Chapter Eighteen
Jarok
Jarok’s hand spasmed, as if hit with a phantom ache, when he dropped Piris’s, but they’d all agreed to regroup in a few minutes. Lord Volesion stalked off toward the kitchen, likely going to find his wife, and Piris trailed behind. It wouldn’t be right to keep her from the assurances she might need so soon after an attack on her home.
Cylian stepped up to his side. “Prince—”
“Cylian, please, for the love of the gods. Not now.” Jarok had a stray thought about what wards and spells might protect Cylian’s clothes from the fire he wielded, as he’d never seen a single burn on the Fae’s garments, but he shook it clear. It was an absurd thing to focus on after such devastation.
Necessary devastation, yes, but blood spilled is always a devastating act, for those who bleed and those who spill the blood.
Jarok moved to walk away from his friend, but Darin stepped into his path. The man looked like he had before the battle—clean, crisp, cold and gray. As if the prince hadn’t just witnessed him take out several men in as many seconds. Made sense to him, given arrows rarely made their wielder bloody. Despite the logic of it, Jarok felt his anger rise as he remembered the smear of blood on his own hands when he cupped Piris’s face. He tamped it down quickly. Unfair to the man who’d just killed for him. For Piris and her family.
“Not so quickly, Prince.”
“What is it, lord?” It was petty, perhaps, to add Darin’s title when he so often left it off his introductions. Or maybe he himself forgot he was a lord, given all he was forced to do by his king. The sobering realization made Jarok shut off his snark and listen.
Darin didn’t show any reaction to the words and kept on with his point. “The Benders targeted you.”
“Fine. They targeted me. We knew, or assumed this, already. Why is it so important right now?”
“It might be best if you—”
He cut his diplomatic friend off, this time with a slice of a hand between them. “No. Don’t even suggest it. I will not leave, retreat, or hide. It is my royal duty to find Engad Monti and end this before I step foot in the palace once again.”
“You’re walking right into his hands, you stubborn ass.” Gem seethed at his side, the blood sprayed across her giving her words even more bite.
“What if I am? I know it. We know it. We can plan accordingly.”
His three companions looked at him. Gem and Cylian looked mutinous but stayed quiet. Their silence was all the confirmation either would give. Darin shrugged and relaxed his stance, all aloof then, as if he couldn’t care less. “As you wish, Prince.”
Jarok threw his head back and brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “For the love of… Look, Darin. I’m Jarok. Just Jarok. Here, now, moving forward. I’m a prince, true. Because of this, the Benders target me, which is true. But in this fight, I’m just Jarok, a Fae trying to protect his family and his land. Damn the royalty of it.”
Darin took half a step back, his face stone as his eyes bounced around the small circle they made. He nodded, a third silent acknowledgment that he would not be stopped in this mission. He would be the one to see it through. For his family. For his land. Now, for Piris and her family who’d just been attacked.
“Good, good. Now I’m off to wash blood from my hands and change. I suggest you each do the same.”
They’d finished listening to one of Lord Brettly’s guards give her report. She’d been on the border of Volesion lands when called to where the Benders breached their defenses and flooded onto the grounds. They’d had no problem with wards and magical barriers. Had surprised the few guards at their point of entry and killed them with little fanfare. She’d fought off more, captured one Bender and brought him to the single holding cell in the manor, and secured the perimeter once again.
“Thank you for the information, Betta,” Lord Volesion said, clapping her on her shoulder in a warm gesture. The guard stepped back so she could see all in the room and offered a long, deep bow. Whether it was in recognition of their ranks or in sorrow over what had happened that day, Jarok didn’t know, but he did walk to her when she rose and clasped her hand.
“The crown recognizes your steadfast service.” He’d just argued his royalty didn’t matter, but it wasn’t exactly true. It shouldn’t matter to the people he knew, those he fought beside. It shouldn’t hinder his ability to fight his enemy. To the people of the Winterlands, the name of the Boraus, the invocation of the crown could mean something. It was little. A trinket in words. He still felt the need to say them.
She bowed again, this time with a hand across her chest, before taking hard, clipped steps out of the dark study.
The only one missing was Lady Volesion, who was off helping servants tend to the injured and organizing the funeral rites for the fallen guards. Piris stood by her father, both next to a gleaming, massive cherrywood desk littered with parchment and writing tools and a number of river maps. Jarok stood close to Piris but did not crowd her. He gave her a place beside her father as one of the authorities in the home. The home they’d just defended.
Gem positioned herself beside him, far closer than she normally did, her muscles tense and eyes alert. Cylian stood in the center of the almost semicircle, tall and straight, ever the poised diplomat, despite his rapier and blade doing a great deal earlier in the day. Darin was planted beside the other lord, arms crossed and ever-present gray hood pulled over his head, hiding most of his face save his lips and pointed chin.
Jarok asked the question on everyone’s mind. “What will be done with the captured Bender?”
