Aequus

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  “Now, at the same time you wash away the mud from your photo, you need to picture Freya in your mind, aye?”

  “Okay.” I place the saucer under the water stream and watch as the dirt mixes with the clean water and swirls as it disappears down the drain.

  The entire time, I picture Freya.

  “See your current appearance draining away harmlessly into the earth. The image in Serena’s mind is the image that she shall find,” Branna chants next to me, on repeat.

  “What in the realm is going on here?” Queen Ophelia’s angered voice filters in, causing me to jump and drop the saucer into the sink. It shatters against the steel.

  We turn our attention to the irate queen and the warrior standing by her side. Rionach stares at me, a question in his eyes.

  Zander inclines his head, and the rest of us mirror the respectful gesture to the queen and her husband.

  Ophelia’s eyes find mine and widen, which has me nervous. Immediately, Tristan steps in front of me.

  “What are you two doing here?” he asks.

  “Looking for you, Tristan,” her tone is stern.

  “Me?” he questions.

  “I feared you had forgotten that you have a wedding to attend tomorrow, as I have not seen you since you ran out of your engagement gala the night before last. An unattractive pattern you seem to have picked up as of late, this . . . disappearing from realm celebrations held in your honor, leaving behind your betrothed.”

  “Apologies, mother, I was just—”

  She holds up her hand to stop him. “Don’t bother. I know what you were just,” she says, giving him a pointed look.

  A heaviness falls and lingers among the group.

  “Where is Serena?” Rionach asks in a rich voice.

  I move around Tristan and my lips part to speak, but Zander’s wide-eyed stare stops me, suggesting I shouldn’t.

  Tristan clears his throat. “Serena sends her regrets. She was summoned back to the Academy due to the sudden and unexpected deaths of the chancellor and his secretary.”

  Queen Ophelia flattens her hands on her stomach and pales. “A most unfortunate occurrence for the protectors.”

  “Yes, well—” he trails off.

  “And who is this, son?” Rionach points to Branna.

  Zander slides over to the witch and takes her hand.

  “This is Branna, a friend. She will be joining me tomorrow for the wedding in Serena’s absence.”

  Queen Ophelia steps over to Branna, who offers her a toothy smile. “Your Majesty, it is an honor,” she says.

  The queen eyes her. “What realm do you hail from?”

  “Ireland. I prefer the human realm over the supernatural ones,” she replies.

  The queen’s unimpressed eyes shift to Zander. “Please tell me that a second courtship will not be asked of me.”

  “No, Your Majesty. Branna and I are just friends. My heart belongs to a very special gargoyle.” His statement is meant to allude to me, but I know he means Magali.

  Ophelia steps in front of Tristan and me. “Freya, we missed you at your fitting this morning.”

  Her brows rise, perplexed by my silence.

  Zander and Tristan both cough.

  I guess the spell worked and I now look like Freya.

  Awesome.

  And super fucking weird.

  “Princess?” Ophelia attempts, and I flinch at the title.

  Seeing my reaction, the queen’s eyes narrow. I curtsy and stumble to recover. “Apologies, Your Majesty.”

  “Are you all right, Freya? You don’t seem quite yourself.”

  Rionach steps to the queen’s side and smiles down at me with a quick wink. “I’m sure she’s fine. Just a bit nervous about tomorrow’s events. Isn’t that right . . . Freya?”

  I nod, grateful for the rescue.

  The queen’s gaze stays on me for a moment before shifting to Tristan. “Walk me out, son.”

  “Of course,” he waves his hand for her to go first.

  Rionach follows closely behind them. They step onto the front porch, leaving the door open slightly, and with my heightened hearing, I listen in on their final exchange.

  “You will be present tomorrow, won’t you?” she asks.

  “Yes, Mother. I’ll be present at my own wedding,” Tristan replies, in an almost teasing manner.

  “Rionach, dear, may I have a moment with my son?”

  “Of course.” He disappears, leaving them in privacy.

