibly hurt, possibly suffering, and their people stepping into what could be an impending war.

“If you don’t, the leather can be hard, too stiff, unforgiving, and—” That brow lifted higher, and she leaned against the table. “I’d say ‘go on,’ but I have the worst case of saddle soreness known to humankind.” Shaking his head, he smiled and closed the distance between them, grazing her cheek with his fingers. It was a surreal pleasure to stroke her without worrying about his claws harming her, and he couldn’t get enough of her smoothness, of touching her, everywhere she wanted, in the way she wanted. “If you’re sore”—and he was, too—“I have the perfect cure for that.” Shuttering her eyes playfully, she tilted her head. “I am all for curing, although I should warn you that after days of riding in the rain, I reek like a farm animal right now.” He suppressed a smile. There was a possibility that something more amusing than Aless existed in the world, but it had to be slim. “I meant the lifespring. It has restorative properties.” Those eyebrows shot up and her mouth fell open before she tried to turn her face away. But no, he would get full view of this. Blushing, she looked everywhere but in his eyes until at last she relented and bit her lip. “I’d love to hear all about this ‘cure’ you thought I meant,” he teased, holding her gaze.

“Veron,” Vadiha breathed, her eyes wide as she stared at his hand. Her husband’s eyebrows shot up, too. “What’s happened? Did you—did you do that to yourself?” His claws. He’d said they were a point of respect, hadn’t he? This was a shock to his family, because he’d changed for her. But that change… had meant everything. It had meant they could both set aside fear, and be together without worrying about accidents. He’d done it for the sake of their marriage. Even faced with his family’s shock, she wouldn’t take that back. Even if that made her selfish. Veron gave his sister a cavalier shrug. “I’m happy, Vadiha.” But Vadiha’s gaze meandered to her, blinking long, pale lashes. Veron leaned into his sister’s line of sight, blocking her. “Vadiha. I mean it.” His carefree voice had firmed. But his sister’s eyes only hardened as they met his. “Love,” Arigo whispered to Vadiha, “it’s not self-harm. Some things need to change when two worlds collide.” Arigo offered her an encouraging smile and a nod as he accepted Dita from his wife. “It’s great to meet you, Aless. Welcome to the family.”

“I’m Amira,” she said, offering her hand. “You humans take each other’s hands, right?” “We do,” she said, taking Amira’s hand. “Gentle,” Veron warned his sister. “I know, I know. Their skin is silk thin. I know.” Amira’s fingers were stiff as she kept her claws away. “Veron, how do you keep from accidentally hurting her? Even without the claws, I mean, the skin, you know—” Pressing his lips together tightly, he gave Amira a slight shake of the head. “It’s not that fragile,” Aless cut in. “I mean, I can get thrown on my backside in a ring and not explode.” A bark of laughter burst from one of the other two women.

Veron’s arms closed around her from behind, and he tucked his nose into her hair and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about Dhuro and Vadiha,” he whispered. She stroked his knuckles. “I wasn’t expecting them all to like me right away. Even you took some convincing.” A soft laugh puffed against her ear. “You took more convincing to like me.” After arriving in Nozva Rozkveta, she knew better than that. Far better. “I’m glad it was you that day in Bellanzole, Aless,” he whispered, kissing her cheekbone, “because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“What you don’t realize is that I have loved you long before I ever laid eyes on you.” He turned her, his eyes heavy lidded as he raised her chin. “How’s that, my love?” “I have dreamed of these abundant, sprawling, vining roses, wild and beautiful, even their scent,” she whispered. “And when I came here, saw the Bloom—it can’t be possible, but I dreamed of this place long before you ever brought me here. You were my dream, Veron, and you came true.”

“Love me tonight, like a dark-elf bride.” “Aless…” he hissed against her lips. “I want to know what it means,” she said softly between kisses, “to be yours in every way.” She clutched him close, and his brow furrowed, he nodded against her, claimed her lips hungrily.

“First, by exchanging those two beasts for you. Then, by pretending to threaten your life if His Majesty doesn’t annul your marriage—” Only an unconsummated marriage could be annulled in Silen, but she’d keep that tidbit to herself. “—and once he does, encouraging you to wed the man of your choice.” Veron. Veron. Forever and always Veron. “And I assume by that you mean yourself?” His mouth curled in a seductive smile. “The notion didn’t seem to displease you the evening of the masquerade.” “I assure you, I was contemplating a far cruder notion.” “And found me to be a pleasing option.” Until he’d opened his mouth. A single word of hatred spoken could turn even a handsome face ugly. And Tarquin had spoken many.

She swallowed. “My father can’t annul the marriage, Tarquin.” His head snapped to face her, and his eyebrows drew together. “It’s been consummated.”

She looked away from them to the dim horizon, where a small group of silhouetted figures approached. No, Holy Mother, please… Yet she’d know the shape of him anywhere, his gait, from a mile away, in the dark—she’d know him.

Finally, Tarquin moved forward with her in his grasp, Siriano at his side, and a squad of soldiers with him. She struggled in his hold, trying to break free, until at last he released her, and she ran to Veron, into his waiting arms. His embrace closed around her, and held her close, kissed the top of her head, and when she looked up at him, brushed her lips with his. Holy Mother’s mercy, after hurting him as she had, she had no right to this, to him, and he should push her away, shun her, hate her, but even knowing all of that, in this one moment, she couldn’t fathom not holding him with everything she had.

“I know why he did it now, Aless.” His voice was even, serene, as he searched her eyes. “My father. He left without a word because he couldn’t let anybody stop him. He was determined to give up his life… because he loved us. It hurt me then, but I understand now. What he did wasn’t a betrayal. It was the ultimate act of love.”

“Alessandra Ermacora, princess of Silen, I, Veron of Nozva Rozkveta, offer you my love, my loyalty, and my life”—he held her hand to his chest—“to harness for your ends or ours, as we walk our lives together from this day forward for as long as the Deep allows.” His life? His golden eyes stayed locked with hers, and her shallow breaths only became shallower. His life—his life— Did he mean… a lifebond? She gasped. “Veron…” He couldn’t! Holy Mother’s mercy, a lifebond? Offering to share his life force with hers, to strengthen her, to weaken as she weakened, to die when she died? He nodded to Xira, who held a bright, metallic little star, shaped like a crystal cluster. “I’m a mortal,” she whispered. “You can’t—” He kissed her hand. “It won’t make you Immortal. But together, we’ll have something more than a mortal life, and something less than an immortal one. That much I know.” This was… She shook her head. “Veron, are you sure—” “I want to spend our lives together, Aless. Always together. Whether that’s a hundred years or a thousand, whatever the Deep, Darkness, and Holy Ulsinael allow. Please make me the happiest man alive and say yes.”

Aless kissed his cheek once, then again, then his lips, then slowly claimed his mouth, her fingers raking up into his hair as she leaned into him, a soft moan humming in her throat. “Hold that thought,” he murmured, although his body had different ideas.

“Oh! One more thing,” she said, clapping her hands together. After making the Offering with Aless and lifebonding with her, if there was a thing in this realm that could make this day any better, he didn’t know it. “Close your eyes.” Her dark gaze practically sparkled. What was she planning? He did as she asked and then sank into the bed.