Chapter 32 #2
His other hand is still around my throat. As I swallow, it presses my flesh into his, warmth upon warmth, my pulse in his palm. He has to feel how it speeds, a fluttering bird he cages so carefully and so completely.
He must realize he’s still holding me, because slowly he releases my neck and takes my hip instead, bracing me against him.
My chest heaves on a full, heavy breath, and while I have a million questions about the King of Death and his true motivations, I trust in one thing.
He won’t let me fall.
So, with him at my back, I lose myself in the display as another flare arcs overhead. Threads burn from the corona around the dark moon, spreading and bursting in light and color.
One balloons out, then turns jagged. For a breathless instant, it looks like the outline of my home upon its clifftop, then it shifts and bursts apart, and I fancy the shapes soaring into the darkness are seagulls. I can almost hear their sharp cries.
No, not gulls. One is an owl, great wings spreading, flying straight for me, before it vanishes.
There’s a series of seven arches that crumble.
A loop that pulls away, making the ring around the moon look like a pendant hanging from a necklace.
The outline of a dark horse that paws the ground, eyes glowing, smoke pluming from its hooves and shedding from its body.
Or at least that’s what I see. The shapes are as random as clouds, and I’m a child looking for sense among them.
It’s beautiful. Such a contrast to the Underworld’s gray sky and black sun and flat, white snow. I thank the gods for it, even The Morrigan. Part of me is glad to have a chance to see something few, if any, mortals have ever witnessed.
When I shiver, the cold cutting through Drystan’s hold, he slips his jacket over my shoulders and steps in closer.
I have no idea how long passes before the last flare fades into the sky and the silver fire around the moon burns low, leaving only a faint ring in the dark sky.
“What was that?” I whisper, breath misting overhead as I still stare up, hoping for just one more spark.
“Moonfire.” The word brushes my ear, making me shiver.
“It only happens when certain celestial bodies are aligned. That’s why I chose tonight for our formal presentation as a couple.
Moonburn is a meaningful night for my people—one where we’re connected to the surface and the skies we once lived beneath.
That’s what the strands of light are—glimpses of the true stars and planets, rather than our mere echoes.
Our stars are more the idea of stars—the memory of them in the minds of all the dead who have passed through.
To see moonfire is significant. An auspicious sign for our marriage. ”
Symbol is important to the unseelie, just like ritual. But… “Is it really auspicious if you just chose a certain date?”
“The colors aren’t guaranteed, even if on paper everything is aligned. The fact they showed so brilliantly tonight—so bright, so full of color.” His fingers flex against my hip. “I call that significant.”
Everything about tonight feels significant. Like I’m approaching a fork in the road or a junction in the labyrinth. But I don’t know what my choices are or where I’m trying to go.
In the cold dark, I’m suddenly aware of how flimsy my dress is and the way the stiff peaks of my nipples push against its silk, despite Drystan’s jacket. I pull it tighter, hoping he hasn’t noticed.
“But you still chose the date, didn’t you? I have no effect on what happens in the sky. It could be anyone here with you—anyone presented as your future spouse.”
He huffs, hold loosening. “Are you deliberately contrary or does it just come naturally to you?”
“Me, contrary?” I splutter, turning. “You’re the one who… who…” But now I’m staring up at him and his grip has reformed on my hips, I struggle to think of anything particularly irritating he’s done lately. Which is irritating in itself. “Well, you’ve thrown me into your labyrinth, for one thing.”
“You asked me to.”
“No, I asked for a chance to get home.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“You didn’t warn me that Min would be in danger.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“That is the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”
His lips thin, outlined by the faint light from the dim ring lingering around the moon. “Maybe it is. But I couldn’t tell you what the labyrinth would throw at you, even if I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“My word. You always have another question, don’t you?” His hands skim up my back, and I’m not sure if he wants to throttle me or crush me into his chest.
I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
“Well, apparently it’s the only way to get information from you, since you never volunteer it.” I punctuate the “you” with a prod right at the center of his chest. “And you just said I didn’t ask. Do I ask too many questions or not enough? It can’t be both.”
