by Eva Chase
It isn’t hard enough to break the skin, but the sensation shifts from exhilarating to unnerving so abruptly my whole body stiffens. A memory flickers up of jaws tearing into my flesh, fangs raking through that shoulder—
Whitt jerks back. He holds my face close to his until I relax again with the stroke of his thumbs across my temple.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He drops one hand in a caress along my neck to my scarred shoulder, gliding his fingertips over the mottled ridges in the gentlest of caresses. “You taste so good, mighty one. But I will never bring my teeth to bear on you where they’re not wanted. The ones who savaged you like this deserve to be torn to pieces limb by limb and sent up in flames for good measure.”
He follows those words with a delicate kiss to each raised line of scar, until any memory of past pain is lost under the desire trembling through me. I tip my head back instinctively, and he flicks his tongue across my throat before marking a line down to my collarbone with the softest of nibbles.
Slowly, waiting on my encouraging hum, he eases the strap of my dress down my arm. His kisses delve lower, following the fabric until the neckline grazes my nipple to spark a quiver of anticipation.
While Whitt bares more and more of my skin, his is staying frustratingly under wraps. I swallow a needy sound that’s almost a whine and focus enough to yank at his high-collared shirt.
“If my clothes are coming off, yours are too,” I inform him, a command that would probably be firmer if it hadn’t come out breathless.
He grins up at me. “Fair is fair. I do appreciate a woman who knows what she wants.”
He loosens the fastenings below the collar and tugs the shirt off over his head, leaving his hair even more rumpled than before. I got a good look at his muscular form in his bed the other morning, but not with quite so much freedom to explore. As I gaze down at him, he merely strokes his fingers along the edge of my dress’s straps, not diverting me from my inspection.
Taking him in with my eyes isn’t enough. I trail my hands down from his shoulders to the packed muscle across his abdomen, pausing here and there to trace the whorls and angles of his tattoos. His smooth skin blazes beneath my fingers. I tease them along his sides, finding a spot that draws a rumble from his chest, and then give in to the impulse to taste him as he’s tasted me.
I lean in, pressing my lips to a coiled mark on his neck, a jagged pinwheel on his shoulder, a clawed twig-like shape over his sternum. Whitt slides his hand into my hair again, following my progress, a hint of a rasp creeping into his breath. I flick my tongue over one of his taut nipples, delighting at the hitch of his chest, and kiss my way across the powerful expanse to the other.
As I absorb his summery, sun-baked scent, my fingers edge lower. Past his belly button, over the waist of his trousers where my dress is pooled, until the heel of my hand brushes the rigid bulge just below.
Whitt lets out a growl and pulls my mouth back to his. He brands me with a kiss so searing it leaves every nerve in my body quaking with desire.
My touch has awakened something primal in his nature. His tongue tangles with mine with sudden urgency. His hands sweep right beneath the neckline of my dress to caress my breasts skin to skin and then yank the fabric right off them. Hefting me higher against him, he sucks one nipple into the scorching heat of his mouth with a wildness that sends a bolt of sharper pleasure through me.
A cry slips from my lips. I clutch his head, his shoulder, caught in the rush of sensation. Each lap of his tongue and graze of his teeth floods me with a hunger for more. The now-familiar ache is building between my legs. My hips start to rock against him of their own accord, seeking the friction that can bring me to release.
With another growl, Whitt lifts me from the chair and sets me on the edge of the table, standing between my splayed legs. He tugs me tight against him and recaptures my mouth, all but devouring me from his new higher ground. Then he kisses my cheek, the edge of my jaw, with greater restraint. He palms my naked breasts, massaging them until the pulses of pleasure have me gasping again.
As his hands keep fondling me with teasing strokes, he gazes down at me. His voice comes out low and ragged. “Can I ask you one thing, Talia?”
His tone and his use of my name rather than one of his playful nicknames draw me out of my eager haze. I peer up at him, willing myself to focus through the delicious movements of his fingers and palms over my chest. “Anything.”