  Ophelia faces Tristan, her expression downhearted yet maternal as she places her palm on his cheek. She leans in so that she can speak in a soft tone. “Hear me now as your mother, and not the queen. You must take care, my brave son, or you will bleed for a girl who will never be yours.”

  We step forward, under the canopy of a thousand branches, and take in the sight in front of us. I breathe in, telling myself that this is not a trick of my eyes, but reality. An army of warriors stand before us, spanning as far as the eye can see.

  Their swords are drawn as they stand at attention, waiting to follow their commander into battle. To fight for their realm and bleed for their king should the need arise.

  Behind us, a stirring in the air rises, making itself known. Something blacker than the darkness that appears when war is on the horizon. The veil of gloom holds firm, alerting me that the dark army is close by, ready. Waiting.

  “May I introduce the Lion Guard,” Tristan says.

  “Your army is insane,” I quiet my tone. “Why are they called the Lion Guard?”

  Zander points to Tristan. “They protect the lion.”

  “The lion is the Paris clan of gargoyles’ symbol,” he explains, with his gaze on his army. “My blood may be mixed, and I may not carry the lion on my back, like Gage, but Rionach wanted me to have a connection to the lion. In my heart, at my core, in my blood, I am a gargoyle.”

  His words stir a hunger within me. He turns his head and looks at me, but doesn’t react. He only stares back at me with the same look of desire I have for him, our eyes locked.

  Tristan’s scent hovers heavily in the air. A warm breeze wraps me in his scent. I want him. I long for him to touch me so much that it aches. My skin tingles everywhere as his eyes roam over my body before landing back on my gaze.

  “For fuck’s sake, would the two of you stop? I’m standing right here,” Zander whines, pulling us out of the moment.

  A shaky breath escapes me as Tristan and I both turn our attention back to the mass of men and women below us.

  “What does Rionach think they’re doing out here?”

  Zander chuckles. “Practicing safety drills and formalities in preparation for your big day tomorrow.”

  I feel Zander’s turn on eyes on me. “B-T-W, I’m not going to lie, champ, it’s creepy that you look just like Freya now.”

  I narrow my eyes. “B-T-W, it’s just for show. I’m still me.”

  “So, if I grab your boob, is it your boob or Freya’s?”

  I sigh. “Mine. Still. Me.”

  He smiles wickedly. “Just checking.”

  “Branna get back to Ireland?” Tristan asks Zander.

  “Yeah. She’ll be back tomorrow, just in case the spell goes wacky and Serena shimmers back into, well, Serena.”

  “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” I shiver.

  “You two do realize that tomorrow is a real wedding?” Zander points out. “Flowers, guests, champagne, vows, etc. If you’re still you, won’t you two technically be married?”

  My pulse jumps nervously at the idea of being married.

  I hadn’t even thought of it as a possibility before.

  “Just pointing out the obvious,” Zander winks.

  “Leave us,” Tristan demands.

  With a knowing smile, Zander shakes his head, amused, and runs off into the sea of lion guards awaiting his command.

  Panic crawls up my throat at the thought of what will happen tomorrow, and suddenly breathing is hard. I close my eyes and t
ry to draw in air, but it’s not working. Zander is right. If I say the vows, even glamoured as Freya, technically I—me, Serena—am the one marrying Tristan. Fear suddenly grips me.

  “Breathe,” Tristan whispers in my ear.

  “I can’t,” I barely manage to say.

  “Serena,” he says, but his voice feels far away.

  All of a sudden, I’m overcome with the need to escape.

  The desire to run away—from him, the glamour, the realm, everything—wins out and without thought, I turn.

  Unsure of where I’m going, I stumble through the forest and ignore the sound of Tristan’s voice calling for me.

  Instead of stopping and waiting for him to catch up, I keep moving forward. After a while, I tire and clumsily trip over a large branch, falling face first into a section of the forest floor that is covered with heavy dark brown mud.

  Worn out and overcome with apprehension, I drop back into the muddy earth and wait, knowing he’s approaching.

  I feel him before I even look up, his presence hovering in the air. My lashes lift, and he watches me lay in the wet dirt with no expression on his face.

