Chapter 8
Kai
Ihold up the flap of the tent, letting Rowan walk out in front of me. She moves with unconscious precision, angling her body so we don’t touch. I can’t blame her. I’d not want anything to do with me either. Hells, no one with a brain does. Or should.
Lilith’s atrophied wings flash through my memory, her amber eyes full of terror. I force myself to see her fully before shoving down the image. The mission to collect an alchemist for Lilith’s sake, bypassing the needs of all others, risking war, had always been gray. And I didn’t give two fucks.
But betraying Rowan? That one I hate myself for more than she does.
“You’re being watched,” Kyrian says, falling in beside me.
Logan trails Rowan from a distance. The bastard is using his wolf form to avoid talking to anyone.
Just because I can’t blame him, doesn’t mean I’m not jealous.
Kyrian rolls his neck, bones popping, the sound not quite masking the envy in his tone. “Make it convincing.”
“You could join us.”
He arches a brow. Right. Flurry fae are as casual with their bodies as my kin in Slait, but we’re meant to be selling a betrothal here. Plus, Rowan is most certainly not casual and will already be scheming ways to cut off my balls without adding a second naked male into the mix.
Kyrian sighs and peels off the path we are following to the officers’ bathing section “I’ll secure suitable clothing for the evening. The stewards should have soap and towels at the stream for you,” he adds over his shoulder. “Try and use them.”
I give him a vulgar gesture.
A pace ahead of me, Rowan is drawing every eye in camp. She is human. The alchemist. The enemy.
She’s also the most beautiful female here, the battered Eryndor cadet uniform doing nothing to hide her curves or her defiance. Both of which stir my cock. I lengthen my stride, catching up to her, and slide my arm around her waist.
Rowan’s shoulder goes rigid against me, but she doesn’t pull away. Impressive. I’m not sure I’d have the same restraint in her place.
It’s a dangerous relief, the feeling of her pressed close to my side, her hip snug against my hip, her honey and citrus scent wrapping around me.
Even the pretense of intimacy with her is more intoxicating than any liquor I’ve ever poured down my throat.
If Rowan notices the subtle change in the way my fingertips flex against the curve of her waist, she doesn’t give me the satisfaction of a reaction.
Maybe she’s too busy pretending I’m not here, or that every surveyor’s glance and whispered slur isn’t about the human alchemist they wish were dead. Or speared on their cock.
We pass through a knot of younger soldiers clustered at the edge of the path. I glare and they step back, averting their gazes. It’s still an effort of will to not knock their teeth loose. Maybe I’ll do that later, when Rowan is settled.
Later we fly with the riot, Ulyssus says into my mind. Stay on track.
I can knock out teeth and fly. I put up my mental shields before he can offer more commentary. There is enough going on without his sage advice.
We follow the marked trail to crest a gentle rise, where the landscape opens abruptly to the soft rush and tumble of water.
Theron’s soldiers have claimed a wide stretch of the stream, the perimeter of the bathing section marked with rope staked into the mossy bank with silver-tipped spikes.
I’m pleased to see the bank carefully cleared of brambles and overhanging branches—not because I care much, but because it speaks to the discipline of the unit.
The discipline that might be the only thing keeping them from ripping Rowan apart limb by limb.
“Is that it?” there is a slight tremor in Rowan's voice as she points with her chin.
I raise a brow. We’re close enough now to see wooden caddies with soap and towels, a battered tin pitcher for rinsing hair, even a copper kettle steaming at the edge. “I doubt it’s Theron’s hygiene supply storage.”
Rowan swallows, and I pay attention. She’s not the type to scare easily, or at least to show it.
“What do you see?” I ask, already scanning the area for threats. Nothing obvious, unless the dozen naked fae in the water and half-dozen half-naked attendants all have swords up their asses.
“A lack of partitions.”
Of for fuck’s sake. I stop looking for hidden weapons and regard Rowan instead. “You expected privacy?”
“For a bath? Yes!” She tries to run a hand through her hair, but it’s too tangled, the red-brown strands catching the morning sun.
The black cadet tunic is torn at the shoulder, exposing pale skin bruised to match the dirt on her face.
Somehow, all of it only makes her look fiercer, the intelligence burning in her honey eyes.
She’s beautiful and unbroken. And I find I like the idea of others looking at her even less than she does.
I bring my lips close to her ear. Her pulse thumps at her throat like a tiny war drum.
“Keep focused on me,” I order. Without waiting for a response, I hook an arm under her knees and back, and lift her against my chest. Her weight feels perfect, her body fitting like a puzzle piece against mine.
Ignoring the stares, I carry Rowan into the stream, holding her close to my chest to offer my heat to offset the chilly water. Spotting a boulder jutting from the current, I set her on it, back to the shore. It’s the best I can offer for privacy.
The water is brisk, the current curling around my knees as I crouch before her and hold a hand out toward the attendant, who dutifully hands me a cake of soap, wash cloth and a pitcher of heated water. I set them on the stone beside Rowan’s hip.
“Keep your eyes on me, Ainsley,” I demand, pleased to see a spark of defiance penetrate through the fear.
Still, her body is taut, every muscle tense with pride and wary anticipation.
I grip her gaze as I peel away the remnants of her uniform, letting the fabric fall into the current, baring her to the bright daylight of the watching fae.
They dare not approach us, but have no intention of turning away either.
I can’t spare her the exposure, but maybe I can annoy her enough to distract her. “You look like shit.”
“If I’d known you’d be kidnapping me, I’d have freshened up my make up.” She reaches for the pitcher of warm water and I pull it out of reach.
