The Sparrow King #3
The next morning, after Ansel set out to town with her mushroom sketches, she donned her nicest green work dress and tied on the apron she’d spent the winter months embroidering with flowers and birds and vines.
She braided her hair into a golden crown atop her head, with loose tendrils flying out as she picked flowers from the garden to adorn her plaits.
Damiana pinched her cheeks and nipped her lips for color and then set out into the forest, with only her pencils and sketchbook in tow.
A cool breeze kissed her cheeks, the scent of decaying leaves mixed with sun-warmed pine filled her nose.
Damiana watched two midnight-black hares chase one another through the trees and into a shadowy thicket.
When they disappeared, the song of the Ardenne began to whisper to her and she took her sketchbook out.
It didn’t take long for Sparrow to find her, in fact, she’d only just begun to draw when she sensed them near. “Come and sit,” she beckoned.
Sparrow sat without a word and watched her draw the conversation of the trees. For a long time, they sat in comfortable silence. The sound of Sparrow’s long, even breaths mixed with the symphony of the autumn day. Damiana glanced up from time to time, stealing glances at them.
They wore black again, though the finely spun linen shirt they wore now was cut differently than the one they’d worn before.
Today it fell open to the chest, exposing sharp collarbones that captivated Damiana’s imagination.
As she had the day before, she wondered what it would be like to draw Sparrow—to caress the page with her pencil and draw those elegant hollows.
Damiana licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, thinking of the forest being’s skin.
Of what lay beneath the soft linen shirt.
Of what that skin might feel like pressed against her own.
She flushed, averting her eyes as her body heated.
Sparrow leaned back, their eyes narrowed at her appraisingly, the corners of their mouth lifted in a devious expression, but still they did not speak.
Deep within her, something stirred in Damiana.
A serpent uncoiling, a flame sparking to life.
What she wouldn’t give to set aside her drawing and crawl into Sparrow’s arms, if only for the intimacy it would imply.
The damp heat between her legs told her that she wanted all the carnal pleasures Sparrow’s generous lips implied they might give, but what Damiana desired most went deeper.
She wanted to be welcomed somewhere. To be cherished. Protected.
Damiana wanted to go home. But not to the cottage in the forest she’d grown up in.
That was the trouble. Damiana longed for a home she did not know or have.
The serpent within her coiled tight again, aching with need.
Her pencil flew over the page, her movements sharp and angry as she yearned for a life that was not meant to be hers.
When she’d finished her drawing Sparrow spoke, all hints of amusement gone. They appeared to be watching her quite carefully now. “You came again today.”
Damiana nodded, irritation flaring within her. This way that she wanted and wanted plagued her. Creatures such as herself were not made for wishes or desires. This much Damiana knew. She was made for misery, but for these short stolen moments in the trees. Even now, she should be foraging.
“Yes.” It was very likely a mistake to admit that she was hoping to see Sparrow, but the flush that burned her cheeks told a tale of its own. Though her heart thumped wildly in her now-warm chest, she spoke brave words. “I hoped to see you again.”
Sparrow’s eyebrows raised, as though surprised. But how could they be surprised? Surely Damiana wasn’t the first to come to the forest, chasing after them. Surely this was usual for someone such as Sparrow, dangerous, obviously powerful, alluring.
Damiana’s skin burned with the prickle of her roiling nerves until Sparrow spoke, saying simply, “I hoped you would come and you are here.”
Their dark eyes burned with intensity, as if every move she made fascinated them. Sparrow looked at her not as a lover looks at their beloved, but as a wolf regards its prey, and Damiana found that she would be happily devoured, if only it were at their maw.
Relief cascaded over her like cool water on a hot summer’s day. They had hoped for her. The dream of being wanted shimmered before Damiana, almost in reach, but not quite. Her heart raced, like an animal given chase, but it was what she wanted. This was what she had always wanted.
After that, they fell into easy conversation as Damiana drew. Sparrow relaxed, reclining in the golden autumn light, in cool, silvery contrast. As they chatted, Damiana imagined all the ways she would depict Sparrow, if she had access to paints of her own.
