Chapter 29 Bronwen
Bronwen
His mouth crashed against mine the second we appeared in our chambers, and I let him.
Let him drag me back, stumbling, until my spine hit the stone wall.
His hands found my hips like they always did—demanding, bruising—and I answered with a bite to his bottom lip, earning a growl that vibrated straight down my spine.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
He reached between us, undoing his belt with one hand while the other stayed tight on my waist, as if he thought I might vanish if he let go.
“Do you want this?” he asked, even though we both already knew the answer.
I nodded, breathless. “Yes.”
“Do you want me?”
I did. I always had. And I knew what he was really asking. He was asking if I saw him, if I still wanted him despite everything. This was him trusting me with what little was left of himself.
And yes, gods, I did. I loved him so much it made my chest ache, like there was too much feeling inside me to fit in one body.
“Yes, August,” I whispered.
He groaned, his mouth hovering near mine. “Always say my name like that.” He turned me around, his chest to my back, breath hot against my neck as he pushed my dress up with slow, deliberate hands. “Keep your hands on the wall.”
“Bossy,” I muttered, but obeyed.
“I need you like this,” he murmured against my ear.
When he entered me, it was rough, like it always was—but something in the rhythm slowed. Like he was trying to memorize me from the inside out.
His fingers tangled in mine, pinning them above my head as he thrust into me harder. “You feel that?” he rasped. “You’re wrapped around me like you were made for this.”
My legs trembled, but I didn’t fall. He held me up—steady, unyielding, like I was something precious he refused to let slip away.
The strength in his arms, the warmth of his body against mine, made me want to burn the image of him into my memory forever.
His scent, the sound of his breath, the way his voice turned rough when he was close—it was all him, and I wanted to drown in it.
I let my head fall back against his shoulder, feeling the brush of his jaw against my temple, gasping as pleasure sparked low and hot in my belly.
I wanted him in every way a person could want another.
His body. His heart. His soul. The realization only made my voice shake when I whispered, “Don’t stop. ”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he growled, and in that moment, it didn’t just sound like a promise—it sounded like forever.
His rhythm shifted, drawing out the tension that had been coiled in my belly. His hand slid down between my thighs, finding that aching spot that had been pulsing with need since the second he touched me. He circled it with his thumb, and I nearly cried out.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let go for me. I want to feel you unravel.”
My hands scrabbled against the stone wall, trying to hold on as the pressure inside me built to a breaking point. Every thrust hit the exact place I needed him, every grind of his hand sent sparks flooding through my veins. My legs started to shake.
I shattered around him, biting down on my bottom lip to muffle the cry, stars bursting behind my eyes as he held me steady through it.
But he wasn’t finished with me.
He scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing, carrying me to the bed. His mouth never left my skin, pressing, nipping, claiming as he lowered me onto the mattress. I was still catching my breath when he shifted my hips and threw one of my legs over his shoulder, the stretch making me gasp.
August leaned in, kissing me again—slow, bruising, and full of heat—and thrust into me in a way that made my spine arch and my fingers claw the sheets.
“Look at me,” he growled.
I did. And gods, the way he looked at me—like I was his world. Like he couldn’t get enough. It was the kind of look I knew I’d carry with me for the rest of my life.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, and as my lips parted for him, he bit down. Hard. Not cruel, but claiming. Sharp enough that I tasted blood. A low groan tore from his chest, and he sucked the blood from my lip, slow and savoring, like it was the finest thing he’d ever tasted.
He gripped my hips tighter, pulling me flush against him, and began to thrust again. The sounds of our bodies filled the room, and the burn in his eyes never left mine.
My breath hitched with every thrust, pleasure twisting through me again, raw and sharp and overwhelming. He kissed me again, swallowing my moans, then broke the kiss to murmur, “Let go for me again.”
I shook my head, trembling.
His mouth brushed my ear. “Come on, baby, you can do it.”
The words shattered what was left of my restraint.
I broke with a helpless cry, the world going bright and breathless.
His pace quickened, body taut with restraint that was quickly unraveling.
I arched into him, fingers digging into his back.
Then with one final thrust, he buried himself deep, groaning against my throat as he spilled inside me, shaking with the force of it.
* * *
The music pulsed around me, wild and untamed.
Drums pounded like a heartbeat, and violins shrieked with a tempo that made the air itself vibrate.
My dress shimmered beneath the candlelight, the hem brushing my ankles as I twirled, caught up in the frenzy of sound and movement.
Laughter and shouts rose from the dancers around us, all swept into the chaotic rhythm of the night, bodies moving fast and fearless.
I looked up toward the stage where our thrones sat—where August always watched me. But tonight, it was empty.
Because he was here.
His hand caught mine, firm and warm, as he spun me again. The corners of his mouth quirked in that maddening, knowing way, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. He wasn’t watching from afar tonight.
He was dancing with me.
