Veins of Magic

by Emma Hamm

  She was a gift he did not deserve.

  They walked out of the castle onto the cliffs at the back. The sun was weak this time of year, the usually unbearable heat tempered by a crisp autumn breeze.

  Salt spray stung his cheeks, but invigorated his soul. Eamonn had always loved the ocean. It was the only part of his banishment to Hy-brasil that made it slightly tolerable.

  Seagulls soared overhead, their screaming cries quiet compared to the hush of waves crashing against the shore far below them. He hadn’t realized the cliff on the other edge of the castle was so dangerous.

  “Here we are!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  “It is.”

  He was no longer looking at the surf or the stunning cloud formations. He was staring at her.

  The wind brushed her curls over her cheeks, her full lips parted in appreciation of the beauty all around them. The half smile he so loved quirked her lips to the side. He’d seen them frown, grin, speak rapidly, everything that a person could do. And he would never stop watching her until the day she died.

  Her linen dress fluttered in the delicate breeze. She had to be cold, but she didn’t shiver at all. Instead, she caught him staring and laughed.

  Sorcha lifted her arms to the side, dropped her head back, and let the sun play across her face. The wind scooped underneath her arms, trailing along the length of her sides. She was beautiful, wild, and all his.

  Unable to resist, he stepped behind her and followed the path the wind had taken. The dip of her waist was so intriguing although he could not understand why. His fingers spread over her belly and he stooped to breathe in her scent.

  Strawberries and sunshine. She always smelled the same, no matter what she had gotten into that day. How was it possible for a woman to work all day and still smell like sugar?

  She spread her fingers over his. Each tiny imprint seared through the back of his hand and deep through the crystals that spread throughout his body like wildfire.

  They were growing again. He wasn’t certain to tell her or if he even should. She would only worry.

  Eamonn had always known that the crystals would continue to harm him. He had never truly thought about how they worked. They pieced him back together when he was injured and that was enough.

  Now, he wondered just how far they would heal. A poisoned blade would sink into his bloodstream and spread throughout his entire body. Would the crystals follow that path? Would he be reduced to little more than a statue?

  He rested his head atop hers, stooping slightly to accommodate for her small size, and focused on what was around him. There were so many things to be thankful for. He would be a fool to not appreciate them while he had them.

  He sighed, stirring the sprigs of red curls. “What did you have planned?”

  “A lunch with just the two of us.”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  “I had hoped it would be.” She looked up and caught him with her gaze. “You’ll have to let go of me.”

  He didn’t want to. She belonged within his embrace and nowhere else. But he also understood these weren’t rational thoughts. With a sigh, he released her.

  She sank onto her knees and opened her woven basket. The scrap of red fabric was a blanket she spread across the ground, patting gently to remind him that he could also sit.

  It all seemed strange.

  Eamonn frowned, but sat down next to her. “We’re eating on the ground?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are perfectly good tables within the castles.”

  “Don’t you remember taking women out into the wilds? To eat among the birds?”

  “Vaguely.” He leaned back on an elbow and hooked his ankles. “That was back when I thought I could woo a woman with pretty words.”

  “Really?” Sorcha made herself busy sorting through the basket, but he could see she was intrigued. “Were you quite dashing?”

  “All faerie men think they are poets.”

  “I cannot imagine you as a poet,” she said with a chuckle.

  He was almost insulted. Plucking a blade of grass from nearby, he stuck it between his lips and stared her down. “Why’s that?”

  “You don’t seem the kind of man who would take the time to string together words. You’re more the type to back a woman into a corner and kiss her senseless.”

  “It’s what I did with you.”

  “Precisely.”

  She thought she knew him so well. He almost wanted to let her believe it of him, for that was who he was now. Eamonn had become that man after three hundred years in faerie courts. His father once said that men had to sow their wild oats long before they became intelligent royals.

  “I trained as a general my entire life, but I was not always on the battlefield.”

