10. Killian
By the time we emerge from the strangely quiet forest, gray pre-dawn has spread like spilled oil over the midnight-black sky. The world has taken on a strange sheen. My arm is on fire. Thirst scrapes my throat raw.
Infection has set in. I knew it was a possibility. Thought I’d cleaned the wound adequately. But fae monsters carry sickness that can fell the stoutest of humans.
This is how I die.
Hating my only friend in the world. Coveting his bride with each aching beat of my heart.
I’ve earned myself a castle, but I doubt I’ll live to set foot inside it again. I’d be the first to admit I don’t deserve to.
“Kill.”
Alistair finally seems to realize I’m in bad shape when we find the horses. I clutch the pommel and cantle, staring at the tooled leather, unseeing.
“You have to put your foot into the stirrup and hop onto the animal’s back.”
“I fucking know how to mount a horse, Highness.”
I think I’ve said it out loud, but it’s possible the words never escaped the cage of my own mind. A moment later he comes to my side, squints, and says, “Do you need help, Kill?”
“Never,” I grit out. That word definitely made it past my lips. I miss the stirrup on the first two attempts. On the third, I manage to get my toe in. A quick hop is all I need to?—
The last thing I remember is the wind whooshing out of me when I land flat on my back in the dirt.
If this is death, I have no quarrel with meeting my maker.
She’s prettier than I expected the goddess of death to be. Blinding to behold. Almost as pretty as…
Her name slips away from me.
“Killian,” she whispers. “You have to hold on. We’ve summoned a healer from the castle but it will take time for him to get here.”
Her voice is melodic and sweet. Who is we?
Strong men seize me bodily. I’m thrown into a vat of boiling water, thrashing and gasping as the people holding me try to shove me beneath the surface. Drowning. I resist everything I have in me, but my strength is gone. Hands touching me everywhere. I thrash and fight, barely getting enough air to breathe.
Pain sears up my arm when one of my attackers grabs it. I roar in protest, though I feel as weak as a kitten.
Even dying, the concept of surrender is foreign to me. I manage to fight them off long enough to get out of the water, into freezing air. Shivering, I stumble two steps before my attackers seize me again and shove me into a soft landing.
A bed.
I close my eyes and tumble into unconsciousness.
Briar
I survey the wreckage of the inn room where Prince Alistair and two strong men from the dining hall forced his delirious knight into a sorely-needed lukewarm bath, then into a soft bed, with dismay.
Water everywhere. What little remains in the copper tub is stained red. At least the infection hasn’t poisoned his blood—yet.
“Do you think the healer can save his arm?”
Alistair, haggard, turns away from where Killian moans on the bed. “Probably, if he ever gets here.”
I wanted to send a messenger to the next village, but Alistair’s argument that it would be better to send to the castle for aid instead of searching for one closer won out. A century ago, healers weren’t so uncommon. The world has changed, and I am as lost as a newborn babe.
In the meantime, we’ve done what we can to slow the infection. A cool bath. Cleaning the wound. Cutting away the worst of the putrid flesh.
I wasn’t allowed to be in the room during any of that. All I could do was pace my own room, listening to Killian rail incoherently.
“Would you watch him for a few minutes, Rose? I want to order a decent meal for us. I haven’t eaten properly in days.” He frowns. “It isn’t appropriate for the two of you to be alone together, but under the circumstances…”
“Your knight is in no condition to ravish me, Your Highness.”
His frown deepens into a scowl.
“Alistair. I want you to call me by my name.” He slides one arm around my waist and tugs me close. “It’s more intimate.”
His lips brush mine. I accept the kiss reluctantly. His hand slides down over my hip. At least he’s being transparent about his expectations for our wedding, an event I intend to delay for as long as possible.
“Alistair.” I ease out of his grasp, enduring a quick squeeze of my bottom on the way. “Go on. I’m famished, too.”
Once he’s gone, I exhale.
Killian twitches in the tangle of sheets. I edge closer to the bed and cock my hip to perch gingerly beside him.
“You poor thing.”
