Untethering Dark

Chapter Forty-Two

Twenty-nine years of training. And today, the final dose, and the final ritual that would make Astrid full Winter Hexe. A hag.

Nervous, giddy excitement thrummed beneath her skin, and that, coupled with the tingling, vibrating energy of her growing power, made it impossible to sit still.

The mountains, the snows were calling to her, whispering her name on the icy wind. This was what it meant to be in her element.

She walked to the ritual site in her bare feet, clad in only a thin slip of nightgown. The very one she imagined Gudarīks tearing from her body. There’d be chance for that tonight if they wished it.

Astrid was attuning to the mountain snows in a way she hadn’t before, like they were a part of her as much as her eyes, her ears, her tongue, or her hands, just waiting for command. Her magic was becoming an extension of her, rather than a tactile thing she wielded. Was this how Mutter could remain in her bower and yet sense and know all? Because that’s what this felt like, as best as she could describe, a sixth sense sprouting anew.

With the snowy mountainscape before her and the wind at her back, piercing her skin in a thousand little needles, Astrid outstretched her arms and inhaled deep, letting the cold burn invigorate her.

Winter was more than death and darkness. It was a time for the world to go quiet, to rest and reset for the coming spring. For peace. And now, for Astrid, rebirth.

Shucking off her gown, Astrid crouched naked in the snow. There, she painted a ritual circle big enough for two upon the frozen canvas at the crest of a hill with a paste made from the blood of her body and the ash of a willow tree, the moon hanging large and round in the sky behind her. And on her skin, in an indigo paint made from woad extract, she marked her body with the ancient runes that would free her from the tethers of humanity.

This part, this quiet preparation, she did alone. Something about the act demanded contemplation and solitude. It wasn’t holy or unholy, sacred, or profane. It just wasn’t meant to be shared. But soon her lover would come, and they’d complete the ritual together.

Winter reached for her, from the icy soles of her feet to the tips of her nose and ears. It pulled at all the strings of warmth in her body, beckoning her to forsake the heat of day to become one with the cold night. She smiled and tilted back her head, arms outstretched, opening her body to the moonlit sky to soak in its beams, more than ready to answer this call.

Winter extended its hand to her, and she reached back.

Wind whipped around her as she stood, an invisible dance partner lifting her arms and twirling her. Its low whistling made sweet, reedy music. In the distance, a wolf howled, and the tree boughs creaked and groaned around her, joining in the forest’s rising symphony.

Time lost all meaning as she danced in the moonlight to der Schwarzwald’s song, silvery caress illuminating bare skin. Every worry and care fell away—the poachers, their Wiederg?nger masters, Johanna, Suri, the other rangers. This was her moment, no matter the circumstances that hastened her to it.

She was aware of Gudarīks’s approach long before she ever heard or saw him—Winter already fusing itself deep in her marrow. He climbed the hill, but kept a respectful distance, just at the corner of her eye, quietly watching her dance.

Sinking into feeling and sensation, Astrid closed her eyes. She had an audience now, and it spurred each swaying motion and invigorating spin. She wanted him to watch her. To stare and be driven into desperate need. The more energy they went into this with, the more powerful the spell.

She danced for the forest,

She danced for its king,

And she danced for the winter night,

Drawing the power it brings.

Round and round she spun, keeping in time to the drumbeat of her heart, that music on the wind, no tune perceptible to mortal ears, but it was there in her bones, thrumming deep and melodic. And from the corner of her eye, she watched Gudarīks’s massive, long-limbed form sway to that same beat. He heard it, too.

Gudarīks stood closer now but just outside her ritual circle, waiting to be invited in.

White bone gleamed in the moonlight, dark fur drank in the shadows, and two red eyes glowed hot like freshly stoked embers. The monster of the forest had come to offer himself to her, a willing sacrifice at her altar.

She held out her hand.

Long, clawed fingers enclosed around it.

With an enthusiastic tug, his witch pulled him into the ritual circle painted thick upon the ground. He stepped over, careful not to disturb the markings. The scent of blood and arousal thrilled his olfactory senses, every nerve ending on alert, primed for a banquet of pleasure.

“Liebe.” She stretched on her toes, craning her neck to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Save for the blue rune work and ribbon tying off the loose braid dangling over her shoulder, she was completely bare. He touched her lightly, afraid to smudge it.

Astrid drew his arms around her waist. “It’s a hardy paint. It’ll withstand.”

“I could’ve watched you dance all night.”

“Could you have?” she teased, canting her hips forward, pressing against his length, which was more than ready for the task to come. “ All night is a long time.”

“Not with you.”

With a toothy smile, she drew him down to the ground, and he lay back, propped up on his elbows. Watching, waiting, as she picked up a wooden bowl and dipped her fingers in, the tips coming away dark blue. She crouched beside him.

Icy fingers painted his body in slow, loving brushstrokes.

“This will untether and transfer your energy to me.” Long, brown lashes dusted pale cheeks as she bowed her head to the task.

He tilted his head, greedily feasting his eyes upon the stunning landscape of her form. Every soft slope and curve. The flexed, muscled thighs and gentle sway of breasts as she leaned to mark his chest. The urge to pull her onto his lap and bury himself in her sent a throbbing jolt through his cock, but this night was not about him and what he needed. It belonged to Astrid, and he was her supplicant.

