The Dark Chronicles

The Dark Chronicles is the Arthurian myth with its clothes off. Ritualistic, mythic, unapologetically erotic. Before the legend, there was this. Maerlyn’s hands have held kings, pulled babies from wombs, and birthed empires from lies. But Morgayne’s hair around his neck is the only leash he can’t slip. She cut it from her own head after he saved her life, her black silk now a rope binding him to her will. "Are we bound together now, Maerlyn, in some strange marriage?" She braids it into a noose, her fingers slow and deliberate as she strokes his cock. "A marriage made of blood, my blood." Nymue, the white witch, is his first love, but Morgayne is his torment. She lets him watch as Emmelyne bathes her, her breasts heavy with child, her cunt glistening. She sends Emmelyne to him with fingers slick from Morgayne’s own juice, her voice a whisper: "From the Lady." And when Morgayne’s belly is torn open to save her twins, it’s Maerlyn’s hands inside her, his soul marked by her blood.