With Everything I Am (The Three #2)(99)

Her mouth dropped open in horrified wonder.

His head dropped and he marked her hair with his temple. “It’ll be over soon, baby doll,” he assured her, lips at her ear, hoping at the same time that he was right.

Then he gave her another squeeze, her arms grew tight and she jerked her head away.

“You don’t… you know, as king, you don’t fight.” She paused and stared at him, fear obliterating the desolation in her eyes. “Do you?”

He gentled his voice further when he explained truthfully, “Unlike your generals, in our battles, I would not be a good commander if I didn’t only fight at my warriors’ sides but lead them into battle.”

Her body jolted, the fear now stark on her face and she cried, “But you can’t do that! You might get hurt!”

Her strong reaction pleased him just as much as it hurt him which was to say, for both, immensely.

“Sonia, I must.”

“Have you tried talking to them?” she asked desperately.

He had. Mac had. His grandfather had.

For millennia they’d attempted a diplomatic solution. The rebellion remained staunch in their beliefs.

“We’ve tried that,” he told her.

“But –”

“Sonia, I have to go.”

Her hold grew tighter.

“Baby doll, I have to go.”

She stared at him as tears gathered in her eyes.

The first time witnessing his mate’s utter despair at the thought of him entering battle, unable to stop himself, Callum bent his neck and kissed her, thoroughly and long enough to taste her tears yet again.

He enjoyed everything that was her but if he never tasted her tears again for the length of her short life, he’d be able to live his long one much more contentedly.

When he lifted his head she lifted a hand, slid her fingers into his hair and then watched as her thumb slid along his eyebrow, his cheekbone then his lower lip.

“At least tell me you’re a good… um, warrior,” she whispered and he grinned.

“The best,” he told her truthfully. “That’s why I’m king.”

At his words, she gave him a sad smile then got up on her toes to place her lips against his.

“Come back to me safe, my handsome wolf,” she murmured there.

He wanted to kiss her then but he couldn’t. If he did, with her so sweet in his arms, he wouldn’t have been able to stop.

Instead, he touched his forehead to hers, gave her another squeeze, let her go and walked out of the room without looking back.

Outside by his SUV, he embraced his mother, took off the wedding band Sonia had given him and handed it to her.

“Keep that safe,” he growled so low even Sonia, standing at the window upstairs, tears falling from her eyes and watching him, didn’t hear. “I’ll want it back the instant I come home.”

Regan nodded.

He swung in his SUV and, for the first time in his life before a battle, his mind wasn’t on the coming fight.

It was on his queen.

Little did he know her mind was on him as well.

And she cried long after he was gone. Long into the lonely night, in her lonely bed, in her lonely room, in her lonely house that even the company of the twinkling lights on her tree and her stuffed wolf couldn’t abate.

Callum’s queen cried not because he was going to battle (entirely).

She cried remembering the last two days they shared. Days that cracked through the bitterness that had built around her heart. Bitterness he had broken through with his tenderness and generosity and had given her hope that her dream had finally come true.

Bitterness that slammed back with a vengeance when that dream died the minute he took off the ring he seemed so proud to wear but, as observed from an outsider who had no idea why he did so, obviously was not.

Indeed, as observed from an outsider, it appeared he didn’t care about the ring or what it meant at all.

If he did, he’d understand, like her claiming chain, that he was never to take it off and, if he was truly proud to wear it, he never would.

* * * * *

“Sign it,” Callum growled, standing over Nikolas, the only chief of the rebellion left alive. He was on his knees, naked, wounded and bloodied, before his king.

Callum was also bloodied, both from his own healing wounds and from the blood of his victims, but he had taken the time, and given it to his warriors, to don clothes.

He had not allowed that courtesy amongst the scores of defeated wolves who were all now kneeled in front of him.

He might have done, if they had not slain his brother Calvin.

And he might have done, if they had not slain his father.

And he might have done, if the battle he’d waged on three fronts in the mountains, and on simultaneous fronts in four other territories, had not taken eight days to win.

And he might have done if he’d had more sleep in those eight days, which he had not as he’d only had an hour here or there and exhaustion had settled into his bones.

And he might have done if he’d not been so f**king hungry, not having the time to eat as he didn’t have the time to sleep.

And he might have done if the loss of wolves on both sides had not been so great simply due to their stubborn refusal to admit defeat because their surprise attack had indeed been a surprise, a resounding one. The enemy had been caught unaware, had never recovered and they should have admitted defeat days ago. In fact, within f**king hours.