Whitt gives me a crooked smile, heat smoldering in his eyes, the blue more fiery than oceanic now. “What made you talk to Sylas about pursuing me rather than coming to me directly?”
He gives the question a casual lilt, but his gaze holds mine intently. Like when he watched to see my response to his list of his flaws. Does he think I hesitated out of distrust or fear—that something about him put me off?
I kiss him as if the tender pressure of my lips might wipe away whatever worries provoked the question, and then I tuck my head against his neck to hide my sheepishness. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I didn’t know you were interested, and I—I hadn’t even fully realized that I was interested that way, and then Sylas checked on me when I was having an… intense dream, and the topic came up like that.”
Whitt laughs lightly, his shoulders relaxing, and nuzzles my temple. “A dream, hmm? And what happened in that dream, which I assume featured me? Do tell.”
A blush flares in my cheeks, but it’s not as if we haven’t already gotten more intimate than anything that played out in my subconscious. “You… were kneeling in front of me like when you checked the glamour on my foot brace, and you started kissing my leg. All the way up.”
“All the way?” Whitt asks, his voice so suggestive I practically burst into flames.
“Well, I woke up before… before it could get that far.”
“Hmm. Poor thing. But such an inspired imagination. I’ll just make sure not to leave you wanting here in reality.”
He’s only just finished speaking when he eases back from me to sink to his knees. I stare down at him from my perch on the table, my pulse skittering with a dizzying mix of anticipation and uncertainty. “I wasn’t— You don’t have to—”
The conspiratorial gleam in his eyes is nothing but eager. “I haven’t had anywhere near my fill of you yet.”
Whitt undoes the fixtures on my brace and slips it off my foot to set it aside. Then he kisses the warped ridge below my ankle where the bones are fused wrong, so reverently my heart swells with a different sort of ache.
What I said to Harper is true—I can live with a damaged foot—but it’s still a handicap to be worked around, a weakness I have to make up for. The veneration in Whitt’s lips makes it feel like something special rather than broken. Different but far from wrong.
His mouth travels up to my calf, his thumb gliding gently over the misshapen bump instead. Kiss by tender kiss, he works his way up to my knee, with a teasing swipe of his tongue when he reaches the joint.
As he continues his journey along my inner thigh, the press of his mouth deepens, each kiss lingering a little longer. Partway up, he pauses to slide the skirt of my dress higher and melds his lips to the sensitive skin so passionately my chest hitches. A heady tingling races over my skin to my sex.
I grip the edge of the table for balance, watching his progress, wondering a little dizzily just how far he’s going to take this. The ache between my legs has intensified to a throbbing need. His breath spills hot over the tender area just below that juncture, where he has to ease my legs even farther apart to offer his next kiss. My fingers curl tighter—
And, with a sly smirk, he bends back down to nibble the opposite knee.
I hold back a groan, especially because now he’s charting a matching path up the inside of my left thigh. The last thing I want to do is divert him even slightly. Hunger knots in my core, threading through my veins. Every muscle has coiled in anticipation, even though I’m not totally sure what I’m readying for. This is already so much m
ore thrilling than my dream managed to portray.
As he edges closer with that skillful mouth, Whitt slides his hands beneath my hiked-up dress and hooks his fingers over the hem of my panties. He raises his head just long enough to tug them down my legs. Then he brushes a kiss to the skin just inches from my sex, and another, and another.
Stroking my hips, he eases me even nearer and inhales with a sound of relish. He must be able to smell the arousal I can feel gathering between my folds. A renewed flush scorches my cheeks, but before my embarrassment can really take hold, he lowers his mouth to taste me there, and all other thoughts fly out of my head with the surge of pleasure.
“Whitt,” I mumble, half whimper, half moan, and he hums with delight.
“That’s the only way I want to hear you say my name from now on,” he murmurs, his breath alone sending all kinds of giddy tremors through me, and leans in to swipe his tongue right over my slit.
