Chapter 23 #3
A wild, rabid part of Nyneve wanted to tell him there was nothing to apologize for—that she wanted him with every fiber of her being and would gladly accept any pretense that lessened the bone-deep truth of her desires.
“I didn’t have to follow you,” she conceded, kicking off her boots.
He cocked his head at her, and Nyneve suddenly felt she was facing off with a wolf somewhere deep in the forest, where no one would hear her scream. “But I knew you would,” he admitted.
Her body begged for him, an absurd desire in a situation so dire.
She undid the lacings on her kirtle slowly, holding his gaze, her breath coming far too quick.
His gaze devoured her as she stepped out of the garment, leaving her in nothing but her chemise and smallclothes.
Then Mordred shifted his weight, the firelight licking across his abdomen.
Nyneve noticed something that made the animal part of her go quiet.
“Do you have a broken rib?” she asked.
“What?” Mordred asked, a beat too late. Then he looked down, one hand ghosting over the spot Nyneve had noticed. “Oh. I suppose. I noticed it when I bathed earlier, but there was no time.”
“Sit down,” Nyneve commanded, pointing at the pallet. “You know if it’s not addressed, it could pierce your lung? Do you know what happens if your lung is pierced? You die. And then I will never get out of here.”
“My body heals just fine on its own,” Mordred protested, though he obeyed, sitting down on the edge of the pallet.
“You’d be healed, then, wouldn’t you? Surely this happened during the Northmen’s attack?” Nyneve asked archly. He hesitated, so she strode over to stand in front of him before he could lie to her yet again. “I’m going to touch you.”
“Finally,” Mordred murmured, low and enticing. She ignored the desperate flutter in her belly and palpated his rib with one hand. He held himself straight without a sound, as if she were not prodding a badly broken bone.
“Easy enough fix,” she said, settling her other hand on top.
Nyneve closed her eyes, pulling on her Threads to knot the working together, ignoring the hungry claws of Ragrshydan’s scrying.
She reached for Mordred’s Threads, surprised when he permitted her into the weave of him immediately, and then set about knitting the bone back together.
He held perfectly still as she delved a little deeper, looking for any bone fragments that may have broken loose.
Instead, she came face to face with a darkness so vast and immense she did not know how his Threads contained it. Nyneve drew back with a gasp, her stomach twisting.
“What are you?” she demanded, though she did not step away from the beautiful and terrifying creature before her.
Mordred shrugged, the contraction of his powerful muscles painfully clear in the dancing light. “A monster, I presume,” he said.
“A monster,” Nyneve echoed.
Just like her.
She hesitated. Distantly, she felt Ragrshydan’s spell rake across her back, hot as coals, demanding satisfaction for his desires. But what Nyneve felt most of all was the ache in her chest reaching for the darkness in Mordred’s.
Magic, her priestess had taught her early on, was actually quite simple. You wanted something very, very badly, and then you let yourself have it.
Nyneve grabbed Mordred by the shoulders and kissed him.
The knight didn’t hesitate to pull her close, one hand tangling in her hair.
She melted into his touch, hitching up the skirt of her shift to clamber onto the raised pallet and wrap her thighs around the faerie knight.
His hands were everywhere all at once, fingers closing around the hem of her chemise to lift it up and over her head.
“No,” Nyneve said firmly, sliding both hands into his dark hair, gathering it up in her fists to tilt his head back. Their gazes met, and in his eyes, she found nothing but endless hunger.
“Whatever you wish,” Mordred panted, though there was a question in his voice. She did not want to answer it—did not want to admit that, for some reason, keeping this slip of linen between their bodies felt like the only thing that would stop her from tumbling over the edge and into his abyss.
When he brought his mouth to her breast, teasing her nipple through her chemise, Nyneve dug her fingers into his shoulder and said his name in a strangled gasp. She wanted more of him—so much more of him, all of him, her heart drumming madly in her chest.
“We don’t have a choice,” Nyneve said even as she ground her hips against his.
Mordred pulled away from her breast, one hand closing around her thigh. “No,” he breathed. He held her gaze for a long moment, his fingers sliding beneath her smallclothes. “And we will certainly not enjoy this.”
“Not even a little,” she replied.
Wordlessly, he wrapped one muscular arm around her waist and toppled her onto the pallet. Nyneve thought the tight, feverish feeling between her legs might burst. When Mordred came up on his knees, she grappled for the lacings on his trousers.
“Not yet,” he said, voice husky, a dark brow arched. His hands engulfed her thighs, pushing her chemise up. “I have dreamed of tasting you for too many moons, Nyneve Or’Afon.”
Distantly, she worried that she had never wanted anyone so badly, and that such a truth might allow him to break her one day.
But for now, she buried her hands in his hair as he worked his way down her body until her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps and she forgot all about the gaze of the bloodthirsty High King.
When Mordred’s mouth finally met the damp, wanting heat between her legs, she cried out his name in a voice she hardly recognized.
“Mordred,” she gasped, her back arched. “More. Don’t stop.”
He obliged with a groan that reverberated through her body, bringing her so close to finally releasing the pent-up madness he had left her with time and time again.
But just as she almost tumbled over the edge, the door swung open. Two of the antlered Fey entered the room, and Mordred drew away from her, equally startled. Despite the arrival of the guards, every inch of her stubbornly throbbed with keening want, her mind still sluggish and soft with pleasure.
“The king says you should return to the fete, Changeling Knight,” one of the guards said. “The mortal stays here.”
Mordred twisted at the waist, examining the Fey, his body blocking hers from view. “For how long?” he asked.
Coming to her senses, Nyneve pushed off both palms to sit up straight. Without looking at her, Mordred tossed his tunic to her. She snatched at it gratefully, covering up her sheer chemise as she scrambled to re-dress.
“As long as the High King desires,” the guard answered with a shrug. Terror sank into Nyneve. “For now, he commands you to the fete hall.”
“Mordred,” she pleaded, her mind tumbling. The faerie knight did not look at the Druid girl as he stood, covering her with linens before sliding his tunic out of her hands. “Mordred, I will destroy this place from the inside out if you leave me,” she hissed, her power gathering like a storm.
He finally glanced at her then, tired and so, so sad. “Perhaps you should,” he whispered, leaning over to press a bewildering kiss to the top of her head. Then he turned and stalked toward the door.
Nyneve grabbed her kirtle from the edge of the pallet, her hands shaking. She could barely think. Her bound magic fought against the Elders’ spellwork, the rest of her power sinking its teeth into the wards that clearly did not like the touch of mortal-worked magic.
“When I am free of this place, because I will be,” she snarled, her eyes trained on Mordred’s back, “I will tear you into a thousand pieces.”
He paused at that, turning back to look at her. “You were so very wet for me, little thief,” he said, one ink-dark brow arched, his smile deadly. “What a shame.”
Nyneve screamed as he strode out the door.