I laughed breathlessly, stumbling a little as he pulled me through the sea of bodies, the music spinning faster and louder around us.
“I don’t know why you chose to live in town. This is amazing.”
He caught me with an arm around my waist, steadying me. “I never had something worth staying for.”
The way he looked at me then stole whatever breath I had left.
* * *
I woke slowly, the weight of sleep still thick in my limbs after we spent most of the night dancing. The bed was warm, the air around it cool. But something felt… off.
The other side of the bed was empty.
My eyes opened fully, and I listened. A faint sound in the washroom. He was in there.
I sat up, the sheet sliding down my bare skin, and let the silence stretch. It was rare to wake without him beside me. Rare to feel alone, even for a moment.
My feet hit the floor softly as I stood, brushing the tangled mess of hair from my face. I stretched slowly, my muscles still sore from the night before.
That’s when I saw it.
Draped over the back of the cushioned chair across the room was a dress. Deep purple. Long-sleeved. Familiar.
Too familiar.
I went still.
Even from across the room, I recognized the stitching.
The particular bend in the shape of the sleeves.
The way the hem had been slightly uneven, not from carelessness, but because Mama had run out of the proper thread and refused to wait another day to finish it.
I staggered forward a step. No. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
I nearly fell to my knees as I crossed the room. My hand reached for it with a tremble I couldn’t stop. Fingers brushing fabric. Soft. Worn in places. Real. I lifted the dress from the chair, clutching it to my chest.
My mother made this.
My breath shuddered as the weight of it sank into me. The past, the loss, the impossible tenderness of it being here—of it surviving. I thought I’d never see another one of her creations after finding our home burnt to ashes. Tears welled in my eyes before I could blink them away.
How did he find this?
The washroom door creaked open behind me. I heard his steps cross the floor. “I was hoping you’d find it.”
I turned, the dress still clutched in my hands.
August stood there, steam curling faintly behind him from the room he’d just left. His white-blond hair was damp, pushed back from his face. Droplets traced the lines of his chest, catching on the ridges of muscle, making him look less like a man and more like something carved from divine hands.
A god, in every sense of the word.
But it was his expression that undid me. He lit up when he saw I was holding the dress, like the moment mattered as much to him as it did to me. Like he knew exactly what this meant.
“Where did you find this?”
He hesitated, then ran a hand through his damp hair. “When you visit your brother every week, I… go into town, too.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
He gave a small, crooked smile. “No one recognized me with my hood on. Or if they did, they didn’t dare say anything.
” He stepped closer. “I went to the stores and through the alleys. I asked anyone I recognized from Market if they had anything Odelia made. Most people said no. Said they burned the clothes she made after the executions—worried it was cursed, or spelled somehow. Superstition.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “But a few hadn’t. Some still had pieces hidden away. I gave them more coin than they’d ever see again in their lives. Enough that they couldn’t refuse.”
He turned and walked over to the armoire.
My breath caught as he pulled it open and began carefully lifting out more pieces—folded tunics, skirts, a patched jacket with a crooked button, all faded but intact.
“I know some of these are men’s clothing,” he said, “but I thought you’d like them anyway. Or maybe you could give them to Ad—”
I didn’t let him finish.
I launched forward, the dress still in my hand, and wrapped my arms around his neck. I kissed him hard, fiercely, my tears still wet on my cheeks.
He caught me instantly, his arms locking around my waist like he’d been waiting for this—for me—to fall into him.
And I did.
* * *
I sat at the bakery, fingers curled tightly around a lukewarm cup of tea I hadn’t even taken a sip of. The scent of fresh bread usually brought me a strange sense of comfort—of warmth and memory. But today it only made the minutes feel heavier, thicker.
Adar was never late. He was always here first, waiting at our usual table, already sipping something warm and pushing a small pastry in my direction before I even sat down. But now… the chair across from me remained stubbornly empty.
I tried not to fidget, yet my foot tapped beneath the table. Doubt crawled up my spine like cold fingers. What if he was still mad at me? Surely he was over it by now.
It was necessary.
But maybe I shouldn’t tell him just how much I enjoyed doing it.
The coven was a sacrifice I had to make when I made the deal with August. I couldn’t be the Mother they needed me to be when I was spending all of my time fighting for their freedom.
I picked at the seam of my sleeve, suddenly aware of the fabric against my skin.
My eyes drifted down, and I smiled faintly.
The dress I wore today was one August had given me that morning. It was a little big and definitely not the usual style I preferred—looser, more delicate in its stitching—but it didn’t matter. Not when it was a piece of her. Of home.
The bell above the bakery door jingled and I glanced up.
Adar walked in, his expression unreadable as he scanned the room. But when his eyes found mine, he rolled them—just slightly—and I bit back a smile. He wasn’t mad anymore. I could see it in the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way he walked toward me without hesitation.
“I thought you weren’t coming.”
He sat in the chair across from me. “I wanted to make you worry for a minute.”