25
Aire
She watched me. As I stood guard, those hazel eyes swallowed the short distance between us, the impact tempestuous.
Comparatively, I did not require vision to see her, to know where she stood, or to fathom how she moved. For I saw this woman in my mind’s eye every waking second.
Taking stock of the lookout stations beyond the doorway, I scanned the enclave’s gnarled branches and vibrant leaves next. Such a contrast of bewitching colors and ominous darkness. Such sensory overload.
My psyche failed to keep up with this onslaught. The whispering winds. The density in the atmosphere. The bristling of every leaf, the restless splash of the creek, and the prickling across my nape.
This forest observed us. With its ancient architecture and grim legends about nature, this enclave mystified the denizens of Autumn. Wars had been fought here, the scent of blood buried deep in the soil. Eventually, peace and unity had been achieved, along with a diversity of residents.
Weddings. Burials. Feasts. Rituals.
Like a faint whiff, I felt the remnants of these events, as I had in the catacombs of The Phantom Wild with Jeryn and Flare.
Ostensibly, this place had accepted the hooligan, as well as Nicu. My liege hadn’t noticed, but while touring the enclave, a gale had brushed his dark hair like a caress. Thus, he would be protected here, the notion easing my soul.
As for Aspen, I sensed no foreboding or agenda directed toward her. Nor to myself.
Lyrik surveyed the bloody scabs and dirt streaks across Nicu’s countenance and led us to our respective bathing chambers, each with a tub centered in a hut of parquet wood.
A faucet rose from the floor, connecting to a pipe running down the tree and into the creek.
When operated, water gushed into the basin.
Lyrik added droplets from a decanter, and the tub’s pool simmered with heat, steam rising from the surface.
Thinking of Aspen’s words in The Pumpkin Wood, I resisted the urge to guard Nicu’s chamber first before partaking myself.
To a degree, my liege understood his challenges and thus chose the bathing cabin beside my own. He would be fine.
Instructing myself not to hover, I tossed Lyrik a warning glare. I saw the way this man studied Nicu and did not care for the implication, which could lean manipulative or opportunistic. When it came to Royals, either possibility was feasible.
But where Nicu went, I would not stray far behind. In which case, I’d spill Lyrik’s entrails before he got within spitting distance of the Royal Son.
To say nothing of what I would do if that motherfucker set his fiendish sights on Aspen.
I left Nicu to his privacy and sunk into my own whirlpool with a deep groan. Extending my arms, I rested my head against the ledge. Suds lapped at my muscles, and heat sloshed against my naked flesh.
Yet such luxuries following days of travel failed to purge my thoughts. A depraved corner of my brain blocked out all sense of propriety in favor of unholy visions.
Aspen bathing. Aspen naked.
Foliage lacing her skin. Rivulets caressing down her throat. Steam laminating her open thighs. Water licking the seam of her womanhood… her pussy.
Even before that, in the tree hollow when she spread herself for my hand and came around my fingers.
The grind of her cunt. The drenched tightness.
The unshaven contours of her pussy, the silken lips nestled in my palm, how wetly she clutched my knuckles, dripping to my fucking wrist. That pert little clit, inflated and hot to the touch.
The velvety texture of such erotic words on my mouth, how naturally they scraped from my wanton throat. The savory taste of her climax on my fingers.
Her cries of pleasure. Her gaping mouth.
Autumn be my savior. Seasons be my guide.
Beneath the whirlpool’s surface, my disgraceful cock stood erect, the sweep of the water enlarging my crown. I seized the tub, gripping so hard it became precarious. But better to snap a knuckle than to fist my dick and pump myself dry.
Know your place. Don’t get attached.
The kiss had been a rite of passage. Making Aspen come all over my hand had been a spiritual experience. But anything more would be my undoing.
My balls toughened, and blood swarmed the head of my cock. With a hiss, I rose from the bath, droplets sliding down my limbs, the eventide chill no match for this affliction.
Outside the cabin, Lyrik had deposited spare clothes from the enclave’s former residents. Although dating back to a bygone era, the preserved garments looked and smelled fresh. The ensemble fit, the shirt and ankle-length coat woven of midnight thread, the hose of an identical dye.
Dressed and armed, I found Nicu communing with Aspen on an overhead terrace with curved banquettes embedded along the border. As flames engulfed a central fire pit, the pair leaned against the railing with their backs to me, their shoulders bumping as they whispered.
