23. Thalia
TWENTY-THREE
THALIA
T halia saw Drake as a magnificent streak of shining violet as she spun wildly through the pouring rain. She saw him soaring like a celestial being from space, plummeting toward the earth without consideration for his own well-being. She was falling fast like a rock pushed from a high cliff.
Something created by desperation, and something even deeper channeled through the veins of her forgotten ancestors, awakened inside Thalia. Certain death was approaching if Drake could not make it. And potentially, his own, as a fruitless endeavor into heroism.
She balled her fists together midair, and then, incredibly, a transparent cushion began to expand around her heels to her head. It glowed a gentle green, the shade of lily pads sheathed in dew, guided her down toward the earth, and sunk her into Drake’s scaled back.
He shifted back astoundingly fast, and Thalia found herself insanely out of breath. Her chest ached with fear when she flipped over, and saw that the gray and blue swirl of the king’s eyes shimmered brilliantly.
He was also naked, panting, and gloriously sexy soaked in the rain.
“Drake…”
He yanked her into him, pressing lips into a crushing, passionate kiss. She parted her mouth for him, moaning with a fiery passion, and a relief that made her feel like she was levitating.
When they parted, Thalia’s face ran hot, and she began to giggle deliriously. Drake’s smile was beautiful and weary, and he too began to chuckle.
“Hello,” she whispered bashfully.
The king’s expression melted into a mournful regret, and he cupped Thalia’s face in his hands. “Thalia, I am so sorry,” he professed. “My words of sorrow are insufficient. You are everything to me. You are the moon, the sun, the rain, the stars–”
Thalia couldn't help herself. She pressed her mouth to his mid-sentence, the tasty honey of his promises a delicious coating on her tongue. She moaned again, adoring the way his hands explored the taut contours of her tunic.
She felt her muscles go lax and then rigid for him. If it weren’t for the fact they were lying on the wet ground of the battlefield, she would’ve let him take her right then and there.
The drive was of pure primal animalistic desire. His dragon coming out to play. And something else.
They were interrupted by Sorcha and members of the war council, who appeared sapped from the brief but grueling battle. Sorcha tossed a blanket over the king’s back, and he clothed himself in it, with Thalia held solidly against him.
“What of Pyralis, My King?” a war council member asked.
The skies began to part, and the fog dissipated.
All four of them turned toward the hillside where Pyralis’s life was fading. Though Thalia knew what the monster could have done to her—including murder, and cannibalization—she didn’t enjoy the idea of having yet another life doused out in her name.
“Bring him to the gallows,” the king said as if reading her thoughts. “We need him for questioning before he departs from this plane of existence.”
Thalia laid her head upon Drake’s chest. His skin was warm, and he smelled of smoke. His heartbeat was strong.
As they proceeded to walk through the carnage of the battlefield, Thalia ran her hands through Drake’s hair, catching his attention. When his eyes touched hers, they were radiant, turning her legs to rubber.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly.
He scoffed politely, then planted a small kiss on her forehead as they trailed behind Sorcha and the war councilors.
“I am eternally content with you here in my arms. Safe.”
The explosion of heat in her belly felt counterintuitive to the sight she beheld before her. She turned away, feeling secure with the king’s arm snaked around her waist.
Soldiers, some dead, some barely clinging to life lay tossed aimlessly throughout the meadow. Some were missing limbs, others had deep and dangerous lacerations. It wasn’t an outright slaughter, but Thalia was stunned by how much damage had been done in such a small amount of time.
She tried to pull herself from Drake, drawn in the way she had been drawn to the secret door. He held her wrist as tight as a shackle.
“Thalia,” he muttered.
“Drake,” she said, whipping her head back at him with a gentle smile. “Let me go. Let me do what I can to help. To help your people."
The king's glare softened. His grip on her slacked, and finally, allowed her to slip away.
“Be careful,” he muttered. “The dead are unsightly. We carry them back to the castle where they are laid to rest. The others are taken to the medical ward.”
