12 Turns Earlier
Chapter thirty-four
Ashara
The Word of the Other
Thou shalt put no other gods before Him-55:1 The Book of Dendralis
Lycandor fisted the nape of my neck, hair bound round his hand like a rope. He tugged and tugged, forcing my chin to lift as my eyes searched for his in the shadows. We were in an Unmantle, I think, though this one had no divider. The light from outside was low, only the faintest of flickers managing to breach the filigreed holes, both our faces lost to the dark.
But I didn’t need to see…not when I couldfeel.
His other arm banded my waist, pressing every inch of our bodies together. Mine had snaked upwards, to his chest, feeling him under my palms, fingers clinging to the hard ridge of his clavicle. His heart was a frenzy; it pulsed through me, throbbing, joining the beat of my own. We writhed with thundering breaths, the rise and fall of us perfectly matched. The hardness of him moved against the softness of me, his long, thick length pinned to my hip.
And the heat…
It blazed, like we were flame rather than flesh. We were wet with it, both of us dripping in sweat, stripped bare of our clothes.
His mouth, illuminated by a pinprick of light, parted, the wicked curve of his lips a vivid red. His tongue roved over them, and I released a small groan, wanting him to taste me that way—to lick me until I was clean of every droplet that coated my skin. The scent of salt, embers and jasmine thickened around us, undercut by undeniablewant. He took a shuddering breath, a guttural sound rising from the back of his throat.
“Look at what you’ve done to me, Seamstress.” His voice echoed in the metal, distorting it, as he buried his face in my neck, licking and licking and licking.
I opened my legs, thighs slick with the need to be touched. A searing hand traversed from the dip of my waist to the curve of my hip, down and down until hungry fingers skimmed over the place that pulsed, ghosting its aching centre. A teardrop ofsconce fire fell upon one of his eyes. How many times had I imagined their colour? Blue? Green? Black?
Brown.
A light brown. Amber, even. Warm, like hickory bark. A ringleted curl, shining chestnut, dropped over his—
Demetri?
A firm hand cupped the heat of my core, palm collecting the desire that pooled there. I gaped, shuddering at the possessiveness in his touch. He gripped my cunt tighter, the tips of his fingers just beginning to fill me. I ground into them, uncaring if they were Demetri’s or Lycandor’s.
“What has he been doing to you, darling girl? To make you this wet?”
I woke with a gasp, jerking upright, chest heaving. The linens stuck to my clammy skin like glue, hair plastered to my forehead in sodden clumps. Reaching for the carafe of water, I glugged it down before peeling myself from the cot. What time was it? The small rectangle of sky hummed purple, left bruised in the wake of the night. The sun would soon rise, and he would be here.
Druid Vetrius was coming.The Butcherwas coming.
Dunking my head in the basin, I let the tepid water soothe my flushed cheeks, scrubbing at my eyes as if I could erase the image of him, naked in an Unmantle, panting and desperate. I soaked a cloth to wipe under my arms and between my legs before getting dressed. Perched on the edge of the cot, I waited, twiddling non-existent buttons. It couldn’t be helped, the way my eyes continually darted to that place they should not.He’d be here soon,I reminded myself.Foolish. Leave it be. But the sun’s glow had yet to touch the sky, and so I padded over to the armoire, falling to my knees.
I should have burned it. I should have destroyed it. It would have been clever. It would have been wise. I was neither as Iunclasped the wooden border at its base and dipped my hand underneath.
Fingers skimming smooth stone, I paused when they met its edge, shifting it into my grasp. I could have kept it in the dresser; no one seemed to check. And if they did, perhaps it was the unknown friend who delivered me his gift when they slid under my door, for no one had confiscated the sharp shard of the carafe. Perhaps they didn’t think I’d ever use it, or simply wanted me to try; a woman armed with a slither of glass more a jest than a threat.
But this was no makeshift weapon. It was something far more dangerous, at least, that is what my heart told me whenever I pressed it to my chest. It was a splinter. An agony. The keen ache of a vow.
I scrunched the parchment, reading his words as I had done almost turnly, whenever I was holed up, alone in my chamber.
I will find you. Hold on a little longer. We will take wing, or else plummet together.
My fingers traced each letter, careful not to smudge the coal. They paused at the symbol beneath them. Two thick, plump, curved lines in the unmistakable shape of his lips. I brought it to my mouth, pressing a kiss where his had been, remembering his taste. A taste I reminded myself was all cherry wine, and not the thick scent of jasmine that seemed to follow me from dream into waking.
A knock rapped at the door and I scrambled to the floor, placing the letter beneath the armoire. Careful not to let it scrape, I replaced the wooden panel and silently rose to a stand. He was a most impatient druid.
“Seamstress,” he greeted, the same as every day, the door already swinging inward.
“Druid,” I returned, painfully aware of the lingering scent of my secret. What would it smell like to him? Burnt bread, perhaps? Sea salt? Sweat?
