The Sharpest Blade ml-3

by Sandy Williams

  But I swallow back all the words I want to say and force out an apology. “I’m sorry, Lorn.”

  His smile widens. “Ah, so the shadow-witch does want something from me. How intriguing.”

  “I was just apolo—”

  “No need to deny it, my dear,” he interrupts. “Everyone wants something. Perhaps I can provide it.”

  I glance away, shaking my head out of disbelief more than denial. Lorn can’t help being a jerk sometimes.

  After a quick look back into the living room to see that Aren’s still talking to Kynlee, I turn back to Lorn. There are several questions I want to ask him, like how to block out a fae on the other end of a life-bond, but I definitely don’t want Lorn learning I’m linked to Kyol. So I settle on my other question.

  “I need to know if Lord Hison or anyone else is blackmailing Aren.”

  Lorn laughs way too loudly. “I’ll answer that one for free: no.”

  “No?” I echo. “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure,” he says. “He can’t be blackmailed. Trust me, I tried. Don’t look so surprised, McKenzie. How do you think he became known as the Butcher of Brykeld so quickly? His only fault in that massacre was ordering the wrong person to create a distraction while he attacked his real target. I’d already made threats to hurt the rebels’ cause by marring his name if he didn’t do a few favors for me, so when he continued to refuse”—Lorn lifts his hand in a what-was-I-to-do gesture—“I had no choice but to stretch the truth a little.”

  “And you wonder why we questioned your role in the war? I still don’t know if we can trust you.”

  “Oh, you most assuredly can now,” Lorn says. “I want the false-blood dead. I want his head in a bag and his body rotting in the sun.”

  The casual delivery of that last part makes my skin crawl. Lorn isn’t joking, and he’s not being unusually cruel. Severing a fae’s head is the only way to prevent the body and soul from entering the ether. It’s a cruel punishment, but without seeing a corpse, the only way to tell if a fae has truly died is by finding a fae who can sense the other side. That magic is extremely rare, though, and the fae has to have personal contact with the person who’s passed on.

  “You helped him in the past, though,” I say to Lorn. “The only reason you’re here now is because he learned you could find me.”

  His eyebrows go up in feigned offense. “And people accuse me of being egocentric. He didn’t turn on me because of you. He turned on me because I refused to kill my cows.”

  What? I give him a skeptical look.

  “I told you many of the Taelith’s elari are from Lyechaban,” he says. “He has to appease them, give them a good show so they think he hates humans as much as they do. But when he ordered me to destroy everything Earth-made that I’ve brought to the Realm, I very politely told him he could go rot in the Barren. Apparently, he took offense at that.”

  “How surprising,” Lena’s flat voice comes from behind me. Sosch hops off my lap when I turn and see her standing just inside the sunroom.

  “I assure you,” Lorn says, “I was quite surprised. If I’d known he planned to—”

  “You would have still made a deal with him,” Lena cuts him off. “I’ve known you a long time, Lorn. Your insistence on putting a price on everything is the reason you’re here. You strike bargains with everyone you meet, manipulating as much of an advantage as you can from them. You gamble on every rumor, every shred of information you learn, and it has caught up with you.”

  In short, his shady dealings have finally bit him in the ass.

  “My dear,” Lorn says, lounging back in his wicker chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Let’s see if this fits.” She strides into the room. “You met the false-blood months, perhaps even years, ago. You provided him weapons and silver and information. He provided you with tinril. Everything went smoothly for a time, then the Taelith returned, this time asking you for something you weren’t willing to give.”

  “Your cows,” I put in.

  “You weren’t able to charm your way out of business with him, and since you weren’t cooperative, he tried to send you to the ether.”

  All signs of amusement have disappeared from Lorn’s face, so I’m guessing Lena’s summary is close to the truth.

  She faces me, almost completely turning her back on Lorn. “Paige?”

  “I called her a little while ago,” I say. “She didn’t answer. I left her a message to have her phone in her hand at noon tomorrow. I’ll try her again then.”