His dark hair has escaped its messy knot to fan out on the pillow. Damp strands stick to his temple.
Surprise nearly jolts me off when he shifts, and I realize he’s naked.
Not only shirtless.
Completely naked.
I stare helplessly at his hard planes of muscle, crisscrossed with scars, leading down into the twisted sheet. A ladder of ridges frames his navel, with two grooves on either side near his hips. Below that?—
I gasp and sit up, pressing one hand to the place where my heart pounds behind my ribs. One corner of the coverlet obscures the essentials. Barely. The sheet is thin enough for me to make out a dark patch above a rise that disappears beneath the blanket.
I shouldn’t. Taking advantage of him this way is reprehensible, but my curiosity gets the better of my good sense. I cast a wary glance at the door. No sign of the prince. I can pretend I was adjusting the blanket if he walks in.
Screwing up my courage, I pinch the fabric and lift it just enough to see an outline of his private parts.
My mouth goes dry.
I have seen precisely one penis in my entire life, belonging to a toddler. Killian’s is completely different. For one thing, it’s much, much bigger. For another, it moves. I swallow a yelp and drop the sheet, my pulse racing.
The only thing worse than being caught by the prince would be Killian waking up to discover me examining him like a complete pervert.
He kicks. The blanket slides down his thigh, the sheet clinging to his modesty for dear life. I gasp, but I don’t leap off the bed. He’s clearly uncomfortable. I lean across his chest to examine the wrappings on the arm that’s swaddled in bandages.
Slate-gray eyes flash to mine, pupils dilated, and before I can move away, a hand clamps down on the back of my neck. Killian drags me down into a domineering kiss. Startled, I brace both hands against his chest.
Though my pulse pounds in my throat, its thundering beat only enhances the needy twinge between my thighs.
His is the kiss of a man who believes it will be his last, and is determined to make the most of the experience.
I let him.
I part my lips to allow his seeking tongue past my teeth. Slide my palms fractionally higher on his chest, seeking purchase and reveling in the crisp texture of hair on too-warm skin. He’s still feverish. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
But I do.
I relish giving him everything he desires. Taking what I want, for once, instead of being told what I can or cannot have.
Once I stop resisting, he gentles, his hold loosening until he’s cradling the back of my head. A low groan tears from his throat.
“Take me,” he whispers.
“Yes.” Despite a qualm of unease at the thought of what his body could do to mine, my center is hot and slick at the thought of throwing my skirts up and sinking down over his stiff shaft.
A click from behind me is the only warning of Alistair’s return. I tense, pushing back, my palms still planted firmly on Killian’s bare chest. Unwitting, he squeezes the back of my neck, hard. I flinch.
The deafening bang of the door slamming into the wall makes my ears ring.
“Get off her,” the prince shouts.
Everything happens all at once: he grabs Killian’s arm and wrenches it away with my hair still caught in his fist. I yelp and tumble onto the floor. Long strands of fine blond hair drift down onto my face as I lay there, staring at the prince’s knees.
He bends. Green eyes meet mine.
“What happened?” Alistair demands. Accusatory. Guilt cuts through the sensual haze clouding my better judgment. Rolling up, I rub the back of my head where Killian yanked out my hair.
“It was my fault. I leaned over to check his bandages, and he caught me. He’s delirious. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
Mollified, the prince rises and offers me a hand. I ignore it and get up awkwardly, shaking my skirts to conceal my trembling hands.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” I brush him off. The scalp near my nape tingles, but I’m otherwise uninjured.
Killian twitches. The last scrap of modesty goes sliding off. I turn away from his nakedness. I can’t resist sneaking a glimpse from the corner of my eye as the prince shakes the bedding over his friend’s nude form, though.
“Take me,” the knight grits out, trapped in a nightmare of some kind. I can scarcely pick out the words. “Take me…underworld. Rather die…than lose…arm.”
“Horny bastard,” Alistair mutters with begrudging admiration. “I suppose he mistook you for the goddess of death.”
Something inside me shrivels. It wasn’t me Killian wanted, after all.
Men.
Even on their deathbeds, all they think about is sex.