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He dropped a kiss upon the top of her head. “Twigs are overrated. And I’ve never been fond of air as a main course either.”
Crushing her in his arms, he rolled her beneath him, settling himself between her legs, a flop of dark hair falling across his forehead, his smile as full of sinful promise as ever.
She fought to maintain hold of the wild blaze of emotion engulfing her. She repeated over and over in her head, This cannot last, as she kissed him. The danger remained. It may have retreated into the shadows. She might not feel as if she was running for her life, but she was. They both were. She needed to hold tight to that thought. “Until death do us part” might mean tomorrow when survival hung by a fraying thread.
This wasn’t about making a life together or a home or a family or any of those pretty pictures she held in her mind. This was about Brendan putting right his mistake. If she pretended it was anything more, then that was her fault. Not his.
Driving away her second thoughts with a slow, deep kiss that shot quivers of anticipation straight to her center, he slid his hand up her calf, skimmed her inner thigh. The kiss deepened as he nipped and tongued and teased her senseless while his hand caressed her woman’s place, the wicked play of his fingers making her push up into him in a desperate bid for more. She heard her pleading whimpers, his seductive chuckle as he played her closer and closer to her edge. She threw her head back, rocking up into his hand and then his erection as he sheathed himself inside her.
She moaned his name, the lush subtle cords of desire binding her tighter and tighter. Tremors of building need began at their joining, slowly moving through her veins like honey, an intoxicating erotic abandonment as she locked her legs behind him, moving with him, their rhythm as relaxed as if they had lifetimes to enjoy one another. But there was no link between the subtle possession and the volcanic eruption as she convulsed against him, every muscle down to her toes contracting. The fires still swept her away with devastating ferocity. Tears still stung her eyes, and she still caught herself imagining forever.
“You said you’d found mention of Arthur. Show me,” he said.
They sat up in bed together, though she’d donned a nightgown and bundled her hair into a messy knot at the back of her head, and he’d thrown on a pair of breeches—thank the gods or she’d never be able to concentrate.
At his request, she rolled out of their nest of quilts to retrieve the book. Handing it over as she slid back in beside him.
He checked the title page, widening his eyes in appreciation. “Gilles de Clercq in the original French. You are ambitious,” before turning to the page she’d bookmarked.
Brows drawn low, he scanned the paragraph.
She drew her knees up to her chest as she reread the passages over his shoulder. “It’s the only place I’ve even seen a curse mentioned, though I’m not sure if it applies.”
“Hard to say,” he said without taking his eyes from the page. “So much of what’s been written has been twisted by Duinedon who want to discount Arthur as myth. They’ve pulled threads from the truth and woven them into a story to fit their need. A way to discount the Other. Relegate us to fantasy. Or persecute us as witches.”
His voice took on a bitter edge she’d never heard before, his body growing rigid.
“So the passage doesn’t mean anything?”
He glanced over at her, his gaze troubled, a finger tapping his chin as he considered. “I didn’t say that. I’ve never heard of this Merovingian warlord the author speaks of, but the similarities to Arthur are certainly eerie, aren’t they? Right down to the messy end.” Stretching, he put the book aside with a sigh. Plowed a hand through his hair, unkinked his neck, his gilded muscles rippling beneath his skin, making her itch to caress the warmth of his back.
“It doesn’t matter what I find,” he said, fury threading his words. “I already know how it all turns out. I’ve seen it again and again. A war with the Duinedon will leave the Other broken and scattered at best, hunted and slaughtered at worst.” His hand found hers, their fingers linking. “We’re not immortal. We bleed and we die. And unless I can stop it, we’ll be dying by the thousands.”
“Surely Máelodor knows this. He may want Other dominance, but he must know it can never succeed.”
“He thinks he holds the trump card.” He paused, his jaw jumping, gaze hard as steel. “The Unseelie.”
“But the book said they can’t survive in our world without a human . . .” The truth dawned with a sickening churn of her stomach. “He can’t possibly.”
He shot her a harsh grimace. “He’s convinced they’ll accept his leadership in order to escape their captivity, but they won’t remain subservient for long. They may have been cast out of Ynys Avalenn, but they’re still Fey and no less powerful for being imprisoned.”
Fear cruised her skin in icy waves before sinking into her bones with a panic that chattered her teeth, tumbled her stomach until she wanted to be sick. Her hands fisted under her breasts as if she could calm the ugly jump of her heart.
Máelodor’s defeat by the armies of the Duinedon would destroy the race of Other. His victory, if it came with Unseelie aid, might destroy the world.
She hugged herself, unable to stop the splash of nausea rising into her throat. “How could he even contemplate such a thing? What kind of man comes up with such madness and evil? What kind of monster would conjure such sickening malice?”
Sorrow stabbed his tawny gaze, a flash of grief quickly shuttered as he inhaled on a quick ragged breath. “A man blind to everything but his own abilities and his own pride. But for all that, Lissa, I swear to you, still just a man.”
“You risk much with this interruption.” Máelodor pushed himself up against his pillows, running a hand over his scalp and the strange scaly patches there.
The woman beside him slept on, the straggling black of her hair and one bruised cheek the only bits of her not hidden by a hump of blankets. He ached from the evening’s exertions, but already his cock throbbed for more. Once he dealt with Oss, he would rouse the woman. She’d learned her lesson. She’d submit this time without a struggle. A shame. It meant he’d have to find a different way to prolong his pleasure.
Oss crossed to the bedside, handing over a letter. As usual the albino’s impassive milky gaze barely registered the discarded garments, the tangle of bedclothes or the sleeping whore. Nor with even a flicker of an eyelid did he react to the slow transformation of his master’s body as the Unseelie magics took Máelodor over.
Oss too had learned his lesson well.
Máelo