  “Your response to the idea of marrying me was . . .” Tristan pauses, searching. “Unexpected.”

  I lift my mud-covered arm and drop it over my face, hiding from him. No doubt the mud is now smeared all over me.

  “I’m scared of frogs,” I mumble.

  “I know that.”

  “It’s why I don’t like fairytales.”

  “Not surprising.”

  “I can be insecure at times.”

  “Not a shock.”

  “I’m very stubborn.”

  “Not new information.”

  “I hate pizza.”

  “Well, clearly, that is a reason not to get married.”

  “I leave wet towels everywhere.”

  “I have a housekeeper.”

  I lift my arm and glare at him for mentioning Maria.

  He smirks. “Are you done yet?”

  I push up and lean back on my elbows.

  “I’m not even me. I’m spelled to look like someone else.”

  Tristan crouches down and unsticks a mud-covered strand of my hair from my face. “All I see is you, raindrop.”

  I open my mouth to respond, just as his lips slam against mine. The force causes him to slip in the mud. Without releasing my lips, his arms drop to either side of me, preventing the weight of his body from crushing me.

  I fall back onto the ground, spreading my legs so his body can settle between them and cover my body with his.

  The moment our lips touch, every fear I was holding on to fractures, replaced by a raw, basic desire to claim him as mine. My mouth is desperate as it glides across his. His full lips are demanding. Heat travels through me, down my spine and between my legs. I shove my mud-covered hands into his hair, pulling him closer to me, and yet, it’s not enough. His tongue slips past my lips and an animalistic moan escapes from my throat. He reacts immediately to the sound, his own dirtied fingers digging into my hips, drawing me into his body as our kisses turn from needy to frantic. The damp, wet earth cools my overheated skin.

  My legs clamp around his waist, the mud making it hard to keep a firm grip on him. I feel Tristan’s hands under my ass, lifting me up into a sitting position, while he continues devouring my mouth. He stands, lifting me with him. My legs tighten around his waist and my arms wrap around his neck as he flattens me against the smooth trunk of a tree.

  Through his jeans, I can feel him hard and ready. My body responds by arching into him. At the reaction, he releases a low growl, and the world around us just disappears. Suddenly, I can breathe again. The panic is gone, replaced by the feeling of being home.

  His hands move under my skirt, cupping my ass. I lift my knees higher, the heel of my knee-high boot catching on one of his empty belt loops. His lips withdraw from mine, but stay close enough so that his heavy breaths fan my face.

  Warm fingers slide under the fabric of my panties and my eyes roll back at his touch. He kneads my ass cheeks, and steps farther between my legs, lining us up perfectly.

  Tristan leans into the crook of my neck, biting and licking, and I lose all sense of myself as desire surges and my fingers drop to the top of his pants, unbuttoning them.

  I slip past his boxers, my fingers finding the length of him. At my touch, Tristan’s groans are loud and deep. My fingers glide over the silky, smooth, warm skin, and he pushes me harder against the tree with each stroke.

  His fingers dig into my ass in pleasure.

  Seeing his reaction to my touch makes me feel powerful.

  “Fuck.” His voice is thick and full of need.

  As my hand explores him, he takes in staggering breaths. He pushes the lace fabric of my panties to the side. I draw the tip of him to me and his forehead meets mine, his eyes focused on me as his hands slide over the back of my thighs, pulling my knees higher. The leather of my boots rubs his upper arms, and the material of my flowing skirt bunches on my thighs and drapes over my legs.

  In one thrust he’s inside me, and my head falls back, hitting the smooth bark on the tree. My mouth falls open to make a sound, but nothing comes out. Without moving his body, Tristan lifts a hand and tucks a piece of my muddy hair behind my ear. His head dips lower. His mouth is so close to mine it taunts me. His hand grazes the inside of my thigh and I shiver under his touch, filled by him. My hands skate down, landing on his ass, the muscles flexed under his skin.

  I gasp into his mouth as he claims mine again. My fingernails dig into his skin and my muscles tighten around him, pulling him farther and farther in. Everything in me is bursting with need for him to move. And then he does.

