by Emma Hamm
He arched a brow. “Can you even pen your name?”
“Not all humans are illiterate.” She shook her head. “You know I can read, Stone.”
The growl that rumbled from his throat sent shivers down her spine.
Sorcha gasped as broad hands slid around her waist and pulled her against his chest. She splayed her fingers against his heat. His legs framed hers, inner thighs pressed against her hips. Her stomach was flush against his — crystals biting through the thin fabric.
“This is hardly proper,” she whispered.
“Humans do not dance as the Fae do.”
“This is how you dance?”
“Well, not particularly.”
She glanced up and caught the sparkling laughter that danced in his eyes. He cocked his head to the side, lifted a hand, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips were feather-light against her skin. He traced a circle against her neck, trailed down the slope of her shoulder and arm, lifted her hand until it rested against his bicep.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think as he followed the same path on the other side of her body and curled his fingers around her hand. His other palm flexed against her spine.
“This is the proper way to dance with a woman,” he said.
“Is it?” Sorcha heard the breathless quality to her voice, the sultry notes that dripped from her tongue.
Heat flashed in his gaze, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Perhaps you have never danced with a man.”
“Boys, yes. A man?” Sorcha’s eyes followed the ragged edge of crystals, the barbaric braid swaying from the peak of his head to his waist, the linen tunic belted by sheep skin. “Never a man such as you.”
He pressed gently against her spine, and they spun into the crowd. Faeries waltzed around them as a band struck up a tune.
Sorcha would remember none of the fluttering colors and magic sparking in the air. How could she? He stared at her as if she were the world. As if she plucked the stars from the sky and wove them into the strands of her hair.
Stone used his body like a weapon. He spun her in circles until she didn’t know which way was up and which way was down. He only stopped when she stumbled, falling into his arms.
She liked being pressed against his chest far too much. He was safe, and broad, and so much more than any man she had ever met before.
She said something, it could have been anything, she didn’t know what. But he tilted his head back and laughed so hard that the corded muscles of his neck stood out in stark relief. The crystals gaped at the wound caused by his hanging, and she couldn’t see the disfigurement anymore.
He was beautiful. An instrument of power and symbol of strength.
Stone spun her into his arms, pressing his cheek against the top of her head before unraveling her. He pressed her spine against his chest, dipping until he could whisper in her ear, “How did you know I was to be king?”
“You carry yourself as if you were meant to rule.”
“And Oona told you.”
He would taste the lie, so she said nothing and glanced over her shoulder. “Does it really matter how I know, Stone?”
His expression turned so fierce that she thought he might crush her. Instead, he traced his finger down her cheek and pressed his forehead to hers. “Eamonn.”
“What?” she gasped.
“My name is Eamonn.”
Before she could comment on such a gift, he spun them in wide circles around the room until she tossed her head back and laughed. This was perfect. Every single moment was perfect and sweet.
And he was perfect. Every broken bit of him, was perfect for her.
He had brought together all the people who meant something to her. Every faerie who had given her gifts, kindness, laughter, peace. They were all here in their finest outfits and it didn’t matter that they had no silk nor velvet to share.
Their hearts beat as one. Samhain had never been celebrated by such a strong family of people.
They passed the day in each other’s arms. Every now and then, they would stop for food and drink. Sorcha’s feet ached, but she didn’t want to stop dancing. So she would stuff her face, tease the faeries she saw along the way, but she never strayed far from his side.
There was an impending sense of doom, something she couldn’t explain or understand. Although this night felt as though they found each other for the very first time, tomorrow was uncertain.
Her siblings’ voices whispered in her mind. This was how a woman became a mistress. Fall in love with the wrong man, and disaster was sure to follow. He should be a king! And Sorcha? She was a midwife from so far away that he wouldn’t even know the name of her town.
Sorcha brushed the voices aside, not wanting to worry about the future tonight.
Another voice joined her siblings. “Tell my brother to enjoy his last few days.” She couldn’t tell Stone—Eamonn, she reminded herself—that she’d met his twin. She refused to issue a warning she wasn’t certain held any weight.
She had a boon from the king of the Seelie Fae. If he wanted to kill his brother, then she would use her boon against that. Eamonn would live. They could stay on this isle until the end of time.
And then the blood beetles would devour her family.
It was so easy to forget reality here. She understood the many stories of men and women who spent centuries in the Otherworld only to return and find everything gone. Life was so easy here. There were no responsibilities, no people to take care of, only herself and her own whims.
Perhaps someday she would forget the echoes of her family. Tonight, she certainly would. But tomorrow morning, Sorcha knew she would remember every bit of the guilt she sewed into her bones.
The music quieted as the sun dipped below the horizon. Her dress stuck to her skin and her hair billowed around her like a red cloud. She leaned against Eamonn’s side and stood at the window staring at the bright streaks of colored clouds.
“Have you enjoyed your Samhain, m’lady?” he asked.
“I believe this was the most enjoyable celebration I have had the pleasure of joining.”
