111. Ayres
Ayres ran a hand over his head, his fingers combing through his freshly washed hair. It was getting long, falling over his ears and forehead.
He would cut it, but he remembered when Rorax had fisted it the last time they were together, pulling on it ruthlessly—deliciously—as she ground her pussy against his face . . .
Ayres groaned and scrubbed his hands over his jaw, letting out a long sigh. His muscles and his bones were stiff. He was exhausted. Emotionally and physically.
Ayres had been in the shitty little abandoned office—with abhorrent paintings of hot air balloons the last librarian had hung all over the walls—non-stop for almost a month.
He was hiding from his friends, from his people, and most importantly from Rorax, only leaving when there was a tug on the ley lines, for his workout during the time he knew Rorax would be in the Contestars” Courtyard, or if he needed to take care of a hygiene problem.
Ayres’s eyes were sore, his fingers were always constantly covered in ink, and every lead he had so far was going cold.
He was so, so tired.
Ayres was searching, desperately searching, for a way to get Rorax and her friend out of this fucking Choosing, but every single day it looked more and more helpless.
Neither he nor any of his librarians at home in Surmalinn, or Morvarand, had been able to find anything. Not a shred of evidence. Kiniera had informed him that House of Ice was having similar results. He had even sent a raven to Merosa, the Witch Queen who resided in the Salt Stone City of House of Fauna, but she didn’t have any information for him either.
When his ancestor Raiv Sumavari had destroyed the evidence of the Transfer Tables he had been very, very thorough.
Rorax choosing to champion these women was going to be her destruction when she couldn’t save them, and nothing he was doing was helping.
It was utterly, utterly useless. He was utterly useless.
Ayres picked up the crystal decanter he had brought with him that was full of whiskey and pulled a long swallow down his throat.
The burn going down was exactly what he needed.
When the bottle was empty, he turned and hurled it against the wall, and it shattered, glass spraying everywhere. Watching it shatter against the stones was the most satisfying thing he had seen all cycle.
Ayres ran his hands through his hair again, his shoulders drooping.
He was going to lose her. Rorax was going to die if he didn’t find something. The fifth trial was coming up, he had a little over a month left. Rorax would never agree to Enna’s death in exchange for hers. She would kill herself before agreeing to that, and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to lose her, but Enna was still the chosen successor they had all agreed upon.
The door to the lost librarian’s office slammed open and something in his chest soothed as Rorax, in all her furious glory, burst in.
Gods, she was beautiful. Her wavy long black hair was billowing around her shoulders, draping over her chest, and begging for him wrap it around his fist and force her into him so he could breathe her in, or maybe force her to her knees so he could fuck her mouth.
Gods that mouth . . .
She slammed the door behind her and stormed towards him. “Where the fuck have you been, Ayres?”