With a huff, she tries one last time to convince me. “This forest isn't like the Ravenswyrd, I don't know if we can risk sleeping at the same time?—"
Growling in my pained irritation, I cut her off. “We can, and we will.”
I know nothing of the promises of trees, only the madness they can inspire in my cousin and the screams of the deaths their loyal rage can induce, but I know I speak the truth. I stretch out on my bed roll and then hold Rooke’s gaze with a demanding tilt to my brow until finally she lies down next to me. When I continue to stare at her with protest she sighs and shifts until she’s pressed against me, our bodies touching from shoulder to ankle. Even with layers of clothing between us, some of the pressure in my chest eases off at having her this close.
My mind scatters with each pulse of pain, slipping in and out of consciousness over the next hours, but unable to rest properly. Rooke shifts and twitches next to me, also unable to fall asleep, and when she finally sits up, I grit my teeth, ready to argue with her to keep her here. Instead of retreating, I watch as she pries off her boots and wriggles her toes in her thick woolen socks before she lies down once more with a sigh. A smile tugs at my lips at the relieved sound, the steady beat of her heart slowly coaxing me to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rooke
I wake before dawn from a fitful sleep, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. My rest was dreamless, thankfully, my body only responding to the hard plains of Soren’s body pressed against mine. His arms band around me tightly, his face buried in the back of my neck, and I’m glad I’m not facing him as a blush creeps over my cheeks.
Centuries of dealing with males of all dispositions under my belt, and yet still my Fates-blessed mate is proving to be something else entirely, truly carved by the Fates to be my downfall. The desolate tone he described the forest’s pain with washes over me once more, tugging mercilessly at my heart. The closer we walk beside each other on our fates path, the more I grow to understand this male.
That alone would soften my resolve—such is the Ravenswyrd way—but his ferociously protective and possessive actions filled me with warmth and longing that can’t be deterred. Demanding not only my affection but my safety in his grievous state, I found myself craving more of his branding focus.
After centuries of hearing about the other forests within the kingdom and the heartache of the covens desperate to return home, the mourning of the Brindlewyrd is almost too much to bear. Elms Walk was sleeping when we arrived there, the Ravenswyrd was glad to welcome me home, but this forest trembles with its need for retribution, the magnitude of which is humbling.
Worse still, the confusion it felt at my presence and the way it scoured my body for answers reopened old wounds, ones that never fully heal. I should’ve expected it; I’m well versed in the anomaly the Fates War made of me, but the underlying rage the forest holds was jarring. As a Favored Child from this land but not these trees, I shouldn’t have so much Brindlewyrd blood within me nor the seal of this coven’s magic, which bound my torso back together and now lies on my skin forever like a brand.
How could I ever hope to explain to a forest in this state that I’m Ravenswyrd by birth, but my veins became a writhing brew of magic and blood given freely in my most desperate hour? Without Hanede, the only witch strong enough to wrestle me back from the gates of Elysium and whose blood now flows in my veins, I would’ve died in the war.
How desperately I wish he were here and could hear the forest that still mourns his family as fiercely now as it did when they were first taken from it. He often shared his fears with me that, because he left as a small child, maybe the trees would resent him for abandoning them, but there’s no denying it only longs for him to return home.
When I check Soren’s breathing to distract myself away from my somber thoughts—still steady and slow, like all the other times I’ve checked on him throughout the night—there’s no denying he’s the reason I struggled to sleep well. I was trained to wake at the first ripples of danger, the calm before the storm,and the greatest storm of all lies beside me, unaware of the state of panic he’s put me in.
He didn’t just make an offering of his magic to the forest, he hemorrhaged his power into the land like a vein split open instead of merely severed, impossible to repair, and the forest responded by guzzling it down and demanding more. It poured until I was sure there was no magic left, and then it poured more. The depth of the Celestial heir’s power is unimaginable, and I can only guess how deeply it was locked within and how long his bloodline has ignored it. If the Unseelie Court had any idea what this male is capable of, I doubt the regent would have so much support.
Anxiety blooms in my gut, my limbs growing restless with the need to do something. If he wakes up now, fully recharged, as high fae are sometimes known to do, he’ll be a danger to himself and everything around us. To wield so much power, so suddenly and with no training, he’s more dangerous than a death curse and able to wreak far more destruction than Kharl Balzog has ever cast. I thought I’d seen everything in the Sol Army, but I’ve never faced something like this before.
