11-23-2018, 09:37 PM
He would not begrudge Isobell her own paramours anymore than he had minded Wishbone’s. He would, of course, slaughter any stallion he might find her with as readily as he would drown any colt she bore to another man. The kelpie’s patterns of behavior remain the same whether he rules a tiny island or a chain of them; it is surely some twist of fate he has been allowed to continue on this long. Fate and a healthy dose of caution; he had learned his father’s lessons well.
With Isobell watching their children Ivar takes a last moment to look at Mist, and by the time his wife turns back to him the kelpie has decided to find out if her sister will bear him kelpies as well. The idea brings a smile to his scaled lips, one that broadens at Isobell’s firm spoken commands.
“As you wish, Khaleesi.” The stallion responds, all thoughts but the silver-eyed mare disappearing as his predatory gaze fixes only on her. Hunting season is year round for the kelpie, but it is no longer autumn, and the safety of catch-and-release has ended. When he surges after her toward the sea, it is with the knowledge that she will not rise again above the water until he has drained her of every drop of blood and her lifeless body rises toward the surface.
Picturing the image causes a primal growl to resonate from his chest, and Ivar reaches a hungry mouth toward her flesh only to have her dart away. He follows a pace behind her, noting that her time in the sea has made her body even stronger than he remembers. Lean muscle quivers beneath thighs that are no longer soft and pliable, and Ivar runs his serrated teeth over them for a moment before diving into the sea.
The sea swallows him, an embrace that has never failed. The saltwater swallows the jewel-toned kelpie, but he remains visible in the prisitine water, smiling from where he floats, fully shifted. A long, lightly finned tail strokes against the current, as do occasional flicks of his four clawed feet and broad fin-like wings. The mouth that he grins from rests in a too lovely face, one that is not marred by the excessive number of sharp teeth in his long jaw.
“Come down,” he says, and even if she cannot hear him above the water there is no doubting the invitation in his pointed golden gaze. Isobell will come below the water and give herself to him like a good wife, and he will use her as he sees fit. It’s been weeks since his last kill. With Kylin fled to Ischia he’s been all but starving, but the temptation to kill one of his consorts had not yet been too strong to resist. But Isobell, strong Isobell, she will come back. And for that he will make sure that her death is the most painless thing.
Unless, of course, she is still the warrior he remembers. The Princess of Nerine had never wanted to submit to Ivar the way she should, and the fight of it has always marked her as special. There were others that he enjoys but they are all soft and submissive. Good mares, but not good kelpies. It’s Isobell he has been waiting for.
“Come down,” Ivar repeats, and swims further out to sea where the water is deep and crystal clear and the coral reefs begin.
@[Isobell]
you wanted a novel right?
With Isobell watching their children Ivar takes a last moment to look at Mist, and by the time his wife turns back to him the kelpie has decided to find out if her sister will bear him kelpies as well. The idea brings a smile to his scaled lips, one that broadens at Isobell’s firm spoken commands.
“As you wish, Khaleesi.” The stallion responds, all thoughts but the silver-eyed mare disappearing as his predatory gaze fixes only on her. Hunting season is year round for the kelpie, but it is no longer autumn, and the safety of catch-and-release has ended. When he surges after her toward the sea, it is with the knowledge that she will not rise again above the water until he has drained her of every drop of blood and her lifeless body rises toward the surface.
Picturing the image causes a primal growl to resonate from his chest, and Ivar reaches a hungry mouth toward her flesh only to have her dart away. He follows a pace behind her, noting that her time in the sea has made her body even stronger than he remembers. Lean muscle quivers beneath thighs that are no longer soft and pliable, and Ivar runs his serrated teeth over them for a moment before diving into the sea.
The sea swallows him, an embrace that has never failed. The saltwater swallows the jewel-toned kelpie, but he remains visible in the prisitine water, smiling from where he floats, fully shifted. A long, lightly finned tail strokes against the current, as do occasional flicks of his four clawed feet and broad fin-like wings. The mouth that he grins from rests in a too lovely face, one that is not marred by the excessive number of sharp teeth in his long jaw.
“Come down,” he says, and even if she cannot hear him above the water there is no doubting the invitation in his pointed golden gaze. Isobell will come below the water and give herself to him like a good wife, and he will use her as he sees fit. It’s been weeks since his last kill. With Kylin fled to Ischia he’s been all but starving, but the temptation to kill one of his consorts had not yet been too strong to resist. But Isobell, strong Isobell, she will come back. And for that he will make sure that her death is the most painless thing.
Unless, of course, she is still the warrior he remembers. The Princess of Nerine had never wanted to submit to Ivar the way she should, and the fight of it has always marked her as special. There were others that he enjoys but they are all soft and submissive. Good mares, but not good kelpies. It’s Isobell he has been waiting for.
“Come down,” Ivar repeats, and swims further out to sea where the water is deep and crystal clear and the coral reefs begin.
@[Isobell]
you wanted a novel right?