“Belladonna,” Nyneve informed him gleefully.
“Search her thoroughly, Mordred,” the Eye warned, her voice serious now. “You should have disarmed her before you crossed through the door.”
Mordred rocked back on his heels, meeting Nyneve’s gaze. “She was a late addition to my plans,” he said, arching his eyebrow. She beamed at him.
Well, if the Druid girl wanted to play, he would play.
His eyes never leaving hers, Mordred gripped her thighs in his hands and released the working that bound her ankles. “Spread your legs for me, little thief,” he murmured. “I want to bethorough.”
A pretty pink flush bloomed on Nyneve’s face as she did as he commanded. He ran his hands up her legs until he reached her smallclothes, then let his fingers sweep down to the inside of her thigh. Her breath hitched, the flush spreading across her chest. He felt that tight, hungry place low in his belly grow taut, but pushed the sensation aside. Pulling his hands from her skirts, he settled them on her hips, running his palms up her bodice to cup her breasts. Nyneve seemed to have forgotten she could close her legs or take the opening to kick him square in the face.
His thumb brushed something odd in the center of her bodice, too stiff to be the lacings on her kirtle. When Mordred dared to look into her eyes again, the sorceress’s lips were parted, her bound hands fisted in her skirts. The ferocious glitter in her gaze made his heart beat faster.
“What is this?” he asked, tilting his head.
Nyneve smiled wickedly. “I suppose you will have to find out,” she replied.
That left Mordred with no other choice but to loosen the lacings on the sides of her kirtle. She drew in a sharp, hungry gasp. Down on one knee before her, hands hovering over the laces of her kirtle, Mordred desperately tried to silence the desperate way his body howled for this lovely, dangerousinterloper. The slope of her collarbone and curve of her neck were bared to him, the loosened garment barely covering her heavy breasts.
All the blood in his body pounding, Mordred slipped one hand beneath her kirtle, keeping the back of it against her skin, fingers skimming the underside of her chemise. He found a little scabbard-like sleeve she must have sewn into the garment. Gods, she was absolutely insane. His fingers closed around the hilt of a small dagger. At that precise moment, Nyneve closed her thighs around his hips, leaned forward, and sank her teeth into his neck.
For too many heartbeats, Mordred tumbled into the feeling of her legs wrapped around him, her mouth on his skin, her breasts pressed into him. Then the Eye made some kind of exasperated noise at his back, and he returned to his senses. He tried to pull back from Nyneve, but she only clamped down harder with both her legs and her teeth.
“Come now,” Mordred sighed. “Be reasonable.”
Despite the closeness of their torsos, she managed to get enough swing with her bound wrists to punch him in the stomach, hitting the rib he was fairly certain he had broken earlier during the raid. The pain sharpened him. He realized that his hand was still down the front of her gown. Perhaps it was only his own desire overwhelming him, but Mordred abandoned the dagger and cupped one of her perfect breasts in his hand. She gasped, her hot breath like a kiss of summer against his neck. Pushing his advantage, he gripped her ample ass with his free hand and pressed their hips together with crushing force. A strangled moan left the sorceress’s mouth, her teeth now only lightly scraping his skin, so he teased her nipple. Her hips bucked into his, her body going taut for a different reason. The Cynosbythrae surged against his ribs, and he felt utterly mad with desire.
Summoning all his strength, Mordred pulled the dagger free of its hiding place and pushed the sorceress back against the bench, re-binding her ankles with a single Thread of magic. She watched him, her mouth still parted, eyes glassy. More than anything, Mordred wanted to forget about the High King and the arrow that had shattered the feast day and the prophecy that doomed him. He wanted to gather Nyneve up in his arms, find a quiet alcove, and bury his face between her thighs until she screamed his name.
Instead, he turned and dropped the dagger on the tray.
Though her expression was hidden by her helm, he got the distinct impression the Eye was raising a brow. “Interesting technique,” she observed.
“Interesting woman,” Mordred huffed, forcing himself to turn back to Nyneve. She tried to pull herself away from him, but there was no fear in her eyes. “Can I redo your lacings?” he asked, holding both hands out in front of him.
She bit into the plushness of her lower lip. Combined with the way her kirtle barely contained her breasts, Mordred felt such an action should amount to a serious crime. “Yes,” Nyneve conceded.
To his surprise, the sorceress remained still while he straightened her garments, pulling her chemise back up before lacing her kirtle. She looked at him curiously, her eyebrow arched, but said nothing. When he stood, the Eye responded to something his single set of eyes could not detect, turning to stalk down a shadowed passageway.
“I did not need you to cut off Sir Oran’s hand,” Nyneve said a few moments later, sitting up straight, though she did not deign to look at him. “I do not need you to cut off anyone’s hand. Do you believe youownme, Mordred?”
He turned to look at her, incredulous. “What fool would think they could own a creature like you?” he asked. “One mightfind it easier to lay claim to the mountains or the wind. It was a gift, Nyneve. Freely given.”
She opened her mouth but closed it again, saying nothing. He realized she had almost accidentally thanked him. Mordred closed his eyes.Mortal. That is all she was. A Druid sorceress, yes, but even her kind had to drink deep from their casks of ale or ingest the right fungi to feel the way his people had felt since the day they were born. He had been created by two goddesses, a weapon forged for the End of Days.
Mordred could get what he needed out of a godsdamned mortal girl.
His body weary from the battle with the Northmen, he sank down on the bench next to her, bracing himself when she turned to look up at him. Her face was bright and open with desire, but there was something else in her eyes that unsettled him. Fearlessly, she raised her bound hands, reaching out to trace the sharp point of his cheekbone and then the knife-like edge of his ear.
Mordred had never considered that gentleness, of all things, might disarm him entirely. He gripped the edge of the bench with all his might.
“I should have known,” Nyneve said, seemingly more to herself than him. “It was quite obvious, really. What you are, I mean.” She paused, then brushed a few fingers against his chest, just over his heart. The organ seemed to strain for the Druid girl, prepared to tear right through his skin just for the chance to find itself in her hand. “Do you intend to harm me tonight, Sir Mordred?”
He gazed back at her, utterly lost. The beast buried deep within him suddenly howled a war cry, as if it would level the entire world before ever laying a finger on her. For a moment, he almost believed it.
But then, in his peripherals, Mordred watched the tall, bone-ornamented doors swing open. Two Eyes dragged an unconscious Fey out of the chamber, their back torn to shreds by Ragrshydan’s beloved whip.
There was too much at risk: the coming age of man, the war that might mean all his power was worth nothing at all, the splitting factions within the High Court that could destroy his people even if They survived what was coming.