  She looks annoyed by the delay, but she doesn’t voice her thoughts out loud. She turns back to Lorn, then she demands he tell her every detail of every meeting he’s ever had with Caelar and the false-blood. She’s confident I can get Paige to make a meeting between her and Caelar happen. I’m less so, but she calls in Aren and Kyol, insisting we come up with a strategy for gaining his allegiance, whether he’s now allied with the false-blood or not. By the time we call it a night, my muscles have almost completely locked up on me, and I’m agitated by everything. I head to the media room, taking with me the sleepshirt, pillow, and blanket Kynlee left out for me.

  I’m dead tired, so I strip to my undies, then, groaning when I force my stiff arm muscles to move, I slip Kynlee’s sleepshirt on over my head. She’s smaller than I am—it barely covers my ass—but I’m anxious to get out of my bloodstained cargo pants and T-shirt. I’m going to have to arrange some kind of clothing allowance; I think I’ve ruined half my wardrobe in the week since I returned to the Realm.

  I toss the pillow Kynlee gave me onto the end of the couch, then pick up the blanket.

  “I’ve been ordered to heal you.”

  Aren’s voice startles me. I look over my shoulder and see him standing in the doorway, his edarratae bright and captivating in the dim lighting. Haphazard and sexy, that’s how I’d describe him, and I want so badly for him to be here because he chooses to see me, not because he’s been ordered to.

  “I’m fine,” I say, turning back to the couch and unfurling the blanket.

  “Taltrayn mentioned blisters and bruises.”

  “You don’t want to be here, Aren.”

  “He outranks me,” he says. “And he’ll know if I don’t heal you.”

  “He’ll get over it.” I start to sit on the couch, but Aren crosses the room and grabs an end of the blanket. I try to jerk it free, but he doesn’t release it, and that makes the material slide across my sensitive palms. I hiss as I let the blanket go.

  “Just give me your hands.” He grabs them, turning my palms up, and when he presses his fingers against the raw skin, my mind flashes back to two months ago. I’d just slid down a rope made from sheets, and he insisted on healing my damaged skin. I resented his touch then, the hot lick of his chaos lusters that made me want to lean into him. I resent it now, too. If he doesn’t want me as much as I want him, then I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to think of the warmth of his mouth, the kiss of his edarratae, or the subtle but drugging scent of cedar and cinnamon that makes me want to melt in his arms.

  I clench my teeth together and stare at his chest because I refuse to get lost in his eyes.

  My palms mend quickly, but Aren doesn’t move away. He slides both his hands up my arms, finds the bruises on my right wrist and the ugly one just hidden under my left sleeve. A pleasant burn runs through me.

  God, I want him.

  I thought Aren’s chest would be a safe place to stare. It isn’t. It’s rising and falling with his breaths, and all I want to do is slide my hands up his body. I want to kiss his neck and linger until his chaos lusters pool beneath my lips.

  He drags himself back a step, and, finally, I look up. He quickly looks down, tilting his head slightly then—

  “Sidhe, McKenzie.” He drops to his knees in front of me, his palm pressing against my right calf.

  “Ow!” I say, kicking his hand away.

  He grabs my leg again, this time flaring
his magic. “He’s supposed to protect you, not injure you.”

  “He’s teaching me to protect myself.”

  “Which will be hard to do if you can’t walk or hold a sword.”

  “Careful,” I say. “You almost sound like you care.”

  He peers up at me. “I never said I didn’t care.”

  I cross my arms, look away, and stand rigidly, waiting while he heals me. When he’s finished with my calf, he starts to rise, but then he spots another injury: the deep bruise on my upper, outer thigh. Slowly, he slides his hand up my leg. The lower hem of my sleepshirt lifts slightly as he places his hand over the bruise. His palm is hot. I’m hot.

  “Please tell me this is the last one,” he murmurs, his hand easing upward a fraction of an inch.

  “There’s another,” I say quietly. “It’s higher on my left side.”

  Slowly, he rises. He looks almost afraid when he meets my gaze. “How much higher?”

  “Upper ribs.”