They talked, late into the morning, about all manner of subjects.
Damiana hardly remembered what they discussed, only that she was fascinated with the sound of Sparrow’s voice and doing what she could to elicit that bell-like laugh.
It wasn’t until her stomach grumbled loudly that she realized she’d forgotten to pack herself a lunch in her hurry to leave the house.
“You are hungry,” Sparrow noted.
She nodded. “I am.”
“As am I.” Sparrow’s gaze was dark, ravenous even. Damiana’s thighs tightened against one another. “Would you come to my house for tea?”
Damiana sprang up, nodding as she gathered her drawings.
She’d made ten, more than she’d ever made in one sitting before, and they were all remarkably good.
Better perhaps than some of her previous work.
What might she accomplish if she had paint?
She sighed. Such supplies were too expensive, and she would never know.
Sparrow waited patiently and then led her deeper into the forest. Here, the sun did not shine so easily and the air was cool and damp. Damiana could hear the voice of the forest clearly now as she watched the curve of Sparrow’s buttocks as they walked ahead of her.
Her breath caught as their thighs flexed against their breeches, her mouth watering with the desire to nip their skin, to catch it between her teeth and taste it.
She had never once hungered for another, only a life of freedom.
But now she wanted the taste of Sparrow in her mouth, to know the feel of their body weighing her down.
A flash of unreality entered her mind, something like a memory, but impossibly so, as it portrayed a place Damiana had never been.
A silken hammock in a grove of trees, golden with autumn leaves, mist crawling along the forest floor.
In this memory-that-could-not be, Damiana saw herself through another’s eyes, lush and soft.
Wet, heated, making the most desperate sounds as her lips parted, panting only two words, over and over, “Yes” and “Sparrow.”
In this vision, Damiana was beautiful. And then it faded.
Unbidden and out of her control, Damiana’s hand reached forward, as though to touch Sparrow’s shoulder, or maybe catch their hand in hers.
Anything to pull them toward her. Anything to make that strange vision come to life, here in reality.
She realized what she was about to do and gasped, pinning her hand to her side.
“Is something wrong?” Sparrow asked, turning, starry eyes full of amusement .
“No,” Damiana said quickly, heat flooding her face, palms burning in tandem. Damiana’s entire body felt as though it might crack open, allowing her molten core to spill out for everyone to see.
“What is it?”
“I stumbled over a rock,” Damiana lied quickly.
Sparrow raised an eyebrow, as though they knew exactly what she’d imagined. Because that is what it had to be, wasn’t it? Her imagination, yes. It was uncharitable of her to assume that Sparrow might be the origin of the vision itself, but Damiana’s heart thumped loudly. Sparrow’s smile widened.
I wonder what you taste like, she heard in her head.
In her mind, she ran, driven by instinct.
Sparrow was dangerous. She knew that. But she wanted them to catch her in her vision.
Her heart raced, but when their hands closed around her waist, when they pushed her against the tree and knelt at her feet, she wanted everything that might be offered to her.
Damiana felt as though she would burst. In her mind, Sparrow had chased her through the Ardenne, pushed her against this tree and…
the vision went no further. It was as though time had frozen in her head.
Nothing moved but for Sparrow, whose head tilted upwards, one hand curving around her inner thigh, spreading her wide open for their gratification.
I wonder what you taste like.
In the waking world, Damiana blinked. Sparrow still watched her, but they were far from calm, now.
Their nostrils flared and their chest heaved with labored breath as a strangled, animalic noise slipped from Damiana’s lips.
She had never met another person like Sparrow in her life.
Were they the cause of this fire within her, or had it been here all along?
She was desperate not to embarrass herself, and at this moment was severely tempted to simply lay down in the stream and beg for Sparrow’s mouth, their hands, anything they would give her. Her mind fought her body.
“Have you ever been to the kingdom over the mountain?” Damiana asked as Sparrow began to walk again, anything to distract herself.
“Yes,” Sparrow said. “Watch your step here, the rocks in the stream can be slippery.” There was a note of humor in their voice, though they still breathed harder than they had been before. The rocks protruding from the stream were perfectly dry. They knew she’d lied.