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“So why aren’t there teams of people up here? This forest needs excavating. It needs scientists, researchers, data analysts… botanists!” I’m babbling. I’m grabbing onto the world of science like a solace, because people in white lab coats belong to a world reassuringly far removed from here. “It needs to be understood.”
“Because only one person a year goes through this ordeal — two tonight, as apparently you’re so special. Tiny numbers. And anyway, these lands still belong to the Munros. They’d never give permission. It wouldn’t be a great look if it’s ever revealed the Prime Minister owns a magical forest where the local schoolchildren conduct protective rituals every Hallowe’en.”
I don’t have a response to this, but it’s true. Things can remain hidden when you’re powerful enough to make it so, when constructing an image matters above all else. “You could say,” I whisper. “You have authority.”
Luke raises an eyebrow. “And make myself sound even more deranged in the eyes of my detractors? People only start to believe once they see matters for themselves.”
When he notices my disbelief, he gives me a soft look. “I’ve always been open to the possibility of magic.” It’s as benign as commenting on the existence of tadpoles. “It’sSamhain —a date signposted throughout history as the gateway to other perspectives. And besides, it’s what we’ve always been taught. More of us believe than don’t.”
“Finlay—”
“Fin is more often wrong than not,” Luke says, tired. “Sounding convincing, like Benji, is a skill and it’ll take him far. But it doesn’t mean it’s the truth. At least, that’s what I learned from him last year.”
I quieten, analyzing Luke’s backhanded compliment. It doesn’t escape me that, even after all of Finlay’s pleas, he’s comparing Finlay to Benji. Despite their seemingly affable words together, it’s clear Luke doesn’t trust him.
“You can’t honestly think he’ll switch sides?” I ask delicately, adding on Finlay’s behalf, “Because hewon’t. I’m sure of it.”
Luke is silent for a long time, to the point I don’t think he’s going to respond. But then he says in a soft voice loaded with deep and private hurt, “He sold me out.”
Swallowing, I find I have nothing to say. In groups, Luke has always been adamant that Finlay’s actions were old news. But when we’re alone… his whispers are what he truly believes.
There’s nothing more Finlay can do to ease Luke’s pain — it’s a matter for time itself to heal.
The forest floor has narrowed in the time we’ve been talking, and to my feet it seems we must have been walking all night. The world remains lightless and claustrophobic, full of towering trees and devils within. My bones ache and my skin is permanently pimpled with gooseflesh from the cold. But then I swear I hear something hopeful, something I’m not sure I ever heard during my ritual last year: the sound of rushing water.
I tug on Luke’s arm enthusiastically and make a soft noise of joy, but he’s stopped in the middle of the forest floor. He gazes around at the treetops, spinning slowly as though looking for a perpetrator.
“What’s happening?” I ask urgently, but Luke must be deep into whatever is playing out in front of him because he gives no indication he’s even heard me.
“It’s soloud!” he yells, jolting in the eerie peace of the forest at night. Luke never yells. Anguish lines his face. “Shut up! Shut up! Shutup!” His voice is thunderous, like he’s trying to make himself heard over a crowd of people. But again, the only sound in the forest is Luke and the very faint trickle of water in the background. He touches his temples, massaging them first before sliding his palms over his ears. “I can’t… I can’t concentrate.” Although he’s still loud, it’s quieter than before, the equivalent of muttering to himself, and I watch as Luke sinks into a crouched position, looking small and pained as though he can’t take any more of whatever he hears. “Make it stop,” he eventually whispers. “Please make it stop.”
I squat down automatically, brushing away fallen leaves and branches, and pull Luke close to me. He resists at first, fighting me off with a series of agonized whimpers, and I wonder — I wonder what could have reduced a prince to this, cowering on a forest floor, acting as though he awaits his doom.
“It’s not real,” I tell him again and again, but I know he’s caught in the depths of something horrific. I know my voice is but a blip to him, if that. His palms are slammed against his ears, squeezing into his head to the point of pain, and he rocks forward and back as though trying to escape what he hears.
It’s disturbing. It’s a sight I never expected to see, and for Luke to be cut down and degenerating in front of my eyes like this is almost as bad as those hanged bodies in the trees.
Gently, I push his sternum so that he lies on his back. I hold his head, my hands clasping his palms before peeling them from his ears. He cries and writhes beneath me as though I poured boiling water over him. His body wriggles and jerks manically. I place my own hands against his ears, pressing tight, but not tight enough to damage him as his hands had been doing. “Shhh,” I whisper, feeling hopeless. I’ve never seen anyone act this way, like a tortured animal on the verge of death. I wonder if Luke’s screams are loud enough to carry across to the castle.
I cover his ears astutely, trying to eradicate his demons. It feels wrong to do this now, and there’s something tremendously off-putting about his blood-curdling shrieks, but I lower my mouth to Luke’s. “Please,” I whisper, a small chant against his lips. “Please come back. Please come back to me.” I press my lips against his, and although he jerks away at first, he soon turns his head back in my direction and kisses me yearningly, with all the force and passion contained behind his screams pouring instead into our kiss.
His mouth, and there’s no other word for it,bitesinto me. It isn’t a kiss, it’s a fight, an attack, a melding of mouths. Lips skate across skin, teeth gnaw into my chin, wetness slicks across my face like dew. It’s animalistic anger and dreams of desperation. It’s power and lust and fury. It’s utterly raw in a way I never knew Luke could be — perhaps couldn’teverbe, were he fully aware of himself — because while Luke is many things, he has never once been rough with me.
He is now. His mouth is a weapon, cruelty that savages my face. Luke gnashes up at me, all teeth and tongue behind his usually generous, adoring mouth. He desecrates my panting face before continuing to assault my throat. He tears into my skin, brutal at the exposed point above the knot of my Lochkelvin tie, feasting on the apple of my throat as though it were real, as though piercing it would provide the juice he desperately wants to suck out of me. It’s messy, it’s sinful, and I’ll be covered with bite marks for days, yet I’m filled with the most deviant kind of bliss.
He yanks at my hips until I’m sitting on top of him, hands clutching my hipbones and fingers piercing into my skin as he steers me like a fucktoy against his cock. He grinds his erection against me, a steel-hard and pained show of desire, as his hips jerk frantically into my cunt, with none of the smooth refined culture with which I associate Luke. He’s vicious. He’s feral. He’s a creature of the forest made real and addicted — to me. Behind the damp of my flushed skin, my throat catches. He’s never been single-minded like this, so swift and ruthless in claiming me for his selfish pleasure. It makes me wonder — is this part of Luke real? Is it true?
And what does it say about me that I want the answer to be yes?