  Without pulling out, he dives deeper inside me, hitting my core. I arch against him and my body clamps down on him, greedily accepting the depth to which he buries himself inside of me with each thrust. I let him take me, against the tree, out in the open, over and over again, for anyone and everyone to see that he’s claiming me.

  It’s sweaty. It’s aggressive. It’s almost brutal in the way our hands grab and our bodies fight to get closer and take more of one another. It’s perfect. It’s beautiful. It’s us.

  He moves at a calculated pace, building friction and pleasure. With each thrust, he dives harder and deeper. With each thrust we claim one another, feeding our bond.

  And when my body flutters and spasms around him, gifting me release, I scream his name and it echoes across his realm.

  The sound causes him to find his own release. Even as the last spasm runs through him, he remains inside me. For a few moments, we both just stand here, breathing heavily and covered in sex, sweat, and dirt. I feel boneless.

  My hands run over his lips and face, smudging his skin with black, and I notice the amount of drying mud on me.

  “I’m so dirty,” I pant out.

  A cocky grin appears on his swollen lips.

  “Yeah, raindrop, you certainly are dirty.”

  Tristan

  DARKNESS HAS DESCENDED AND I’M ON edge. Without waking Serena, I sit up, throw my bare legs over the side of the bed, and stare out the glass doors onto the lake. Tonight, the moon seems larger and brighter than it ever has before. It’s almost as if I can reach out and touch it. Even its reflection off the water seems grander and more intense.

  Serena sighs softly in her sleep. I look over my shoulder and take her in, admiring how the silvery-white glow streaming in through the doors lights up her pretty face.

  Slowly, I move my fingers, tracing along the edge of her cheeks and jawline, soaking up the feel of her skin against my fingertips. Two of my fingers glide over her neck, and I stop to caress the pulse beating calmly on the side of her throat. Nothing will ever compare to the feel of her life steadily pulsating under my touch. Nothing.

  Today there was a tangible shift between the two of us. It went beyond sex. It went beyond wanting what we shouldn’t. There is a simple acceptance now that it’s not her
or me, it’s us. Good or bad. We’re finally in this together no matter what the outcome might be. We’re a team. Equals.

  Her eyes flutter open lazily and she gazes up into my eyes with a sleepy, glazed look in hers. With my thumb I brush under one, noticing for the first time the cognac flecks spreading within the sapphire blue. My chest squeezes.

  “Hey,” she breathes out, and all I can do is stare at her.

  This beautiful, smart, fierce, stubborn, strong protector is mine. Truly mine. In every sense of the word. And what’s more, I am hers. She owns me. Every fiber in me is hers.

  Picking up a piece of her soft hair, I twirl it between my fingers. “Go back to sleep, raindrop,” I breathe out quietly.

  “You okay?” she asks with a soft voice.

  Her fingers reach out and lightly trace the tattoo of her decorating my upper arm. Her gentle touch shakes my core.

  “No,” I rasp.

  A frown crosses her lips and she pushes up, resting her head on one elbow. She leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on my back. “What’s wrong? Are you uneasy about tomorrow?” she asks, her fingers running down the skin on my spine. My muscles spasm under her caress. “If so, don’t be. You have a royal gargoyle protecting you. You’re safe.”

  I ignore the tease. “I’m not worried about the attack.”

  “Then, what?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Me?”

  Silently, she sits up and slides closer to me. Her uncovered legs fall on either side of me, caging me in as she presses her chest against my back. Once she’s comfortable, she rests her lips on my shoulder and her hands on my biceps. The cotton of her tank top is soft against my exposed skin, and my body soaks in the heat coming off her.

  “Talk to me,” she whispers across my skin.

  My eyes focus on the inky, star-kissed sky, with her wrapped around my body, cocooning me in a safe embrace.

  “You freaked out earlier. And while the ancient protector vows won’t be said tomorrow, the satyr ones will be. It might be for show, but for me, it means something.”

  She stills. The even breaths that were tickling my skin are gone as she holds her breath. I wait, knowing she’s processing.

  “What are you saying?” Her voice is barely audible.