Page 91 of Death Will Follow

Settling his hands over her bodice, Callan tore the delicate laces and ripped the garment open. Breaking their kiss, he pulled down the collar of her gown, stilling for a breath at the sight of the pearly scar marring the skin above her left breast. Swallowing, he traced a finger along the thin, raised line, then took her bare breasts in his hands.

Dipping his head, he pressed a gentle kiss over the marking. Nova’s nipples tightened at his breath dancing over the surface of her skin before he drew her into the heat of his mouth, sucking gently and pulling a moan from her. Anticipation bloomed in her core, wetness gathering between her thighs as Callan bit down, a quick flash of pain heightening her pleasure.

Her mate didn’t linger but lowered himself to his knees before her, dragging his face along the front of her gown as he went. Pressing his mouth to her cunt, he worked his jaw, his mouth rubbing against her clit through the layers of fabric. Nova’s head fell back against the wall, and she tunneled her fingers into his hair. Desperate to find the precise friction she needed, she tilted her hips, a frustrated whimper escaping her.

Sitting back on his heels, Callan’s dark eyes locked on hers as he brought both hands to the hem of her gown. Slowly, he lifted her skirts, fingertips grazing her calves and the backs of her knees. Nova propped her foot up and turned her leg out, opening herself to him.

His gaze fell. “Gods, you’re a sight,” he growled, ghosting his mouth along her inner thigh, his beard scratching deliciously against her sensitive skin. “Pretty cunt dripping for me.”

Curling his fingers at her hips, Callan pinned her against the wall roughly. Nova gave an experimental roll of her hips, but he held her firmly in place. With a satisfied groan, he tasted her, gliding his tongue from her entrance to her clit.

Callan was relentless in his worship, his lips and tongue keeping a steady rhythm between her thighs. Nova moaned and tugged his hair, his answering hum of pleasure sending her heat clenching around nothing.

“I need you,” she breathed. “Now.”

Callan rose at once, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Reaching between them, Nova undid his laces and took his cock, feverishly hot and impossibly hard, into her hand. Pumping him slowly, she eased the skin back to reveal a bead of arousal poised on the swollen tip. Nova gathered it on her thumb and painted it across her bottom lip before savoring the taste of him with a swipe of her tongue.

Callan clenched his jaw, eyes darkening as he hurriedly drew up her skirts, far less gently than he had only moments before. Cupping his hands under her ass, he lifted her off her feet and pressed her against the wall. He slid his cock between her legs briefly, gathering her wetness before entering her all at once. Nova wrapped her arms around his neck, gasping at the delicious sting as he stretched her, making room for himself inside her. Their mouths joined, ragged breaths mingling, as he fucked into her again and again.

She clung to him as he clung to her, desperate in her need to feel every thrust of his cock. Every strike of her back against the wall. They were alive. They had survived. And they had one another.

Thirty-Eight

Callan arrived in Nivali the day after a heavy storm. Under a bright sky, freshly fallen powder piled up in high drifts against the western side of the Estate. An empty hall greeted him, the morning meal already concluded. A flurry of servants moved about the space in a practiced dance, clearing away the mess in preparation for the day’s activities. Though Callan could ask any one of them to see him to his parents’ chamber, he stalled inside the entryway.

“Nephew!” Thorn appeared at the top of the stairs, waving Callan over with a flick of his wrist.

When Callan joined him on the second level, Thorn clapped him roughly on the back before gripping his shoulder.

“Pleased to see you’re still in one piece.”

“The gods favored me.” Callan glanced down the gallery walk. “How are they?”

Thorn pressed his lips together, a crease forming between his brows. “Your mother is quite well, Brumal be praised.” Thorn spoke in hushed tones as he led Callan along the walkway. “But your father . . .”

Thorn shook his head and turned his face away from Callan for a moment. When they reached the door at the far end and he faced him once again, Callan spied the glimmer of unshed tears in his uncle’s eyes.

“He hasn’t spoken a word. Sees and hears nothing. It’s as if he’s locked away inside his mind. A prisoner in his own body. The healers say nothing more can be done for him.”

Callan cleared his throat, nodding in grim understanding. For centuries, he’d wished for the chance to speak with his father once more. Now, it seemed he would never get that chance. Thorn stepped aside, motioning for Callan to enter.

Though it wasn’t the Noble quarters, which Thorn occupied as regent, his parents had been given a stately chamber. A lively fire blazed on the hearth beside a bed made up with thick furs. Set on the corner of the Estate, the far wall boasted several large windows, the view extending to the shoreline and the bay to the west.

Before the windows sat his parents. Callan crossed the room, his footfalls muffled by the luxurious rug. He cleared his throat as he neared the sitting area, and his mother, Angrid, twisted in her chair to see who had come to call.

Though the time spent under Omen’s thrall had altered her, she was as lovely as he remembered. Her warm brown skin still rich but muted. Her long black hair streaked with white.

“Callan,” she gasped, reaching out to him with a faintly trembling hand.

He knelt before her chair, clasping her fragile hand in his own. She had been a warrior when he was a youngling, skilled with a sword and immovable behind a shield wall. Now, Callan questioned whether she could lift the steaming mug of tea sitting on the arm of her chair. She cupped his cheek with her free hand, scanning his face. Callan wondered if he bore any resemblance to the idealistic young male she’d last seen two hundred years before. Life had hardened him in the intervening years. So much so, he struggled to recognize his own reflection at times.

“How handsome you are.” Creases fanned out at the corners of her eyes as she looked upon him, cracked lips stretched thin by her smile. “Like your father.”

Her gaze shifted to a point over his shoulder, and for the first time since entering the room, Callan allowed himself to look at his father. Gunnar sat in the chair behind him, eyes like burnt amber, glassy and unfocused, a thick woven blanket tucked about his lap. Twisting his torso, Callan faced his sire and laid a hand upon his forearm, but Gunnar gave no indication that he felt the touch. Callan shook his head against the unwelcome sting at the corners of his eyes. Incredibly intelligent and capable of commanding the attention and respect of his subjects, his father had always seemed to fill any room he entered. In times of strife, the folk of Nivali had looked to him as a compass; Callan had never seen him look so lost.

“Father?” Callan squeezed gently, his father’s arm little more than bone and wasted muscle beneath the fur-lined robe he wore. “I’m so sorry.”

Gunnar didn’t even blink. Callan broke down then, shoulders slumping as he covered his face, hot tears, long overdue, running down his cheeks.