As Phury inhaled again, he pictured his female, the one who he rightfully should be drawing… the one who, according to law and custom, he should be doing a hell of a lot more to than sketching.

The Chosen Cormia. His First Mate.

Among forty.

Man, how the hell had he ended up Primale to the Chosen?

I told you, the wizard answered. You’re going to have children beyond measure, all of whom shall have the enduring joy of looking up to a father whose only accomplishment has been letting everyone around him down.

Okay, nasty as the bastard could be, that was a hard point to argue. He hadn’t mated with Cormia as ritual required. He hadn’t been back to the Other Side to see the Directrix. He hadn’t met the other thirty-nine females he was supposed to lay with and impregnate.

Phury smoked harder, the weight of those big-ass nothings landing on his head, flaming boulders launched by the wizard.

The wizard had excellent trajectory. Then again, he’d had a lot of practice.

Well, now, mate, you’re an easy target. That’s all there is about that.

At least Cormia wasn’t complaining about the dereliction of duties. She hadn’t wanted to be First Mate, had been forced into the role: On the day of the ritual, she’d had to be tied down on the ceremonial bed, splayed out for his use like an animal, utterly terrified.

The moment he’d seen her he’d gone into his default setting, which was full savior mode. He’d brought her here to the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s mansion and put her in the bedroom next to his. Tradition or not, there was no way in hell he was forcing himself on a female, and he figured that if they had some space and time to get to know each other it would be easier.

Yeah… no. Cormia had kept to herself, while he went about his daily business of trying to keep from imploding. Over the last five months, they were no closer to each other or a bed. Cormia rarely spoke and showed her face only at meals. If she went outside of her room, it was just to the library for books.