  He draws in a breath as if he’s steeling himself, then he lifts my sleepshirt. It slowly, softly slides up over my hips and stomach. His hands are level with my breasts. He should be able to see the bruise now, but his silver eyes never leave mine.

  A heartbeat passes. Two. Then three. He lifts the sleepshirt over my head, then his hungry gaze rakes over me. My body thrums as if it’s wrapped in edarratae.

  “Sidhe,” he breathes out. “You’re . . .”

  He closes his eyes, shaking his head as if he can get the image of me out of his mind. That’s the last thing I want.

  I grab his hand, slide it down my body until it rests over the deep bruise on my side.

  His eyes open. He nods as if I’ve asked him a question, then he pulls his hand free from mine.

  He drops to a knee again then focuses intently on my injury. He places his palm against it. Then I feel him shake.

  Before I can ask him if he’s okay, he slides his hand around to my back and presses his mouth against the bruise.

  His magic flares and, holy hell, my legs nearly buckle. I have to lock my knees to stay upright.

  He moves his lips, sending his healing magic into the upper part of my injury. I’m dying to fist my hands in his hair, but I settle for his shoulders, afraid of pushing him too far, too fast. I can feel how tightly he’s coiled. He’s holding himself back, giving himself the smallest taste of me.

  His lips slide to my stomach. Another taste.

  His mouth moves higher. A lick, just under my breast.

  I’m trying to hold myself still—I don’t want to pull him out of the moment; I don’t want him to stop—but my body gives a tiny buck, and he freezes. His breath is warm on my breast, and I want him so badly, I ache. I bite my lower lip, silently pleading for him to continue.

  Suddenly, his hands leave my body. He stands, taking a half step away from me.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  I wrack my brain for something to say, some way to pull him back to me, but he just stands there staring at me as if he has no fucking idea what he’s doing.

  “Aren—”

  He moves, his mouth taking mine in a brutal, bruising kiss.

  Fire explodes through me, ricocheting in my stomach and sending a hot, molten heat downward. I grab his shoulders again because I’m not going to let him go. I dig my fingers into the muscles of his back and part my lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

  He does, tasting me. I moan and press closer.

  He grabs my hips as he pulls my lower lip between his teeth. His bite surprises me, sending a sharp jolt of pain or pleasure—I’m not sure which—through me.

  I gasp a second later, not from Aren’s nip but from the alarm vibrating through my life-bond. But I can’t stifle the need building inside of me, and quickly, Kyol catches on. I feel him vanish from this world, feel a wall fall between us. I should be concerned about him, considerate of his feelings, but Aren’s scent is intoxicating, and I can only think of him.

  I fist my hand in his shirt, slide it up.

  “I want this off you,” I say. I slip my fingers under his weapons belt. “This, too.”

  “Yes.” No hesitation. No protest. He’s mine.

  He loops his arm around my waist, swinging me around. The back of my legs hit the couch. Aren pulls off his shirt, drops his belt to the floor, then moves over me. My gaze is locked on his chest, then on a bright bolt of lightning that zigzags across his perfect abs. Perfect even with a deep scar cutting between the muscles. My fingers find a new one on his shoulder, then I slide my hands to his face, pull him closer.

  I can’t lose you, I want to say, but I kiss him instead, my hips rising to press against his.

  He’s still wearing his pants. I tug at them, kiss him harder.

  He breaks the kiss, separating from me just enough to gaze into my eyes.

  The light from his chaos lusters reflects off my skin, and my heart thunders in my chest. This is the brink, the one I’ve stood on too many times to count, and I can practically hear Aren’s thoughts demanding for him to stop.

  I jerk harder on the hem of his pants, rubbing against him.

  He shudders. A moment later, his pants are gone. Then my underwear, too.

  His body is hard, lean, exquisite. My hands explore him while his lips explore me, trailing hot shocks of lightning down my neck, my collarbone, lower. I lurch into him when he kisses the lower swell of my breast again, then drags his tongue upward. I didn’t know I could want him more, but desire explodes through me, creating a hot ache between my legs. His hand is there the next second. Making the ache better or worse? I don’t know.