He plunders my sex with lips and tongue and here and there a gentle edge of teeth. If I was dessert before, now he’s treating me like a full banquet he intends to savor every morsel of.
I sway where I’m balanced on the table and find myself clinging to his hair with one hand, unsure whether I’m urging him on or begging for a reprieve from this exquisite torture. I’m panting, trembling from head to toe. The rush of pleasure keeps swelling through me until it’s as vast as the ocean in his eyes.
Whitt suckles my most sensitive spot that can spark the headiest jolt of paradise and then delves his tongue right inside me. I clench around him—sex, thighs, fingers in his sun-kissed locks. The wave of ecstasy tosses me up and over my peak, crashing through me and sweeping me away, leaving me gasping for air.
My body goes limp. Whitt’s kisses soften, but he stays where he is, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub, working his mouth against my folds, until the rush of sensation rises through me again. Then he plunders me wholeheartedly, branding me with bliss as no one else ever has. I bow over him, too overcome to do more than cling on and ride the wave as it careens toward its pinnacle once more, even faster than before.
A shattered cry breaks from my throat—and I’m freefalling over the edge in a blaze that consumes every other sensation.
As I drift down into the afterglow for the second time, Whitt dapples my inner thighs with more kisses. Gradually, my tight grip on his hair releases. I stroke my fingers through the thick strands, and he beams up at me before licking his lips so extravagantly my whole face must turn red. “A perfect meal.”
He stands and collects me in his arms. Settling back in his chair, he tucks me against him. Every part of him that touches me feels as feverish as my own skin.
I squirm closer, soaking in his heat, and raise my fingers to his cheek. My other hand skims over his belly again. “I want to— You haven’t gotten—”
He catches my hand before I make it to the rigid bulge against my hip and kisses my knuckles instead. His gaze is feverish too, but the embrace he wraps me in is all controlled might.
“We have so much time ahead of us,” he says quietly. “This first interlude—I don’t want there to be any chance of you looking back and feeling I took more than I gave.”
I don’t think there’s any chance of that after the heights he just propelled me to, but I can tell how important the principle of it is to him from the resolve in his voice. I settle for slipping my hand along his neck and kissing the crook of his jaw before nestling my head against his shoulder.
The ache of need is gone, but the poignant sensation that wrapped around my heart shines on.
Is it possible to love three men at the same time? I never would have thought so, but how can I argue with the emotion unfurling inside me even as I ask the question?
There’s enough feeling in my heart to encompass all of them—and I can only hope it’s enough to see all three of them back in this keep, whole and happy, beneath tomorrow’s sun.
Chapter Thirty
Sylas
It’s said that all of the fae world slants upward to embrace the Heart of the Mists. In most domains, including both Oakmeet and Hearthshire, you wouldn’t notice any significant slope to the plains and forests. But at the borders of the arch-lords’ domains, the three of them surrounding the summer side of the Heart, the land rises sharply, emerald-green fields arching up to the vast plateau of gold-veined sandstone and winding foliage that holds their castles and our Bastion of the Heart.
No other keep or fortress in the land can hold a candle to the Bastion. It rises from ground as if it grew out of the same rock—which in a sense it did, though coaxed by magic innumerable centuries ago. The currents of gold gleam amid the warm beige of the stone. Having been here at night, I can attest that those veins keep shining even in the dark of a new moon.
Towering over the flower-dotted, grassy terrain around them, the sturdy walls rise into four craggy peaks like a miniature mountain range—three smaller summits around a taller and broader central one. Birds perch in and soar past the arched windows, while hares nibble clover on the lawn. The thrum of the Heart’s energy calls even to those lesser beings.
As August and I trek the last short distance along the path between Donovan’s domain and Celia’s, the Heart’s magic washes over my skin and peals through my body. My chest opens, my pulse singing through my veins in welcome. Despite the vital but perilous mission that brings us here, a smile crosses my lips.
Skies above, it’s been far too long since I basked in the full power of our world.
