3

Aznar came the day the rain stopped. Early in the morning in the cold twilight.

Deya woke up from the fact that the warm cover was thrown back, and the male hot palm lay on her naked stomach, which no longer had bandages on. There were only four pale pink long welts, each about the width of a finger. The girl flinched at the touch, but was afraid to even move. Aznar was in no hurry to remove his hand. He did not look at the princess. A few minutes seemed like an eternity for her, then finally the man moved away.

- You're all right, - Markat delivered a verdict, and Deya went cold. - The time has come.

Aznar looked straight into her eyes. Deja really hoped he saw determination there, not fear. She was still lying in front of him, completely naked, but she couldn't move a finger. The werewolf thoughtfully studied her face, but did not even look at the body. Are scars really that bad? What a ridiculous thought.

“There will be a sacred ceremony at sunset tonight, Deamara,” Aznar said softly, and the girl looked up at him. You don't need to be afraid of us. Neither I nor Beria will ever harm you.

“You hate me…” whispered the princess without looking away.

-This is not true. No Markat can hate his Lanaren. We don't like that you're an anmark. But you don't like that we are who we are. I'm right?

"That's... not exactly true," Deamara admitted unexpectedly to herself. You are not as bad as I was told.

It was true. She still felt a dislike for them, but Arleta's warmth and Aznar's soft voice, their care, were not like the gory descriptions she'd received from her father and his men. Beria, of course, was unfriendly, but he did not cross the line. The girl may even have understood him to some extent. At least she had enough time to think.

-Really? - and then the princess for the first time saw how Aznar smiled. Friendly and open. Humanly. He slowly reached out and touched her face. Deamara froze and did her best not to recoil. It is forbidden. Aznar looked directly at her, followed her, her breathing, her heart rate. His hand leisurely outlined the girl's chin, neck. The hot touch seemed to leave an invisible but tangible mark on the skin. Then the man touched his hair, which until recently was honey-blond, and after the attack of that creature they became almost white.

- You are beautiful, - Markat said quietly. His deep voice filled with tenderness. Fingers slid further, along the chest, ribs and froze on the scars. And here the girl involuntarily shrank, trying to hide behind.

- Shh, - Aznar covered her hands with his own. - You have nothing to be ashamed of.

He leaned towards her, and his strange green eyes were very close. Her pupils glowed like an animal in the light of the flames. His lips gently touched the lips of the girl, tasting, afraid to frighten. Then the kiss became more confident, and Deya felt a wave of heat suddenly swept through her body. In the next moment, she herself clung to the man and returned the kiss. The werewolf, with a short growl, pressed the girl to the bed, stronger and no longer so gently clinging to her lips, but then, with a dull groan, pulled away.

Deamara breathed heavily, realizing with horror that she liked it. And what's more - the body clearly demanded continuation. Aznar looked at her with darkened eyes, in which hunger and desire were clearly read. That look sent the princess into a fever again. Markat exhaled through his teeth and quickly left the room without a word.

Deja convulsively clasped her burning cheeks with her hands. What is happening to her? It's a mark! Markat! The worst enemy of her people. What she does? Deamara quickly covered herself with the covers, regaining control of her body. One way or another, tonight she would be in the bed of two werewolves at once. From this thought, a shiver of fear and at the same time desire passed through the spine. The girl closed her eyes, ashamed of her own thoughts. If Deja were a werewolf, becoming Lanaren, she would lust after her men. She would smell them and couldn't resist her instincts. But she can't feel it. So what happens to her?

The meeting room was noisy. The advisers argued among themselves, raised their voices, proving something. Paper reports rustled. The sliding chairs creaked every now and then. At the end of the hall, on a raised platform, was an empty throne. Next to him stood a thin, elderly servant, with a tired look, wistfully watching the hall. His light blue doublet was carefully pressed, the silver buttons polished, and his spotless white shirt collar carefully starched. In his wrinkled hands, the servant clutched a stack of clean sheets on a wooden board - to write down the king's urgent orders.

Finally, a door creaked behind the throne, and an oppressive silence immediately reigned in the hall. The servant drew himself up and turned to face the king. A man in his forties entered the hall with shoulder-length blond hair, a neat little beard and a heavy dark gaze, from which all his advisers immediately averted their eyes. A dark red camisole embroidered with gold, a heavy cloak with a fur trim and a large gold medallion with a ruby ​​on the chest. In every movement of the king, strength and power were felt. He slowly walked up the steps and sat down on the throne. Nobody moved, nobody moved.

The king slowly looked around the hall, pausing on the face of the adviser closest to him - a man of about sixty in blue robes, with a wise and attentive look. He met his king's gaze with honor and rose from his seat.

- Your Majesty, - the adviser bowed briefly, - we have learned about the whereabouts of your daughter.

King Ulgar squeezed the armrests of the throne with force. The servant next to him trembled involuntarily.

-Where's she? the king asked softly, but his voice reverberated throughout the hall.

“Our spy reported that he saw a girl who looked like a princess brought to the Markat castle no more than a week ago. He saw only the blue silk of the dress and a glimpse of the face.

- How can we be sure it's my daughter? The king was in no hurry to rejoice.

The adviser bowed briefly again.

“We can’t say with accuracy, but our spy found one thing,” the adviser slowly took out a small bundle, unfolded it and showed everyone present a crumpled white silk scarf stained with blood and dirt. A small oak leaf was embroidered in the right corner. The king's eyes darkened.

-That's her.

The silence in the hall became quite sepulchral. It seems that the advisers were afraid to even breathe. Everyone was waiting for the king's word. The servant clutched his pile of sheets with whitened fingers.

The adviser sat down carefully.

- My daughter is a prisoner of the Markats... - King Ulgar said slowly. And then he suddenly roared, hitting the armrests. - At Markats, your mother!!!

The entire room seemed to recoil involuntarily. The servant took such a precise step to the side, convulsively pressing a stack of sheets to the Hood.

- We have martial law here, and our enemy has my daughter in the clutches! The gods know what they'll do to her. Have you received a ransom offer from them?

“No, my king,” the same adviser replied, shaking his head.

-Other requirements?

-Not. None.

What can we do without giving rise to immediate military action?

- I'm afraid not, Your Majesty. Any intrusion into the territory of the Markats will mean an offensive.

The king fell silent. He slowly looked up at the tall, narrow stained-glass windows. Behind them, the sun slowly set, painting the hall in bloody tones. He had a hard decision to make. With this decision, he may shake the foundations of the kingdom. But it is necessary if he wants to save his daughter. Deya. Ulgar shuddered involuntarily when a vivid image of a little fair-haired girl appeared before his eyes, who was sitting on his lap, laughing, pressing her warm cheek against him. It was a long time ago. Her mother was still alive then. The king turned to his advisors and ordered:

-Bring me a magician from the Cursed Lands.

A quiet murmur swept through the hall.

- But... Your Majesty, even your grandfather expelled all magicians and wizards from Anmar. For more than a hundred years, magic has been banned in our kingdom. Are you... Are you sure?

-Yes. Bring the mage to me. As strong as you can find. A generous reward awaits him. You have a week, no more.

But, Your Majesty...

-Perform!

The hall became noisy again, chairs creaked, papers rustled. The king gestured for the adviser in blue, when he approached, he whispered to him:

-Let our spy report everything he can find out. Immediately. Do you understand me?

The adviser nodded quickly. He didn't need to be told twice.