The Warlord Gena Showalter (primary phonics TXT) 📖

one to this smoldering mountain of a man... Yes, please! “All right. Fine,” she said, and he grinned. “You talked me into it.”

For just a little while, they could pretend. He was a normal man, and she was a normal woman, every mystery between them revealed. There was no curse or sacrifice, only admiration and desire.

“You picked a good place to start.” She motioned to the Tree of Skulls. The enormous structure was wider and taller than many skyscrapers in the mortal world, blooming with red flowers shaped like, well, skulls.

Usually countless harpies gathered here to carve the names of slain enemies into the trunk. A beloved tradition. Afterward, carvers enjoyed a day of shopping and pampering with friends. Nearby retailers offered everything from coffee to vibrators.

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, making her knees go weak. “Tell me all about it.”

Though she hated to sever contact, she released him to climb the tree, perch in one of the branches and dangle her legs from the side. Well, well. At this height, she had a full view of him and all his tattooed goodness.

Gorgeous warlord. His hair had grown some, giving him the same boyish air she’d noticed the night she’d sneaked into his room. He seemed lighter, as if his mantle of discipline no longer proved such a heavy burden to bear.

This morning, he’d removed the alevala over his heart, just as he’d done every other morning, but this time he’d let her inside the stall while he did it. She’d asked a million questions, but he’d answered none of them. Out of respect for him, she hadn’t glanced at the image when it landed on the floor fully intact. He’d tell her when he was ready. Just like she’d tell him about Erebus when she was ready.

Foreboding prickled the back of her neck. Would either secret tear them apart?

“Soon,” she said, forging ahead, “these flowers will become bloodfruit.” A tasty citrus with a soft pink skin and a pulpy crimson center, which acted as medicine to harpies no longer able to consume blood because they’d lost their consort or—

The thought skidded to a halt. Harpies who’d found their consorts lost the ability to drink blood from anyone else. When they tried, they vomited. Taliyah had vomited soul after feeding on the berserker. Because she’d already met her consort? Could she consume blood and soul only from her consort now?

She wheezed her next breath, the next question stinging. Had she already met her consort?

“Taya?” he asked.

With great effort, she shook off her concerns. No worries. Not today. This was her first date, and she wouldn’t ruin it with suppositions about lifelong mates.

She plucked a bloom and tossed it his way. “Erebus and Asclepius slaughtered thousands of harpies here. The tree grew from the blood-soaked ground.”

“A rebirth of sorts,” he said, smelling the petals.

Yes. Very much so. She liked that he understood the importance the tree represented to her people, and to her.

A mix of hot and cold wind blew through the area, and he frowned. “I must admit, I’ve never gotten used to the seasons of Harpina.”

“No one has.” There were eighteen seasons in total. Winter, Fool’s Autumn, Fifth Winter, First Spring, Spring of Indifference, Hurricane, Tornado, Third Spring, Pre-Summer, Summer, Mid-Summer, True Autumn, Post-Summer, Second Winter, Third Winter of Fall, Fourth Winter of Spring, Final Summer and All Seasons Day, which lasted six weeks, except in August and never on Sundays. “As a girl,” she said, patting the limb, “I called this my thinking spot.”

Interest perked him up. “And what did Little Taliyah ponder?”

Pulling her legs up, crouching, she admitted, “She pondered running away.” A secret she’d never shared with another.

Roc did a double take. “She did? Why?”

Shrug. “I was fifteen, and I’d just come home from a successful vampire raid—they’d taken some of our girls to feed on, and we slaughtered them all. I had a history paper due the next morning, so I came here to figure out a topic when suddenly I got hit with a tsunami of panic. Was this going to be my life? Killing, losing friends in battle, then coming home and acting as if nothing had happened? The expected temperament for a General. At the time, my future seemed...too much. I contemplated running somewhere no one knew me. To just...be.”

He listened, hanging on every word. “What changed your mind and kept you here?”

“Family.” She leaped onto a higher branch. “I have baby sisters. The twins were five at the time. At ten, they were to be sent to Harpy Camp to learn to fight, just like I was. The wrong leader takes people down the wrong path. If something happened to my loved ones because I refused to do my duty—to fulfill my destiny...I would never forgive myself.”

“A selfless leader, even then.” Paling slightly, he asked, “Being General is your destiny? You’re sure of this?”

“I am.” And your dissatisfaction? What of that? “I was born to rule.”

Can’t have the crown and the man. You know this.

“I must have been...right?” she asked.

Appearing distressed, he said, “You are the only one with the answer.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong about that. “What was fifteen-year-old Roc like?”

He held up his arms, and she willingly jumped from the branch. Catching her by the waist, he eased her to her feet. As her body grazed his, a moan lodged in her throat.

Hands sliding over her, eyes twin flames of gold, he said, “Fifteen-year-old Roc was training in a sightless, soundless void, dreaming of a time he would meet his gravita.”

And now you have her.

He had a family. A wife he had yet to claim. He needed to claim her.

His talk with his men had gone better than expected. For a higher rank, each male had agreed to relinquish the weapon prize. All but Ian...at first. His reason had astonished Roc.

You will make a terrible ninth, Roc. I don’t want that for you. But I don’t want you without your gravita, either. So