That sensation speaks of the Heart more than anything we can see. Just beyond the Bastion, the shimmering mist of the border condenses into a denser, pulsing glow, one that will fade to the quality of starlight with the descending of the sun. Just a few steps beyond that border, I have to assume the Unseelie arch-lords rule from some gilded fortress of their own.
It’s unsettling to imagine our enemies lurking so close at hand, but thousands of years ago, our peoples collaborated in a sort of promise, a spell that flows through the border all the way through the arch-lords’ domains and into a few neighboring lands as well. No one has yet come close to shattering their magic, it’s so aligned with the principles of harmony and growth that the Heart resonates with.
To cross the border within that stretch, one must swear to do no harm to the fae on the other side—an oath that binds one’s will against deceit. A traveler has no such guarantee of good will from the hosts that await them. Unsurprisingly, few choose to make the journey, especially in these recent years while we’ve found ourselves at war.
August halts for a moment, both to soak in the Heart’s energy and to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I forgot what a trek it is,” he says with a sheepish smile. “I’ll have to add a little more mountain-climbing to my exercise regimen.”
I give him a benevolent swat to the shoulder. “If you’d taken the path any faster, I’d have had to rein you in for my own survival. Come on, then. By now, they’re undoubtedly waiting for us. Let’s not breed impatience and frustration before we’ve had any chance to make our case.”
There are other rules for peace in the domains around the Heart, at least on the summer side of the border. Any fae may travel the routes between the arch-lord’s domains unhindered and unquestioned to petition our rulers in the Bastion. However, we’re required to make the journey on foot once we reach the steeper slope.
The publicly stated reasoning is that putting in the physical effort shows our dedication and proves us worthy of being heard. I suspect the unstated reasoning is that it gives the arch-lords and their packs plenty of time to observe those who approach and decide how to greet them.
We cross the flowery lawn to the Bastion’s entrance, which contains no door, only a couple of stairs up to an immense opening in the stone wall that’s arched like the windows. Stepping through it, the twittering of the birds and the rustling of leaves on the nearby trees fades away. The air settles around us still and cool, as if we’ve walked into a cavern.
But it’s a bright cavern, sunlight streaking down across the floor from windows at all angles and the veins of gold glittering across in the inner walls just as they do outside. The flow of the Heart’s energy continues pulsing over us, emitting a faint, silvery hum as it courses through the building.
Standing in this place, it isn’t that hard to believe a handful of fae with grand hopes for peaceful coexistence could have erected a barrier between the realms that’s lasted generations. Magic saturates the atmosphere.
No one lives in the Bastion or within about a mile of it. Linger for too many weeks at a time in this kind of power, and you might go mad with it. They say at least one of the first arch-lords became overzealous and met that fate.
We walk through the airy entrance hall into an even vaster room. The gold-laced, vaulted ceiling gleams several stories high above us. The light that spills through the rows of windows all down the walls forms a shape like a flower with petals spiraling around it on the veined floor. At the edges of that light, lit by it but not caught directly in its beams, stand three golden thrones, spaced evenly around the circular space.
As I expected, the arch-lords already occupy their respective seats. Their cadre-chosen flank their thrones—at least, those of their cadre not occupied elsewhere. They each still have at least one out at the northern end of the border.
You can tell a lot about a lord by the close company they keep and how much of it they keep. Celia, old enough to have seen some of her cadre pass on before her and growing too weary to continue adding to their number, has only one figure by her side. Ambrose, hesitant to trust but even warier of lacking in protection, boasts three. Donovan, either overeager or overcautious in his youth—or perhaps a bit of both—has brought six with him.
Even if I dislike Ambrose’s attitudes, I have to admit he has the most ideal outcome. Too large a cadre, and the chances that all of them will be sufficiently dedicated when it counts dwindles. Donovan hasn’t been tried enough yet to discover how tenuous some loyalties can be. But then, a smaller group makes it easy to stretch one’s authority and resources too thin.