Volesion sighed and brought a hand up to rub his eyes before he answered. “I have a potion master on retainer and can send word to him. He’ll arrive by tonight, tomorrow at the latest.”
Jarok nodded in agreement with the unspoken plan. A good potion master, the type a rich and powerful lord like Volesion would have in his employ, would be able to get answers from the Bender, in ways either easy or difficult for the captive. Jarok would not ask which Volesion favored, letting the man who endured an attack on his home make his own decision on the matter.
“Do you require assistance in this, Lord Volesion?” Darin asked, low but clear.
Everyone stared at the man, ideas of how he would help, how he’d likely helped his own king in the past, running through their heads.
“No. Thank you. My men and I will handle the Bender. Until I have more information, it may be best all of you rest. I imagine much will happen after we know more.”
Jarok nodded and thanked the lord but lingered, waiting for Piris.
When she looked at her father, he said, “Please. Stay a moment, Piris.”
The prince’s shoulders sagged a touch, but he pulled himself together and forced his heavy legs to move him toward the door, out and away from her when all he really wanted was to stay by her side.
When Jarok closed his eyes, he saw Piris, fierce and wild, flying through the air in her green velvet dressing gown, daggers drawn, and poised to jump on the back of one of the Benders who’d had her father cornered. She’d been a warrior, focused and ready for attack. Ready to defend her home and those she loved.
Still, the vision made his gut twist. He’d been worried for her before, in every attack they faced, but for some reason, seeing her so fearless and raging in the face of her father’s hurt made him fear for her more. It also, oddly, made him wish for a similar expression from her, even if he was unclear about what that could be or why his chest thudded at the thought of it.
He’d sat like this, in a comfortable leather chair by the fire in his guest room replaying images from the battle, most of which featured Piris, stiff and not at all relaxed—until he heard the door open, smelled the ice and steel of her as she slipped quietly into his rooms. He didn’t open his eyes at first, waiting for her to come to him.
When she stood between him and the fire, the heat of her almost as hot on his exposed skin as any flame, he turned his dark, half-moon eyes up to her. She wore what she’d had on two hours ago in her father’s study: a brown set of leathers, finely made and molded to her delicious, strong body. Jarok clenched his hands to stop himself from grabbing her right then.
He quirked a dark eyebrow, a question without words. Piris breathed deep, looked off to her right for a solid minute, and whispered, “I was helping my mother.”
Whatever Jarok had felt before fizzled at the pain in her voice. He’d been in enough battles, tended to enough wounds, and talked with enough grieving families to imagine how she felt then. He couldn’t say anything to take the hurt away or erase the memories of what she’d had to do for those fighters, so he unclenched his hands. They reached out for her and hooked her loosely, so she had plenty of time to turn out of his grip if she chose. She did not… not as he shifted her so her back was to him, pulled her close, and brought her body down so he hugged her tall, muscular form to his in the chair. There wasn’t a great deal of extra room with the two of them taking up the bulk of the seat, but the closeness was perfection to Jarok.
He breathed deep the smell of her auburn hair as he rubbed small circles on her back and both looked out at the fire in his hearth. Nothing was said until he felt her hand snake down, move between them, and rub firmly against his length in his leathers.
“That isn’t necessary,” he said, his voice hoarse and strained. He hardened quickly, always so quickly for her, so his body didn’t echo his words.
“I think it is.”
He stopped her with a hand to her moving wrist. “No ‘think,’ Piris. In this you need to be certain.”
She maneuvered herself with a swift shift and twist, straddling his lap, until they were face-to-face. He gripped her muscled, broad hips in his hands as they stared at one another.
“I need this, Jarok. Please.”
He nodded, then leaned back, putting his hand up between them as if in surrender. Piris looked at him with dubious eyes before shrugging and taking the lead.
She stood from him, taking only the time necessary to strip out of her leather pants before planting herself back on top of him, wedging her knees between his hips and the sides of the chair.
Jarok hissed out pleasure when she unbuttoned his leather pants and pulled his cock free. Piris gave him a swift, hard pump down, then up, wetting him with a droplet from his own leaking tip, before she rose up on her knees so she could perfectly position herself.
She did not hesitate. Both watched, transfixed, as she lowered herself onto him inch by inch. It was agonizing, slow, and delicious. Jarok threw his head back against the chair, gritting his teeth and flexing his fingers on her hips, doing all he could to restrain his need to take over, set the tone and pace. He knew he could give this to her, let her take what she needed. He’d prove it to them both.
When she seated herself, a breathy moan escaped her lips, and the prince leaned forward, taking her mouth and wanting to force any other moan down his own throat, swallow it whole and make it his. Then she moved in a slow, steady pace, slipping up and down in a controlled manner.
Both breathed heavy, lost in sensation and saying nothing. Only feeling. Soon, too soon, Jarok felt his orgasm rising, but he pulled away from her mouth and bit the inside of his, using a touch of pain to stop himself so she could have all she needed.