“Stop.” His fingers plunge into my hair with a grip tight enough to tilt my head back.
I let out a whimper that’s part shock, part something hot that I’d prefer not to examine too closely.
His heaving breaths fan my face, and my chest rises and falls to match, like we both sprinted to this point. His gaze skims over my face, from one eye to the other, down to my parted lips.
“Just stop,” he hisses, punctuating it with a yank on my hair that pulls every nerve in me tight.
I’m not sure when it happened, but his other arm is banded around my waist, and my hands are planted on his chest.
“I already did,” I murmur.
“No.” He tugs my hair, the motion controlled, pulling me back so I arch against him, chest and belly pressed against his, the silk of my gown tight over my breasts, my hands fisting in his shirt, feet barely on the ground like that might help him keep control.
“See? It’s like you can’t help yourself. ”
He has me so taut, every nerve hums like a high note on a violin, held and held and held.
I reach the fork in the road. One path is sensible. One path is this. A solution to the unbearable tension ringing through me. Something physical that doesn’t matter. A choice that, if made with my eyes open, carries no risk. I won’t be his thrall—magical or physical.
But I will enjoy this one thing before I leave this world.
I trust my weight to the arm banded around my waist and loop my legs around him. It’s natural, easy, and it makes his lips part on this heavy exhale like it’s the last thing he expected.
“Can’t help myself? You’re the one clutching me against yourself like a desperate boy.”
The gold in his eyes flares, as bright as moonfire, as devastating as wildfire. It scorches with his tightening grip—each finger a brand upon my skin. I wouldn’t be surprised if I discovered he’d burned away my gown. I’m not entirely sure I’d care.
He half smiles, half snarls, entirely vicious, as he walks me back through the snow until my shoulders hit a pillar. Cold, hard, it bites through his jacket into my flesh, a dizzying contrast to the heat of the king crushing me into it.
“You can’t help but retort.” He punctuates each word by grinding against me, wringing a needy moan from my lips. “Always.” He drives deeper, harder.
And I love that he isn’t gentle.
For so long, I’ve been treated like something that might break. Or even worse—something that’s already broken. Now, his roughness is a balm, harsh enough to sing through my body, controlled enough that I’m not afraid.
Satisfied savagery enters his smile, like he knows he’s made me slick, like he wants to drink up the sound of my rising pleasure. “It drives me fucking mad.”
I don’t want to prove him right by replying.
But I also can’t bring myself to keep my damn mouth shut.
And part of me wants to earn this delicious punishment he’s doling out tonight.
“Would you prefer it if I was a good little wife, bowing and scraping and letting Your Majesty have the last word on all things?” I use the tiny bit of slack he’s left in my hair to raise my chin, defiant.
The gold of his eyes wears thin as his pupils blow wide. He goes still, the tension in his body a solid thing whose trembling is only detectible by touch. And we’re touching in a lot of places.
“What did you just say?”
“I say a lot of things, apparently, Your Majesty. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“What did you just call yourself?” His voice lowers, rumbling into me.
“A good little wife.” I enunciate each word like they’re all separate sentences.
He huffs out a breath, not quite laughing. “You couldn’t be a ‘good little wife’ if you tried.”
That stings. Deep. A lance driven through my chest. Then twisted.
Because I had hoped for that once. Back when I thought I could have the normal life I’d been promised.
I was meant to marry that boy I gave myself to on the beach when I was young and naive and more healthy than sick.
I was meant to move away and start my own life and have my own children, just like my brothers have.
I was meant to have a home that I ran, a husband I loved, a garden that wasn’t bound by walls embedded with iron.
For the man that boy grew into, I would have been a good little wife.
But I never got the chance.
And I never will.
A tight tremble seizes my throat. It’s all I can do to try and swallow it down and blink away the threat burning at the back of my eyes. I lower my legs and shove on Drystan’s chest.
“Let me go.” I hate the way my voice shakes on those three simple words.
Yet he obeys, eyebrows clashing together.
And, barely holding in tears, I run into the night.