  “You weren’t?” Her jaw dropped. “I thought you weren’t like your brother.”

  “We both went through similar training when we were children and young men.”

  “How young?”

  “Three or four hundred years, give or take a few centuries I cannot remember.”

  “What did you do then?” She gave up on the basket and turned completely towards him. Her legs crossed, skirts akimbo as she leaned forward for a story. “Tell me, Stone King, what kinds of poetry would you use to woo a woman?”

  “I have no use for those words any longer.”

  “Of course you do! I want to hear them Eamonn.”

  He didn’t want to speak them. His ears heated, turning bright red under her scrutiny. “You’d laugh.”

  She clapped her hands on her thighs in disappointment. “So you aren’t good with words then. You’d wax on about her cornflower eyes and laughter that sounds of bells, wouldn’t you? The same poetry every man thinks will win a woman’s heart.”

  “You know these tricks?”

  “Every man has tried to use them on my sisters or I.” Sorcha rolled her eyes. “They never work.”

  “You compare me to human men?”

  “What else should I compare you to? I haven’t heard any faerie men recite poetry.”

  He pursed his lips. She thought he was similar to any man she had ever had before? It was a pity these humans were so pathetic.

  Eamonn grabbed her hand so quickly that she gasped. Her eyes wide, she stared at him as he brought her knuckles to his lips.

  “When I was young, I would have told you that I heard your voice in the song of the sea. That in your absence, the scent of strawberries filled me with yearning for your hair, your lips, the white moons of your fingertips.” He stared down at her hand in his, stroked her palm gently with his nails.

  “Eamonn—”

  “I am no longer the faerie prince with soft words. My poetry for you is a vow. The world may burn down around us, but nary a flame shall touch thy beloved flesh. The ocean may swallow the land, but I shall be your ship and feed you sweet air. A sword may try to cut you down, but I will bear all your wounds. I have lived a thousand years in the dark, waiting for the rays of your sunlight.”

  Her ragged breaths filled his heart with a longing he could not explain. He desired her, but not her body. He wanted her thoughts, her dreams, her wishes, her future. Every bit of her was his, and he wanted to mark it all.

  “That was beautiful,” she murmured.

  “I told you all faerie men are poets at heart.”

  “That was not poetry. That was you.”

  Their gazes caught, and he forgot what they were even speaking of. Her eyes blazed, singing her love. He wished he was as good as the best faerie poet.

  She deserved every sonnet he could write. Those days were long gone, but Eamonn wished he could go back. Even for a few moments.

  Clearing his throat, he nodded towards the basket. “What did you bring, mo chroí?”

  “Oh.” She dragged it towards her. “A little something I thought you’d appreciate.”

  Sorcha pulled out a loaf of bread, warm steam still puffing from its surface. A small jar of
honey and cream, more for him than her. He knew she didn’t like the sweet gold. And finally, she pulled out a small wrapped bundle that she revealed to hold fresh strawberries.

  He leaned forward and pulled one out of her hand. “Where did you get these?”

  “I asked Cian for a favor.”

  “He grew you strawberries out of season?”

  She shrugged. “I might have pushed for them.”

  “You wicked thing.” He bit into the soft flesh, savoring the sweet taste that danced over his tongue. Nearly as lovely as her, but not quite so satisfying.

  He felt her eyes on him. The memories they shared lit a fire deep in his belly.

  “Are you not eating?” he asked.

  “I was enjoying the view.”

  It was almost too easy to pluck a strawberry from her grasp and hold it to her lips. “Bite.”

  For once in her life, she did not argue. He nearly groaned as her white teeth bit into the red flesh, soft lips barely touching his fingertips.

  As the first time, a small trickle of wine red juice trickled from her mouth and traveled over her chin. It ran down the long column of her neck to nestle in the hollow of her collarbone.

  “I thought I would die the first time you ate strawberries,” he groaned. “Now I am certain of it.”