When I emerged, Aspen stiffened. Her head careened over her shoulder, those eyes stumbling over my new attire, which halted whatever thoughts had occupied her.
Perdition. I felt that gaze through every stitch of material, a state of affairs further complicating my perpetual erection.
Under the cloak, a fetching pewter dress with ivory trim clasped her body. Soft yet steely. So damn alluring. The vision depleted me of air, my lungs wrestling for oxygen, and my fingers growing restless.
Earlier, our horses had been fed and settled in a stable. Discovering a third equine in residence made me ponder how Lyrik afforded the creature, as well as the ingredients for his illegal hobby. Presumably, this male drove a hard bargain for the cocktails he brewed.
The rebel himself swaggered across the terrace. As he approached, the spiked jewelry lining his ear flashed like a torture device.
Nicu glanced toward Lyrik with open inquiry, while the squatter did no such thing. Ignoring my dubious glower, he slumped on the bench and stuffed tobacco into a roll of paper. Leaning toward the flames, he lit the butt and sucked on its contents, which released a charred scent.
With the cigarette propped between his lips, Lyrik reclined and slapped his seat, beckoning his visitors. As we convened around the fire, Aspen chose the banquette next to mine, wood creaking under her shapely ass.
I shifted and threw my gaze elsewhere. In an effort to remain productive, I scrutinized Lyrik instead.
Aside from questionable grooming habits, he exceeded Nicu’s age by three years.
Beyond those trivial details, something about this man rang familiar.
Although I could not place him and never came across his likeness during my mission, recognition crawled across my flesh like a scorpion.
Casually, Lyrik puffed on the cigarette and stared at the heavens, all while extracting the rondel dagger and absently executing a series of deft maneuvers.
His weapon flipped and spun from one hand to the next, the dexterous motions capable of impressing the world’s most famous juggler, in addition to every army on the continent.
I squinted. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Prison,” Lyrik deadpanned.
Fucking impertinent thug. Aspen rolled her eyes, and Nicu folded in his lips to keep from chuckling, while I did nothing of the sort.
Lyrik’s lack of reformed qualities proved this hoodlum had never spent a disciplinary hour behind bars.
Two reasons came to mind. Either he’d never been caught, or the maximum security wing of the nearest correctional fortress had been full, and the authorities released him out of blatant laziness or overwhelming stupidity.
Lyrik provided dinner consisting of hearty rye bread and roasted corn. With a flap of his hand, he waved off my offer to compensate for our portion. “Think I can’t afford to feed you fuckers? Just help with the upkeep, and we’re even.”
“No, we are not.” I flung a bag of coins, the sack hitting his athletic chest. “We shall do our part to maintain this enclave. And we’ll pay for our meals.”
Aspen and Nicu agreed, not buying the man’s hospitality. The refusal to accept our money had less to do with pride and more with precaution. Since he couldn’t get rid of our company, the opportunist hoped to keep us indebted in case it benefited him later.
Lyrik grunted but pocketed the coil sack without much care. Judging from the tight weave of his leathers and the dark green velvet lining his collar, this deviant had found himself an unlicensed yet prosperous trade.
Plucking a jug from the ground, Lyrik swirled the contents, took a deep draught, and held out the vessel. “Elderberry nectar. Good stuff.”
Aspen wavered. For all his social eagerness, Nicu hesitated as well.
Having lived with a grandmother who practiced the healing arts, then witnessing his mother’s poisoning upon her return from exile, then spending years observing Jeryn’s medical genius, and being a member of the heavily guarded Royal family, this young man was hardly naive.
Without taking my eyes off Lyrik, I swiped the bottle and inhaled its contents, then tipped back the fluid. The bold flavor seeped into my palate, dark and rich with a hint of bitterness that added complexity. While I would not call myself an expert taste tester, nothing unusual stood out.
Lyrik slouched back, his expression mild. “I’m flattered.”
“Fuck your flattery.” I nodded to Aspen and Nicu. “It is safe.”
“Damn right, it’s safe.” The alchemist withdrew a pouch of black powder from his pocket and sprinkled them into the flames, then leaned forward and folded his arms over both thighs. “The particles keep the fire going longer. Care to analyze that too?”
Whatever. Given his vocation, he could not blame us for our vigilance. Nor did I give a damn what he thought.