A witch's power develops over decades. Pemba and I left the forest with very little power between us, and the witch I’ve returned home as is drastically different, not just for my experience but for the power in my veins. Pemba was barely able to call on his power beyond the rites, our childhood protecting us from ever needing to cast with more than that. He learned to wield his magic with the same ferocity that he learned to wield a sword. I’ve learned every inch of my power and its reserves within myself, every corner in which magic hides within me to be used as a last resort. I know the source of my power and the abilities unique to my bloodlines, then I learned when to wield it and when to hold it back.
The only time I've seen Soren use his magic has been in sacrifice to the forest and the oath he laid over Airlie and Roan’s infant son. What if he doesn't know how to hold it back? I have seen the devastation wrought by his temper and borne the brunt of it. Putting magic behind such ferocity… Yregar would be rubble within a week.
“Why are you shaking? Did you dream again, croí?”
Even as my blood heats at him calling me that again, I startle at the sound of his voice, then again at his hand as it snaps out to catch my arm as though he’s afraid I was falling from some great height and not lying beside him on a bedroll. His jaw clenches, and his eyes are still half closed as they roam over my face in a searing assessment. When all I do is stare back at him, still shocked at the protective reaction, he pulls me closer with a growl, stopping just before he would have pressed me entirely against him.
The dark, seething demand contained within his gaze is overshadowed but the glow of his magic that has another shot of panic lighting up my blood, and in the darkness of the tent, the bright current of magic illuminating the Celestial blue of his eyes is unmistakable, poised on the brink as it waits for the next chance to be let out.
I wait a heartbeat, though a thumping one, before I shake my head. “No nightmares, only my concerns for you. How are you feeling?”
His expression barely changes; if we weren’t so closely confined within the small tent, I probably would’ve missed it, but I’ve surprised him. The air around us thickens, the Fates dancing wildly underneath my scars, but my focus stays firmly on his condition and not the way his breathing is slowly turning ragged. Despite my resolve, I lift my hands to cup his face and watch as his eyes turn molten, the current of power flashing brighter and washing over me in a caress.
It takes an unearthly strength to keep myself focused on the issue at hand and not let myself be washed away by it, but he sees my battle, and a smirk stretches over his lips. I’m struck dumb by his allure, pinned by the heat of his gaze, and breathing suddenly becomes a difficult task.
“There’s nothing for you to be concerned with, croí,” he drawls, my breath catching in my chest at the rasping tone and the longing that name awakens in my chest.
I didn’t know this male was still capable of making such inviting sounds, the memory of his lust-soaked demands through whispered through our mind connection before I learned of my fate are still clutched closely to my heart no matter how many years have passed. My thighs clench instinctively, my whole body freezing in place in anticipation under his gaze, and Reed’s sage warning to me flits back into my mind as, the truth laid bare; I doubt if even the Fates could sway his attention from me right now.
His gaze drops to the hollow of my throat, where my racing pulse must surely be visible, and I break free of the spell his eyes put me under, muttering a stern curse at myself. Taking a shaky breath, I press my fingers to his temple, just as I did last night, and let a small pulse of my magic soak into his skin. His magic swells up instinctively to meet it, to take it and make it a part of his own stores. His eyes are still trained on my throat.
“Your magic?—”
My words are cut off by my gasp as his restraint snaps. With a growl, he pulls me into his body and buries his face in the exposed skin of my neck, then takes a deep lungful of my scent, like a priory-wolf. We’re both still fully clothed, fur-lined cloaks wrapped around our bodies to stave off the night’s frost, but the hard plains of his body are as distracting as I’m sure his skin would be pressed against my own.
His arm moves to pillow my cheek as his body wraps around mine, his other hand grasping my hip to tuck my body firmly into his. The moment he has me draped along his chest, his thigh slides effortlessly between mine, the pleats of my robes, designed for movement on the battlefields, perfectly accommodating. A gasp wrenches from my lips at the ease with which he moves, my own hands clutching at his shoulders as though desperately clinging to a ledge as I’m swept away. His nose traces underneath my ear, a careful action, and I swallow roughly around the arid wasteland he’s made of my throat.