  He murmurs into my ear. Something in Fae. A question. My mind is too filled with him to do anything but nod yes. Yes to everything he wants.

  He watches me as he repositions himself, something akin to wonder in his silver eyes. I feel exotic. I feel treasured. Then I feel him sliding into me.

  No pain. Just heat and pleasure and Aren. He’s experienced. I’m not, but my body reacts to his movements, matching his thrusts to bring him closer, deeper.

  The ache between my legs intensifies, and I’m filled with an indescribable yearning. I wrap my legs around his hips, wanting more even though I can’t possibly take more.

  “Sidhe,” Aren gasps, then, a heartbeat later, we both cry out when an incredibly hot and potent chaos luster strikes between our connected bodies.

  My eyes spring open. I’m not sure when I closed them but the media room is bright with the lightning flashing across our skin.

  Our skin. And, impossibly, it isn’t just his blue edarratae causing the glow. My edarratae, which should only appear when I’m in the Realm, are white-hot and spiraling around us.

  And spiraling within us. They’re moving faster and faster, matching the intensity of the pleasure building between my legs. So hot. So heavenly. So much.

  I dig my nails into his back. I need to be grounded, or the lightning will shatter me, I’m certain of it.

  “Sidhe,” Aren rasps out again. All his muscles are taut. He’s at the edge of his control. I’m so far beyond mine.

  The ecstasy builds, current by current, and the frenzied light flashing around our bodies is almost constant. I’m not sure anything but the edarratae’s heat is touching us now. The lightning shoots around us like starlight, lifted inches above our glistening skin.

  “Aren,” I gasp. “It’s—”

  “Hold on to me.” His voice is strained. He’s moving in and out of me, his pace as frenzied as the lightning’s.

  And then it happens. Our chaos lusters solidify into a disc of light that explodes outward when the rush of pleasure hits, and the release, the ecstasy. It’s indescribable.

  TWENTY

  “I TOLD YOU I was the right thing,” I murmur later when I’m wrapped in Aren’s arms. I love the way his chuckle rumbles against my back.

  “You were right, of course.” He presses his lips to the crook of my neck.

  I close my eyes and smile,
soaking in the warm simmer of his kiss. It took a few rounds, but our chaos lusters have finally settled. We can even touch, lingering in each other’s embraces, without the lightning arousing us too much.

  “This is nice,” I say, the biggest understatement of the century. Lying here with him is pure bliss.

  I feel him smile against my neck.

  I pull the blanket up to my chest, wriggling to get just a tad more comfortable.

  “Careful,” Aren says, loosening his arms enough to let me move as much as I want.

  “Sorry,” I say, grinning as I turn my head to the side. He places a kiss on my cheek then rests his arm across my stomach, above the blanket. My finger slides over the hard muscle of his forearm, leaving a trail of tiny chaos lusters in its wake. Absently, I draw a random design, loops and lines that fade away after a few seconds.

  “I was a fool to think I could stay away from you.” His lips dip to my neck again. This time, he slides them along the raised skin there. It’s an inch-long scar he gave me when we were enemies, and I refused to read the shadows for him in Lyechaban. It’s a small, minor blemish, but I can feel regret in the way his lips linger.

  Regret is the last thing I want him to feel right now.

  I press the tip of my finger into his forearm twice, then swoop a curved line under the two dots.

  “Smiley face,” I say, nodding toward the flickering sparks on his arm. He laughs, squeezing me tighter as the tiny lightning bolts fade.

  A few minutes pass. I close my eyes, trying to keep my mind empty. I just want to relax in Aren’s arms. I don’t want to think of anything or anyone else.

  “I want to stay here forever,” I murmur.

  After a long moment, he replies softly, “Me too.”

  I scowl at the unspoken “but” on the end of his sentence. “But we have a false-blood to hunt down,” I say.

  Another hesitation as he rests his cheek against mine. “And vigilantes to track down and question. Lena’s going to want to find everyone who knows about the serum. She’s going to want to make sure it’s destroyed and that no one has the ability to replicate it.”