She nodded and turned away. A scattering of half-slain, half-afflicted men would have intimidated her in the past. But not anymore. She was the Creation Sorceress, a rare blessing sweeping across the majestic kingdom of the Mountain King.
Thalia walked among the ruins, wading through rivers of blood. She moved with a fluidity she had never felt, placing her palms directly upon lacerations, gashes, and deep lesions. She summoned all of the spell work Sorcha had taught her, gathering the molecules inside their wrecked bodies and breathed a second life.
All of them stared in awe once she took her hands from them. Thalia expected to be at least a little discombobulated. But she wasn’t.
If anything, she was rejuvenated by the sight of acting as their remedy.
Thalia floated along to each wounded soldier, some more mangled than others, healing those that she was able to.
Some of the castle had also been destroyed, so Thalia used her abilities to gather the obliterated stone and fuse it together once again as stable brickwork.
She wasn’t able to fix everything she longed to because a fair amount of her energy had been zapped due to the traumatic experience with Pyralis. Nevertheless, what she had done was nothing short of a miracle.
When Drake returned to her, he was dressed in his military garb. The dead were being carted from the fields of the clash while those Thalia had healed continued with their convalescence.
He placed both hands on her shoulders, and Thalia wanted to sink into him. He leaned down and brushed his lips against her neck, trailing up to the shell of her ear.
The witch shivered and gasped aloud.
“You must be famished.”
They retreated into the castle while the combat zone was further cleansed. Drake held her hand the entire way through the palace, which was teeming with recovery nurses and doctors. They passed through to the royal chambers, closing the door behind them with a heavy lock. Alone, finally having escaped their turmoil.
A grand feast had been prepared during the recovery by the private chef, and lay on small tables in the lounge of the king’s chambers. The sight of fresh grapes, mango, slices of beef and breast of chicken, spring water, and vintage wine, had never looked so appealing.
They ate ravenously in silence. Thalia couldn’t believe how rabid she was until she finished eating, washing the protein down with a flavorful swirl of the royal Merlot. She was tired in a way that was thoroughly gratifying.
“Mmm, Drake.”
She was sitting next to him on a loveseat, the leather cold and ripe to the touch. Thalia lay back, catching her breath.
“Yes, my love?”
She sat upright, a hand gliding up from the seat to her chest. She was caked in sweat, and likely needed a good washing.
“Drake…”
“I love you, Thalia,” he said, proudly, turning to run his hands along her thighs. “I am not certain you interpreted that. But I desire you in every way. I have fallen madly for you. I am aware we had our disagreement…but I would like to learn more about life with you. As one blended soul."
His hands moved through the barriers of her tunic, fluttering along the exposed skin of her knees. Her breath caught in her throat, but the words came as easily as falling rain.
“Drake, I love you too,” she said, grinning like a fool. “I wanted to tell you that out there on the battlefield. I want to let go of everything that has happened thus far. I want to learn too, my sweet darling.”
The king was glowing. He lowered his head and laced a trail of fiery kisses along her knees, then laboriously moved the fabric upward.
Thalia felt like she was drunk. Drunk, and in love.
“Drake, I should probably wash first…”
“None of that,” he crooned, tracing his lips along the pulpy softness of her inner thighs. “I like it. I love it. I love you. All of you, my Creation Sorceress."
He pushed the hem of her tunic upward, and she aided him by rolling it with her hands, sliding past her chemise. She was exposed, leaning her head back against the armrest of the couch as his hot breath tickled her precious folds.
“Thalia, I want to make you mine,” he growled. “What that means for our kind involves a mark. A mark made at the height of your pleasure. It will sting, and leave a scar. But it signifies a bond forged, an eternal one.”
Thalia responded without hesitation. “I want nothing more in this world," she mewled.
The king’s eyes lit up. “Then I will not tease you any further, my love.”
Thalia’s cries of pleasure rang off the castle walls as he began the act of worship.