So he kept his hands to himself.

But his words. Those he’d unleash with fervor because he knew his witch liked when he used them.

“What’re you smirking about?” She glanced up, mouth quirked.

“I don’t know what you mean by smirking. I don’t smirk. Or smile, for that matter.”

Without lips, and his upper palate being all bone, little was left in the way of facial expression.

“More of an attitude, and it’s rolling off you plenty.” She playfully swiped a finger down the length of his face, no doubt leaving a blue streak, and he had a hunch that was more about sass than ritual.

Sitting up, he slid his hands across her thighs, hungry for the warm heat at their apex. “Just thinking about all the filthy things I might say to get you hot and unraveling on top of me.” A vibrating thumb circled around her most sensitive bit, while another two—claws retracted—delved inside. He snaked an arm around her hips, holding her steady as pleasure stole the strength from her limbs.

Her eyelids fluttered closed as she muttered a curse. “Gudarīks,” she breathed, tipping her head back, arms going lax across her knees. The bowl, forgotten and dropped, splattered blue paint across the snow.

On the wake of a moan, she pleaded, “Don’t make me come. We need to...and I need to be on your...” A well-timed buzz cut off her already halting words.

“You want it, little witch?” He growled, withdrawing from her to stroke slick up and down his length. “My body is yours. Take what you need of it.”

Pale eyes reflecting moonlight like the nocturnal creatures that thrived in the dark, Astrid crawled on all fours into his lap, transfixing him with an unrelenting stare that made him feel more prey than predator. Anticipation rushed through his limbs, all at once heavy and tingly. It could’ve been the spell work’s doing, but the hammering of his heart, the hitch of his breath, the need to be vanquished by her, was something else entirely.

Perching herself on his thighs, Astrid cupped a hand under his jaw. Around them the ritual circle glowed, followed by the runes painted on their bodies, and the wind kicked up, a swirling cyclone freeing strands of Astrid’s snowy hair from her braid, whipping it between them. “Are you sure? It’s not too late to say no.”

He enveloped her in his arms, molding, memorizing, imprinting the feel of her forever upon his body. “There’s nothing I want more than to share this with you.”

The luminous smile she gave could have rivaled the moon overhead.

She unraveled the blue ribbon from her braid, the one she always wore, and wound it around one of his antlers, her cool, nimble fingers caressing as she went. Marking him. Tying them together with something of hers.

Then, tilting his head just so, she kissed the seam of his mouth, that smile still on her lips. She reached between them, aligning, then sinking onto him with a ragged sigh. Blissful connection seared his senses, wrenching a pleased gasp from his throat. He’d never felt so complete, so whole.

All his life he’d had his fill of flesh, but he’d been starved of this.

Neither of them knew quite what to expect—the disconnect between reading about a sensation in a spell book and then actually feeling it—so he’d thought the magic would be more intrusive. Draining what was needed, rapidly emptying the well. And he did feel a pull in his groin and his chest, but it heightened the sex. The visceral way they collided over and over, burning bright and hot, edged toward the brink of destruction, like one of those dying stars exploding into the cosmos. He knew the crash was coming, the moment he burned out and went cold as sky rock, but he met her rhythm with racing thrusts.

She was radiant above him, awash in the moon’s silvery light. Head tipped back, lower lip tucked between teeth, eyes closed. Sweat beaded then froze upon her skin, limning it in a starry sheen.

“So beautiful.” His tongue split down the middle, the tips opening up, latching onto her nipples and sucking. His hands worked in tandem, cupping and squeezing globes of flesh. Delivering vibration between her thighs. With a throaty gasp, she clenched all around him, and the runes shone brighter.

The dizzying, haphazard way she swayed and churned, he knew that she was close.

“It’s yours, witch,” he breathed, punctuating the sentence with a vicious thrust. “Take it.”

As her face crumpled in sweet bliss, the runes exploded in a burst of light, and the pull between them increased tenfold, wrenching him in an exquisite mixture of pleasure and pain. He’d never come so hard, emptying everything in one go, not even after feasting upon Astrid’s arousal-laced Pl?tzchen.

Utterly boneless, Gudarīks gazed up at Astrid, so glorious, so regal upon him, his lap her throne. A satisfied smile softened her features, the wind fluttering silvery white hair against her cheeks. He reached to tuck it behind her ears, drowsy and perfectly content. He gave his witch what she needed, and he’d gladly do it all again.

Something bloomed inside him, stretching its roots around his rib cage, his heart, squeezing tight. But it wasn’t an ache that hurt, nor a lingering effect from the spell. The truth struck him hard, leaving him breathless and maybe just a little misty-eyed. “Astrid.”

Something so warm and tender shone in her eyes. The runes had dimmed, but her skin glowed faintly from within in an ethereal, otherworldly light. A goddess, as far as he was concerned, and he’d devour anyone who’d try to contest it.

He let the truth tumble out. “I love—”

His shoulder pricked, vicious as a wasp sting, and a gunshot rang behind him, something whistling overhead, followed by a wet, meaty thud.

Blood spattered his face and chest.