Piris didn’t seem to notice, lost in her pleasure, moving in a less fluid push and pull. Gods, it was fascinating to watch her lifting herself up and down him, her head bobbing to the rhythm of her slide, her body jerking just as the maddening grip of her inner walls gripped him tighter and tighter. He licked his lips, looking his fill and committing her to memory, savoring every bit of sight, smell, taste he could.
She stuttered out a loud, low groan, then moved her hands to his chest, using them as leverage to ride him harder and faster, working herself on his cock until she slammed herself down one final time. She came hard, her pussy gripping him so hard and hot and tight, he couldn’t help himself. He let go too, the look and feel of her too much to hold back any longer.
Piris collapsed on top of him, breathing heavy, each drag in and out ruffling the dark hair over his left ear as her chin rested on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said after long minutes. Piris began to rise but he held her tight.
“You never need to thank me, you know,” he replied, and he wasn’t only talking about the sex.
He thought she understood as their bodies stayed connected and his dark-brown eyes met her bronze ones. Still, she said nothing as she rose from him, leaving him colder and colder with every move she made—putting her pants back on, rounding the chair, and eventually stalking from his room. All without another word.
Early the next morning, they were called to Lord Brettly’s study before breakfast was even served. Without preamble or question, the lord stated, “We now know exactly where Engad Monti and his Benders are hiding.”
Jarok’s heart quickened. They had him. By the gods, they had him.
“I take it you wish to know, and possibly use some of my resources to confront the rebels?” Volesion asked Jarok.
The prince nodded, crossed his arms, and waited, knowing the lord asked it in that manner because there was something he wanted.
“Very well. In exchange for my information and help, I ask my daughter Piris stays behind and no longer travels with your group.”
“What?” Piris whispered to her father, her words cold and seething, matching the growing fire in her eyes.
Jarok stood stunned. He couldn’t say anything. He knew what he should do. Needed to do. He also knew what he wished to do. They did not correspond.
“I cannot believe you, Father. After all your talk of trusting me, knowing I could fight. Seeing me fight yesterday. You do this.”
“Piris, you cannot—”
She threw up a hand. “You’ve said it before. I know I can’t understand how a father wants to protect a daughter. But this goes too far.”
“You have no need to be in this battle,” he countered, his eyes becoming more and more narrowed as he spoke. “It is unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary? Have you gone daft in your old age?”
A laugh from Gem was quickly covered by a fake cough, but Piris didn’t seem to notice the noise.
“My best friend, my sister, will be in danger as long as Engad Monti lives. My home was just attacked. You, my father, just injured. Jarok—” She stopped herself there, saying no more of him, though the sound of his name on her tongue, in that list, gave him more hope than he’d had before. “Not to mention the previous two attacks I was in, thanks to the ex-Monti leader and his fighters. I have more than enough reason to be a part of this fight.”
“Those are not sufficient. You were attacked at every turn because you traveled with the prince. Strella, the dear girl, is safe and protected in the Winterlands Palace. No harm will come to you here if you allow the group to leave without you. If the prince leaves without you.”
Piris moved with dazzling speed, slamming a fist onto her father’s desk so hard, she splintered the top layer of wood. “They are my friends. My—” She bit her lip, not saying the rest. Backing up, she gave her father a dismissive look head to toe, one Jarok had been on the receiving end of enough to know how cold it felt. “It would be dishonorable to leave the party. And if you make him say he will leave me behind, make it the only way he can save his family, his kingdom, then you and I are done. I will leave this house and never return.”
Lord Volesion took a step back, rocking on his heel as if struck hard in the face.
“No, Brettly” sounded from the doorway. Lady Volesion, worry and stress tightening the edges of her face, said, “No more. You will not hold help and information hostage. You will not hold our daughter hostage.”
“Mimi—”
“She is grown. Raised by you to be who she is. You cannot punish her for it now. You cannot stop her from what she is meant to be.”
The lady moved, stopping by Jarok and giving him a hopeful look. “You will look after our girl, yes?”
“Always,” he croaked, emotion making the word soft but no less true.
“Very well.” With a determined nod, she slipped next to her daughter so both Volesion women squared off against the lord. “You must let go.”
Lord Volesion hung his head and whispered, “Very well.”
Piris watched him warily as he moved to sit in the chair behind his desk.
“Engad Monti hides a few days north of here, in a cave system. The details are here, and I have a ship prepared to take your fighting party and a score of men to confront him.” He slipped a piece of paper across the desk, his head hung and his words distant.
“Thank you,” Jarok said as he took the offered information in his hands. He was thankful for the information and for not having to make the decision presented to him minutes before.
“Come. Let’s plan,” Piris said, moving swiftly from the room, expecting him and the rest of the group to follow, so much like her father had the day before. And they did.
Jarok looked back to see the heavy lean of Lord Volesion against his lady wife, and the bittersweet smile she offered the prince as he exited.