Chapter Thirty
Briar should probably not enjoy being hauled about quite so much. She was sure it said something unsavory about her character. But as she had almost accidentally murdered all of the witches of Lyonesse with roses, her character was clearly already beyond salvation.
She may as well enjoy it.
Ethan stalked through the edge of the crowd, past the tables laden with the remnants of feasting, past empty bottles of honey mead, past couples being handfasted by the stones, past all of it as if it meant nothing.
As if all that mattered was Briar pinned to his shoulder, his palm pressing against her backside, thumb tracing the spot at the bottom of her spine.
She’d had no idea that very spot could make her shiver, could make heat crawl into her belly.
He crossed the fields to a thick grove of oak trees, green leaves deepening at their approach. The shadows were cool, dappled with light. Ethan set her down on her feet, and before the blood had rushed back through her body, he had pressed her against a tree, pinning her there. Keeping her there.
There was silence between them, and craving, and power.
His eyes were dark, searching. His sleeve was torn and stained with blood.
She was covered in the pinprick marks of thorns, on her arms, her fingers, her ankles.
She must look as wild and unkempt as she felt.
And she did not mind it so much. There was already something untamed flaring between them, the pull of their bodies, the need to get closer. Closer.
Ethan lifted his hand, silver rings flashing, and curled it around her throat. Gentle but inexorable. As if he could erase the memory of the iron collar and the welts it had left behind.
She found he could, if only for that moment.
They still had not spoken, had not looked away from each other. Her breath came in gasps, every part of her electrified. When she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, his eyes flared. It was the spark of a wick catching fire. That snap of light. Hunger.
His hold tightened slightly, and he tilted her head back.
The bark was rough against her neck, her shoulders.
A welcome bite when she might otherwise float away.
She was no longer convinced that she was in charge of her own body.
Everything was Ethan. The parts of her that were not touching him felt cold, while also tingling with anticipation.
When her eyes drifted shut at the waves of want and need crashing through her, he clicked his tongue in displeasure, fingers tightening again. He caught her gaze, snared it.
And then he smiled.
Slowly, darkly.
Something sharper than anticipation hummed through her.
His kiss was devastating. Deep, thorough.
Deliberate. He demanded every bit of her attention, tongue stroking into her mouth, pulling her bottom lip into his mouth with a nip.
Another stroke of his tongue against hers, their breaths tangling, ragged and desperate.
He dragged those same kisses along her jaw, bit her ear, her collarbone, sucking at her skin along the top of her breasts, to her nipple.
As if he were desperate to leave his mark on her.
As though he hadn’t already.
When she whimpered, he smiled against her pinkened flesh. “I’ve got you, little thorn. It’s not enough, is it?” When she shook her head frantically, he agreed, almost sounding angry, “It’s never enough.”
He lifted her higher against the tree, pushing her skirts up, parting her legs to step between them. The press of his cock against her mound made her whimper again, even through the layers of fabric. The ferns at their feet grew tender pale-green fronds, primrose flowers glowing in between.
She was so wet that when he finally touched her, he slipped between her folds with ease, sliding up toward her bud, back down again, his other hand still around her throat. He groaned, sounding broken in a way he had not sounded even when the arrow struck him. “So wet for me. So perfect.”
She wanted to eat his delicious, filthy words like frosted cakes. She wanted more of everything. She clamped her thighs around his hips, demanding.
He groaned again. “Perfect little thorn.”
She rubbed against him. “Please, Ethan.”
“Please what, sweetheart?”
She growled. She actually growled. Then she turned her head, whispering in his ear, “Take me against this tree, Ethan. Now.”
He pulled at the buttons of his trousers, finally freeing himself.
She wanted to touch him, stroke him until he groaned again, but she couldn’t reach him at this angle.
He dragged the crown of his cock through her wetness, a teasing pressure between her folds.
She pushed up, trying to take him deeper.
And then finally, finally, he thrust into her and she fluttered, stretched around him.
The slide against her intimate muscles made her gasp.
“Never enough,” he repeated, low voice tickling gooseflesh up her nape. He thrust deeper, angling, not rushing, until she wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream or whimper. Or bite him.