  “Why is that?”

  She knew. She had to know why he was so enamored with a woman covered in his favorite taste. Woman and forbidden fruit.

  A growl vibrated in his throat. He pushed her until she lay on her back, hair splayed out like a sunset. Leaning down, he licked from the valley of her neck to the base of her chin.

  “You are a dangerous woman.”

  “Am I?”

  “You consume my thoughts.”

  “You poor man.”

  “I cannot even train my soldiers without wondering what you are doing, who you are with—” He fisted his hand in her linen skirt, tugging hard enough to make her gasp. “What you are wearing.”

  “Likely hand-me-downs.”

  “The most tantalizing clothes I have ever seen on a woman.”

  “I borrowed them.”

  “As long as you wear them, I don't care,” he moaned. His fingers moved, bunching the fabric in his palm so that it rose higher and higher over her milky white thighs. “You could wear a blood soaked cloak and I would still want you.”

  “Oh, don’t say that my love, I may test you.”

  “Test all you want, but not today.”

  He pressed his lips against her shoulder, moving the fabric of her dress as he went. He knew she enjoyed the way his crystals scraped against her skin. The tiny movements she made were the ultimate victory.

  Eamonn had always thought a woman in the throes of passion to be a wondrous sight. He spent centuries learning every inch, every trick to pleasure them. But each one was a unique pearl. A book that must be read, correctly and frequently to fully understand. He was a very attentive student.

  Letting the rough edge of his lower lip drag just below the rise of her collarbone, he breathed onto the damp trail he had made.

  She whimpered.

  “I love how sensitive you are,” he said while pressing kisses lower and lower. “No matter what I do, you react.”

  “You’ve done little to disappoint.”

  “I am flattered.”

  He trailed his hand up the rise of her hip, pressed his palm flat against her belly, and slid between her breasts. Front ties held her dress together. He sent a prayer to whatever god had looked out for him.

  “Eamonn,” she gasped. “What if someone sees?”

  “Let them look, mo chroí. They will not bother us on the one afternoon we have together.”

  She must have planned this the entire time. The knots were loose at the front and came free easily. He parted the fabric and bared her to his eyes.

  “Exquisite,” he said. “It was the first thing I noticed about you.”

  “My breasts?” She sounded almost angry.

  Eamonn shook his head and bit his lip. “No, mo chroí.”

  He smoothed his hands over the pale, smooth skin of her shoulders. He dug in just enough to squeeze her muscles. The fine bones captivated him.

  “You are a storm of a soul contained in a glass bottle. So fragile and easily harmed, yet powerful in every other way.” His shoulders rocked in a shudder. “You take my breath away.”

  She clutched at his biceps, tiny nails digging into his skin with sudden fervor. “Eamonn, do something.”

  “As my lady commands.”

  He dipped down, nibbling at the delicate swells laid out before him like a banquet. She writhed beneath him. He knew she was ready, but he was not done tormenting his own little prize. Not just yet.

  Reaching for the woven basket, he uncorked the bottle of honey. She gasped as the soft liquid spilled over her chest.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Enjoying the meal you’ve provided.”

  “What?” Her voice sounded hazy. “I didn’t—”

  “Hush, Sorcha.”

  His tongue swirled through the golden elixir, coating his tongue with sugar and woman. She had no way of knowing what honey meant to the Fae. That this substance was as much an aphrodisiac as it was food.

  He sucked a rosy bud into his mouth, spreading the honey until he couldn’t tell where she began and where the sweet started. It didn’t matter in the end. She shivered underneath him. Her thighs dropped open, and he filled the void with a surge of motion that brought her tighter against him.

  Releasing his prize, he turned to the other with a growl that rivaled an animal. He could hardly believe how much he desired her. His heart throbbed his chest, lungs heaved with movement, and he strained against the tight fabric of his breeches. It had never been this way with a woman before.

  Only her.