“What was your favorite part?”
“The company.”
“Ah,” he chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. “Present company excluded, I would hope.”
“Hope? Why would you hope for exclusion from that grouping?”
Eamonn spread his hands wide. The pink light of the sunset played off the crystals. “I’m hardly fit to grace the halls of lords and ladies. The dogs may enter, but the wolves must stay beyond the door.”
She hated hearing him speak of himself like that. So many years of torment and disapproval from family and friend led to self-hatred. She had seen it in herself.
It was so much easier to say he was wrong and ignore the emotions reflected in herself.
Sorcha reached forward and intertwined her fingers with his. “Even wolves can be tender, loyal, and brave hearted. I would rather run with them in the wild than paint my face and try to blend into the walls.”
He squeezed her fingers. “I forget who I speak with.”
“A midwife?”
“A druid priestess with far more power than she admits.” He pressed his lips against the backs of her knuckles. “I’d like to show you something.”
“Another surprise? Eamonn, I might faint away if you keep up with this. I’m convinced someone has stolen your body and masquerades as a gentleman in your flesh.”
His eyes flashed. “I enjoy the sound of my name upon your lips far too much.”
A shiver trailed down her spine. “Then I shall endeavor to use it upon every occasion.”
“Come with me.”
She trailed after him into the depths of the castle. Past cobwebbed corners, stained glass windows dimming with the sun, and hidden alcoves where mist gathered. Up a stairwell she didn’t recognize that curved dangerously with no railing. Out onto a catwalk so high that the clouds tangled in her skirts.
“Where are we?” she shouted into the wind.
“Are you afraid?”
“No! This is beautiful!”
His grin flashed as the stars blinked to life behind him. “Wild thing that you are, fear has no name for you, does it?”
“Fear is an enemy to battle! I know her well.”
“Do not fall.”
“Will you catch me if I do?”
“I will fly upon the wings of the Wild Hunt if need be.”
She burst into laughter. “I thought faeries couldn’t lie?”
He tugged her off the edge of the catwalk and into a hidden corner. The heat of his chest seared through the fabric of her dress. “I do not lie. If I had to call the Wild Hunt to save you, I would.”
“I think I would fall to my death before you could manage.”
“I’d find another way.”
Sorcha grinned and shook her head. “What do you want to show me?”
Eamonn pressed his back against the wall and pushed. The sparkle in his eyes caught her attention before she noticed the wall had turned into a door. A warm glow lit the frame with orange light.
He pushed harder to reveal the fur rugs and walls lined with books.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Is this the library?”
“No. These are my quarters.”
“Yours?” Sorcha arched a brow. “Just what kind of woman do you think I am, Eamonn?”
She knew he would growl at her use of his name. She wanted to hear it again and again.
The deep baritone sound rumbled from deep within his chest. It was the call of a lion to its mate, the quiet huff of a stag in the forest, the gurgle of water underneath ice.
He reached for her, yanking her into his chest until her hands splayed against him. “Say it again.”
“I have no need to call you by name.”
“Say it.”
“You brought me here for a reason, Eamonn.” Sorcha grinned at the quake she felt behind her palms. “Why are we here?”
The disappointed breath that blew across her face smelled of mint. “You are temptation, little priestess.”
“Hardly. I wasn’t raised a druid.”
“You don’t need to be. Druid is in your blood, and I’m curious to see what you think of this surprise.”
He didn’t let go of her entirely. Eamonn slid his hands down her arms and tangled his fingers with hers. Silent, he guided her towards a bookcase and released his hold.
The tome he pulled from the shelf sparkled in the light. Its deep green cover and gold threaded words wavered under her gaze.
“Is it glamoured?” she asked.
“Not that I know of.”
It was changing in front of her eyes. The green dappled as if sunlight was striking it through leaves. The letters shifted and moved until she couldn’t read what the title was, let alone who had written it.
Eamonn held it out for her to take.
She stroked the spine, something in her calling out to treat it like a beloved pet. It creaked as she opened the pages. Ink blots stained most of them, hand drawn pictures of herbs and instructions filling the parchment paper.
“Who wrote this?”
“I don’t know. There’s nothing on the pages.”
“What?” Sorcha glanced up. “There’s plenty on the pages, there’s just no signature.”
“I can’t see anything written in that book. I have tried for years, but no matter how much I try, the pages remain blank.”
“Interesting.” With her nose buried, she meandered towards the chairs. “There’s much here I’ve never considered. Mugwort, for example, is rarely used to cure nightmares. It’s curious that it suggests using it while chanting… something. I can’t read that part.”
“You aren’t quite ready for it yet, I imagine.”
“Why?” Sorcha wrinkled her nose. “Why wouldn’t I be ready for knowledge?”
“For the same reason I was not ready to be king.” He plucked the book from her grasp and set it down on a small table. “We all must grow before we take on responsibility.”
“You would make a good king.”
“So you say, but I was not ready as a young man.”