He let go of her throat to cradle the back of her head, cushioning her as they rocked together in a frenzy, chasing every lick of fire, every shudder of desire. He gripped her bad hip with his other hand, steadying her, taking the weight. Taking everything. Giving everything.
There were no thoughts left, only heat and a sweet ache that threatened to tear her apart.
He plunged into her again and again and she met him thrust for thrust, not just chasing pleasure but hunting it.
Trapping it. It spiraled through her, stiffening her muscles, curling her toes, stealing the last gasp from her mouth.
He followed with a hoarse grunt, pulling her closer to him, impossibly close until she wrapped her arms around his neck, and they stayed that way until the sweat dried on their skin.
When he finally set her back down, her legs wobbled. There was already the sting of strained muscles. She hoped she would feel it for days. A reminder. A secret that was just hers alone. Her Iron Crow. At least for a little while.
She smiled when she found him watching her, those dark eyes steady and intense.
She did not know if he expected histrionics.
Begging. Tears. But this was what was going to happen all along.
He had told her he was leaving. It was practically the first thing he had said to her, before she convinced him to abduct her. And he needn’t have warned her.
People left.
Especially Lyonesse. For most, the island was a vacation, a moment outside of their real lives and the tearoom just another stop along the way. A cup of tea, a frosted cake. A sachet of dried leaves as a souvenir. And then back to London or Cardiff or Dublin. Back to the seas.
The walk across the hills back to Haven was filled with birdsong and the wind in the thistles.
The sun was warm on her hair and her shoulders and the tip of her nose.
She snuck Ethan glances, drinking in his lazy, confident strides, the tattoo peeking out of his open collar, his silver rings flashing.
It swelled inside her ribcage—sorrow, wishes best left unsaid, the prickle of unshed tears behind her eyelids. The way she already missed him when he was still right there beside her.
Love.
She loved him.
There was no sense denying it to herself.
It wouldn’t make it any less true. Or any less painful.
She loved his ruthlessness, his secret gentleness.
His unwavering, uncomplaining strength. The way he’d fixed her door without being asked.
The cane of roses. He saw her. And she knew how precious that was.
She loved him. Iron Crow. Dragon. Captain.
And so she let him go.
It was the only gift she could offer, the green witch spinster in the cottage that would be seized for unpaid debt within the week.
They had reached the cliff’s edge. The ship, the glittering light of his dragon, the white roses.
She did not blink, even when her eyes watered.
She didn’t want to miss a single moment.
Ethan kissed her again, chasing the little sounds she made, holding firm but fingers gentle on her jaw.
He pressed his brow to hers. “Little thorn.”
“Dragon.”
“Aster won’t be a problem,” he said. “I’ll see to it.”
What did that mean? She wasn’t entirely sure she should ask. “You can’t murder him.”
“You keep saying that.” He exhaled. “You have a lot of rules.”
“Just the one, really. But if someone out there is trying to murder you, you can murder them right back.”
“So the rules change.”
She shrugged. “Usually no one’s trying to murder me.” She slanted him a look through her lashes. “You, on the other hand…”
He chuckled, but there was no humor to it. It was layered with too many threads for her to unpick. Wryness? Regret? Agreement? “Don’t let his mother bully you. And don’t let any Keepers through your front door, woman.”
She ran her palms down his thick arms, memorizing the warmth of him, the sinewy strength. She did not mention that she might not have a tearoom for much longer.
“And don’t use those driftwood canes anymore.”
“I know.”
“Have someone move a comfortable bed into your downstairs parlor. No more sleeping on the bloody stones.”
Warmth filled her at his hard, stern tone. “I’ll be fine, Ethan. I promise.”
“I know. But I want you to be better than fine. And I want Haven to tremble at your feet.”
“I don’t need that.”
He grunted, unconvinced. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
He pulled away, and she let him. He descended the stone steps, wind tugging at his dark hair. Briar stayed on the cliff, thinking of bees at window panes, spiders trapped in flower garlands, thistles that needed the field instead of the garden. The sparrow trapped in the roses.
“Don’t forget me, Ethan Swansea,” she whispered, too softly for him to hear. The scent of roses was strong.
He stopped but did not turn around. The line of his spine was like a sword. Sunlight flashed on the sea. He whispered back as though she was not meant to hear him either.
“I’d sooner forget how to breathe.”