“Can you stop being an ass for a quarter hour?” she hisses quietly.
“Don’t know. Never tried it before.” I lift the pitcher over her head and tip it slowly, letting the warm water cascade over her hair and shoulders, rinsing away the worst of grit and blood. “Don’t move.”
For once, the girl obeys, sitting very still, her back straight, chin lifted, refusing to flinch even when the chill of the air replaces the steam.
But even she can’t control the shivering, which runs in fine tremors through her limbs.
With her naked before me, it’s impossible to ignore the delicate scattering of freckles on her shoulders, faint silvery lines of old scars, and—of most interest to my lower body—the shy bushel of auburn curls peeking from between her thighs.
She is both fragile and indomitable, a living contradiction that makes my blood sing.
I palm the cake of soap, working it into a thick lather between my palms, then smooth it across her collarbone and the slender arch of her neck.
Rowan’s breath hitches when my hands linger there, at her nape, my thumbs stroking slow circles behind her ears until the dirt and sweat grudgingly give way to pale, luminous skin.
Wringing out the linen cloth, I trail it along the curve of her shoulder, down the line of her arm, and across her ribs, where bruises—both fresh purple and older deep yellow—dress her skin.
I brush the pad of my finger over the abused flesh.
“How much does it hurt?” I ask, voice low. I mean the query in earnest but it still comes out like a demand.
Her hands tighten on the boulder. “It doesn’t.”
“Lying is no way to start a marriage."
She growls lightly, showing her teeth.
I chuckle.
Her scowl deepens.
I move closer, my knees brushing the stone she sits on. “We have an audience to entertain,” I whisper into her ear.
“You want to juggle first or should I?”
Sending a small prayer up to whichever god might be listening—never hurts to hedge one’s bets before going into lethal combat—I raise her hand to my lips and kiss each knuckle in the kind of nauseating infatuation I’ve seen idiots lose themselves in.
Her fingers curl against mine, outwardly delighted and privately sinking her nails into my skin. Nails that have been uncut for a very long time.
“Kittens have claws.” I murmur, nipping her earlobe—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to send a flush through her wet, naked body. Just like that, my world narrows to the scent of her: honey and sharp citrus, wild and defiant.
Rowan closes her eyes, lashes dark and spiked with water drops, lips parted as she first exhales and grits her teeth. And her thighs. “This would be a good time to have your shadows do something useful.”
“On the contrary. We are making a point to the crowd.” I gather her hair in my hands with deliberate slowness and knead the soap thuds into auburn waves. The ones on her head, not between he thighs. Because I’m only partially suicidal.
Beneath the surface of the water, Ainsley aims her foot into my balls.
I drop my hand to her breast, my thumb right over her nipple. “Would you like to try that again?” I murmur.
Her body stills at once, but not before I scent the sharp whiff of her arousal.
I grin wickedly.
She flinches. It’s a small movement, unseen by anyone on shore, but plain enough for me.
My amusement fades. “It’s just your body reacting to touch,” I say roughly.
Quietly. “It’s just a reflex. Your body is doing what it's meant to. Nothing more. I’m under no illusion that you’ve changed your mind about wanting to fillet me.
So don’t worry about it, understand?” I squeeze her nipple, increasing the pressure until she nods.
I sigh. “Look, this show of ours will have to get worse before it gets better, and I need to know you are alright with that.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Yes.” I say with full conviction. Because there is no way on this side of Mors or beyond that I’m going to force this. “If you can’t bear to tolerate my touch, we will find another way.”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?” I hold out my hand for another pitcher of warm water, focusing on rinsing her hair to buy us time.
The way the water runs over her shoulders, tracing lines along her throat, undoes any benefit of having my cock submerged in cold water.
Makes me wonder if the stream itself isn’t mocking me. Or just calling out my hypocrisy.
“Is that Prince Theron?” Rowan’s question catches me off guard. I curse myself for getting so lost in her that I’d stopped paying attention. Worse, she’s right. Theron is here, cock out and swinging as he wades into the stream and heads straight for us.
I curse. “Remember how I said this performance was going to get worse?”
Her reply is fast. Breathless. “Whatever you need to do. I like my hands attached.”
I nod quickly and Rowan sits more upright atop the slick boulder, her bright eyes fixed on mine—a challenge burning in their depths, daring me to see her as anything less than unbreakable.
Theron stops less than a pace away and collects his bathing supplies from the ever helpful attendant. “I hope I’m not interrupting."
“Not at all.” I brush a droplet of water trailing down Rowan’s cheek. “You’d have to matter to interrupt."
“You don’t believe a prince of Flurry matters?”
“Flurry princes aren’t a deficit in my life. This one on the other hand…” I slide my hands hungrily along her skin, dragging my fingers down her sides, thumbs tracing the sensitive dip between rib and hip. Then dipping down to her thighs. “She’s got a hold of all my senses right now.”
Theron snorts, the water lapping his waist failing to cover his cock, already half-hard and obvious. “Don’t hold back on my account." The smugness in his tone makes me want to rip said cock from him and stuff it down his throat. “I’ve always wondered if fae and humans were even compatible.”
I turn my back to him, which I don’t like but it blocks Rowan’s view. The scent of arousal I felt from her earlier now mixes with fear that makes my stomach turn. Does she think I’d force her?
One look into her eyes says yes.Worse. It says she’d understand. That she’d forgive me for it.
That would make one of us.
“Open your thighs,” I order instead.
She obeys, her chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths.
“Good.” I kneel before her in the water, guiding one of her legs over my shoulder to bring her warm opening into view. “Now be a good girl, and don’t move.”