He circled her. Sorcha knew the expression in his eyes. The darkened edges, the attention to detail, the hunger that she had only seen in a wolf. She was being hunted, and she didn’t know whether she wanted to flee or embrace the danger.
“I see many qualities in you that would make a good king. I don’t know if anyone is ever ready to take on such a daunting task.”
“How did you know I was meant to be king?”
“That’s my little secret.”
She felt his breath fan across the back of her neck. “I don’t like secrets.”
“Would you prefer that I lie?”
“I never prefer lies.”
“Then I am afraid you must resolve yourself to be disappointed, Eamonn.”
Sorcha stood perfectly still, fear locking her knees and curiosity stilling her breath. At the sound of his name, a single finger touched her throat. Her breath caught.
His fingernail scratched just enough to leave a mark as he trailed it down her neck and to her shoulder. He hesitated for a brief moment before hooking it underneath the yellow fabric of her dress.
He was giving her time to tell him to stop, she realized. A voice in her head screamed to leave, to run, that a faerie could not be trusted. But her heart knew what she wanted.
Him.
Sorcha sighed as the fabric of her dress slipped down her shoulder, baring milky white skin dotted with freckles. He groaned and traced patterns between the beauty marks.
“Do you know what they used to call me, Sorcha?”
“No.” She couldn’t think, let alone decipher what his words meant. Not when he was stroking the bare skin of her shoulder and the cold breeze brushed past her sensitive arms.
“The Red Stag. I used my blade like the antlers of the beast, leaving wounds dotting across my enemies’ flesh. I carved my namesake in skin more times than I can count.”
“Is that supposed to frighten me?”
“It is a warning.”
“That you are dangerous?” She glanced over her shoulder, the fabric of her dress slipping even further. “I know that, Eamonn. You are the sword, the weapon, the soldier of the Seelie Fae.”
He traced circles on her neck. “And the sword is far mightier than the pen for a time. But eventually a sword loses its weight, becomes a symbol more than a weapon. All warriors turn to the pen once they win their wars.”
“Precisely why I believe you would make a good king.”
His breath feathered over her arm. Crystals pressed into soft flesh, surrounded by the velvet heat of his mouth. A soft flick of his tongue stroked between freckles.
“Why does your whole body taste like sunshine?” he asked. “It’s intoxicating.”
“Does my whole body? I wasn’t aware you had tasted every inch.”
“There is no going back from this Sorcha. If you make this choice, I cannot stop.”
“You are a large man, Eamonn, but you are not my first.”
Sorcha reminded herself to breathe as his hands curled around her waist. He yanked her against him, pressed her spine against his stomach. “Who dares touch what is mine?”
“I am my own before I am any other’s. But if you must know, I grew up in a brothel. A girl gets curious.”
“A girl toes the line between right and wrong.”
“Is there such a thing?” She spun in his arms, eyes sparking with anger. “Right and wrong suggests that there is only black and white. I refute that belief and instead replace it with my own. If I desire a man, I shall take one.”
An answering anger sparked in his own eyes. Crystals lit with the fires of his passion. “And what do you desire?”
Every fiber of her being yearned for him to touch her. She wanted his fingers in her hair, his body pressed against hers—in hers—until she didn’t know w
here he started and where she ended.
Sorcha wanted him. It didn’t matter he was larger than her, or that he was Fae. She might regret it in the morning, but now she would enjoy every second of this poor decision.
She slid her hands up the wide plane of his chest, tangled her fingers around his braid and pulled him down. Their foreheads pressed together. She inhaled his air and breathed into him new life.
“I desire a king.”
“Then a king you shall have.”
He lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Sorcha had seen him swing a sword taller than her, perhaps she felt like a feather to him. She might have pondered such thoughts if he hadn’t swooped down and devoured her lips.
Her body glowed with passion and desire so great that she feared it would never be satisfied. Something, or someone, uncurled deep within her soul. A woman she barely recognized, who knew how to take what she wanted and asked for the world.
Candlelight disappeared in curls of smoke as he laid her across a feather down bed. Inky darkness obscured him from her vision.
His hands trailed down her sides, following the indents of her waist and the flare of her hips. Cold crystal pressed against the smooth column of her neck. The highest points dug into her skin, not quite painful and sending shivers racing from each touch.
The tight bodice of her dress eased. Her lungs expanded and her back arched, pushing her chest into his waiting hands. He slipped his fingers through the gaping fabric, smoothing his fingers around her waist and pulling her into his chest.
Stones pressed against bare flesh. She sighed, the sound almost too loud as he surged up and captured her lips again. The erotic scrape of crystal mingling with his guttural groan sent shudders rocking through her body. He smoothed his hand over her bare spine, hand shaking as he held himself in check.
“Eamonn,” she whispered. “I want to see you.”
“No one wants to see this face.”
“I desire to see nothing but you!”
Candles flared to life all around the decimated room. Shattered furniture, shards of stone statues, and broken mirrors created a battlefield. The bed was all that survived unscathed.