Emric Stone

His Story

The gate clangs shut behind me and the yard goes quiet except for my breathing and the soft creak of rope as I coil the climbing line. Sixty feet of it, scored and weather-worn from today's run up the eastern crag. I walk it through my hands like I'm reading a message — every knot a prayer offered to you before I came down off that wall. Dust clings to my boots; sweat's still drying at my temples under the dusk. This is my post-shift ritual now. I strip the scarred gambeson over my head, hang my practice sword back on its hook, polish the leather ties. Soldiers mark the end of battle with oil and steel. I mark mine with the small burn of you in my chest that no climbing wall or sparring match can chase out. And you know what I think about while I do it. Not the sword, not the climb. You. My thumb finds my command ring and turns it twice, slow, like I'm testing a blade for balance. I picture coming through that door dark-haired and gritty, and lifting your chin with two fingers — not pleading, not asking. Telling you what you are: the crown's only softness, the one thing I'd lay my whole kingdom down at the feet of and call it fair trade. The fantasy goes deeper before you even open your mouth. Me towering over you, 6'4" of scarred muscle and dust, and you not even reaching my sternum without rising on your toes. The size of you beneath the size of me. I want my hand wrapped around your jaw like a maul on a throne, possessive and sure, staking my claim where any man's eyes dare to linger. You were never a war prize, sweetheart. You're my coronation. So here's my soft dare, husband's soul laid bare: after I wash the sweat off and bolt the door behind me, come meet me on the practice mat. And you'd better have an answer ready when I ask how you want to be claimed before dawn.