  She arched her back, demanding his attention with a subtle movement he understood. Her body was a language he was dedicated to learning.

  He brushed her skirts to the side and slid a hand between them. Her core throbbed, slick and satin soft as he had always remembered it. His entire body shook with the force holding him in check. Groaning, he released her and shook his head.

  “You turn me into little more than an untrained boy! I should torment you for hours.”

  “I would surely die!”

  They were the words he had hoped to hear. Eamonn fumbled desperately with the ties of his breeches, freeing himself with a relieved sigh.

  He would need to be mindful of his crystals. He reminded himself every time that she was delicate, her skin easily breakable, her bones fragile. But she dug her nails into his shoulders and moaned for him to hurry.

  How was a man to keep his head?

  He flexed his hips and eased into the slick heat of her. They both threw their heads back in ecstasy. She moaned his name, and he clenched the muscles of his jaw so hard he heard his teeth creak.

  Sorcha was home. Every inch of her, whether he was inside her, beside her, or so far away that he could no longer catch the scent of her on the wind. Home had been a place he had fought and searched for. Centuries had passed with many people and places passing by.

  Eamonn had never realized home could be a person. He hadn’t known how a single smile, a curl wrapped his finger, a graceful arch of a foot could change his life forever.

  He moved, slowly drawing them both closer and closer to the peak. But it wasn’t right, not yet.

  He leaned down and smoothed the hair away from her forehead. Her beautiful eyes opened, meeting his stern gaze without fear.

  “I pledge myself to you.” His breath fanned across her lips as the tempo of their bodies quickened. “Everywhere you go, I shall follow. You are the only light in my life, the beacon at the end of a long and winding road. Together we will be more than lovers, husband and wife, king and queen. We are a thousand years of want and desire and love. So much love.”

  “Together,” she repeated and pressed a delicate kiss
upon his lips.

  A jolt of fire and lightning raced through his body until he pressed his forehead against hers and joined her as they burst into a thousand stars. He imagined that in the wild rush of passion that he sewed her stars into his own to create a cloak of midnight that would forever keep him warm.

  “Mo chroí.” He pressed a kiss against her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. “My heart beats for you.”

  They lounged on the cliff edge until the sun set and the stars blinked to life above them. Sorcha didn’t want to leave. Every second that they had together was infinitely precious.

  She shivered. Cold air sank through the thin fabric of her dress and dug claws into her bones. She tucked herself deeper into his embrace and sighed.

  “Do we need to go inside?” he rumbled.

  “It is growing cold.”

  “Delicate little human.”

  “Druid,” she reminded him. He rolled her onto her back, smiling down at her with a soft expression she never tired of seeing.

  “Druid,” he agreed. “How could I ever forget?”

  “It’s rather easy when you’re so distracted.”

  “Am I?”

  She followed the ragged edge of a crystal fissure from his forehead down to his lip. “Perhaps not as distracted as you were this afternoon.”

  He nipped at her fingers. “Don’t tempt me.”

  Temptation was the definition of him. Her heart throbbed every time she looked at him. They were different here in this castle than they had been on Hy-brasil. Responsibilities filled their lives and finding time together was difficult.

  The time they found was rare, and therefore all the more special.

  She shivered again and laughed. “I’m sorry, mo chroí. I need to warm up. Unless you magically have a jacket?”

  “No jacket.”

  He rolled to his feet and held out a hand for her. “Then let us find you a fire.”

  “Or a bed with blankets.”

  “Not yet satisfied?”

  “Thoroughly satisfied, but finding myself still hungry.”

  He scooped her up into his arms and carried her back through the castle. She laughed as he struck the door like a battering ram. The sheer power of his body was impressive, yet he was infinitely gentle with her.

  They raced through the halls, hiding in the shadows when a faerie passed them. His hearing was far stronger than hers. He listened for their footsteps, for the sound of their breath, and ducked behind drapes to avoid them.