Chapter Nineteen Simran #2
The golden light reflected in her dark eyes, flushed her skin.
Only a few hours here, and the loneliness and the power of their tale had cracked Simran in two. She couldn’t even be angry at Vina for not listening to her, for following her here, defying her will and their tale. Instead she felt reluctant relief.
“The pale assassin,” Vina said. “You haven’t seen him yet?”
“I’m trapped here by our tale now,” said Simran.
“Maybe that was his plan all along—to make me come here, so I wouldn’t be able to do anything but what our tale wants me to do.
” Her head pounded as she thought of the assassin, the child, the man she’d stabbed through the throat as he’d wept, kneeling in front of her.
“He’ll come,” Vina said, firm and sure. Now that her pain had faded she looked at ease again. Her gaze was fixed on Simran. “Give him time.”
Time.
Soon the assassin would be here. But even if he didn’t come, soon Simran and Vina would both be dead. The sun rose and fell, and the tides drew in and out, and the knight and witch loved and died. It was simple.
She wanted to hold this moment, this stolen thing where fate didn’t have them, for as long as she could.
“Explore this place with me?” Simran asked.
“Of course,” Vina said immediately.
She showed Vina the rooms of the witch’s mountain. Vina followed silently, almost solemn.
Finally, Simran guided her to a door she hadn’t yet used, which led to a narrow staircase rising through rock. She felt Vina at her back, trailing her as they moved up the narrow stairs.
They walked out onto the zenith of the tower.
It was cold, but whatever discomfort Simran felt was washed away by the sight before them both: copper-colored landscape stretched out as far as the eye could see, beneath a gray sky.
Mist roiled in the distance. Through it they could see the shadows of primordial giants, moving across distant planes of the Isle, their bodies black candle flames, wavering their vanishing.
“It looks beautiful here,” Simran said, awed. It almost brought tears to her eyes. She’d been here before, but it was all new. And one day it would be all new again.
“It does,” said Vina. She was looking at Simran, a smile curling her mouth; mirth and something darker, sweeter, in her eyes.
“You’re ridiculous,” Simran said flatly, but she couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her own mouth in return.
The wind caught Vina’s hair, those deep brown curls falling into disarray.
“Simran, I don’t know what you saw in that vision from the chalice. But I know what I saw.” Vina’s gaze was searching. “Do you really believe there’s no hope left?”
“I didn’t see hope,” said Simran. “And I still don’t.
But I’ve always tried to build a life that was mine—that mattered to me—no matter what my fate was.
Hari, my scribing, my chosen family in London—all of that belongs to me, not our tale.
I’ve lived a good life despite it.” And I wish I could keep doing it, she thought; a foolish hope with teeth. I wish, I wish, I wish.
She hesitated, then forced any caution away.
She wasn’t a coward, and if Vina rejected her, Simran was a fucking adult—she could accept the blow of it.
She’d done no less to Vina, when she’d thought Vina didn’t want her.
She knew better than that now. Just the look in Vina’s eyes was enough. And even if Vina said no…
At least she would have tried stealing one last pleasurable thing.
She placed a hand against Vina’s cheek, her jaw. She let her thumb brush the shape of her jawline—and watched Vina’s eyes darken, molten.
“I can’t promise this will mean anything,” said Simran. “I… In a way, I can promise it won’t.”
“It’ll mean something to us,” said Vina, voice low and earnest.
Simran huffed a laugh; it was either that or do something awful, like cry. She couldn’t stand that idea.
“Stop talking,” she said. “Kiss me.”
Vina leaned in and circled Simran’s waist. She kissed her.
Simran hadn’t expected the kiss to make her burn.
The first time they’d kissed had surely been some kind of tale-driven magic, and the second an echo of that.
But oh, it did burn. The touch of Vina’s mouth on her own made every part of her sing.
She felt the warmth of Vina’s arms around her, and the points of her gloved fingertips against her spine.
She tasted the soft lushness of her lips, the swipe of her tongue and teeth demanding entrance, urging her to kiss back, to demand in return.
She tangled her own fingers into Vina’s hair, drawing her closer.
They kissed more, hungry. Vina’s hands ran over her, drew her closer still. The gown, loose at Simran’s shoulders, slipped a little; Simran shrugged it off, baring skin, drawing Vina down to her neck. Vina, obligingly, broke their kiss and fastened her teeth to skin. Sucked.
Simran’s knees buckled. She heard Vina’s husky laughter; felt the warm heat of breath, a sharp contrast to the cold air.
“Let’s go inside,” said Simran. “I’m freezing my tits off.”
“You could put your dress back on,” Vina pointed out, tracing the curve of Simran’s shoulder with the brush of her moving lips.
“I’d rather take your clothes off.”
“Maybe later,” said Vina, and there was a promise in that. “But first, I want to see you.”
She meant it. They made their way toward the bedroom—kissing as they went, once finding themselves against a helpful wall, where Vina pressed Simran to cold stone, cradling her head with one hand, her mouth at Simran’s throat.
Simran was tempted to stay there, but somehow, strength of will got them to the bed.
By the bedside, Vina unlaced Simran’s gown; the hiss and slither of fabric, as it slowly unspooled, was loud in Simran’s ears, louder even than her own breath.
She removed her own underwear, unsure of how she made her fingers work.
In a matter of moments, she was bare, skin prickling under Vina’s heady gaze.
“You’re beautiful,” said Vina. When Simran scoffed, Vina said, “You know you are. Don’t pretend it isn’t nice to hear it.”
“Shall I call you beautiful, then?”
“It would be nice to hear it,” Vina said, laughter in her voice.
She reached her gloved hands out and tenderly, carefully, brushed Simran’s hair back from her shoulders.
Her hands moved, feather-light, to Simran’s clavicles, then her shoulders, then her arms, in nonsense patterns that sent sparks drifting through her.
It took Simran a moment to realize Vina was following the lines of her tattoos.
“Beautiful,” Vina said again.
“Touch me properly,” demanded Simran.
“And what is proper?” Vina asked. She ducked her head, kissing a line of fire along Simran’s throat. “Touch you here?” Her hands cupped Simran’s breasts, cold metal and leather on her palms, and Simran arched into it, the relief and pleasure of the touch. “Or here?”
“I want your hands all over me,” Simran said roughly. “I want your mouth on me. Taste me to your fill, Vina. I’m yours.”
Vina groaned and shoved her down onto the bed.
Vina was still in her fae-wrought armor. She pressed her gloved hands to Simran’s thighs, parting them. Inexorable, wanted. “Let me see you,” Vina said, voice low. Simran let her legs fall open. She watched as Vina looked at her, Vina’s eyes dark, her mouth a pleased curve.
My knight, Simran thought. My Vina. She reached for Vina’s head, curling a hand in her dark hair. Urging her closer to the apex of Simran’s thighs, where Simran ached, wanting her.
“Go on,” Simran ordered. “Please me.”
Vina didn’t seem to need any more urging.
She lowered her head, and Simran watched her for one long, blazing moment—snared by the sight of Vina’s closed eyes, lashes dark against her gold-brown skin; the slow, graceful slide of her mouth.
Simran felt the satin of it against her core, a slow, confident electric ribbon of pleasure unfurling through her.
Her head fell back. She closed her eyes. She could feel Vina’s lips, her tongue, the sweet heat of her breath, the cold of her gloves at Simran’s thighs. Her own heartbeat was thudding in her ears. She undulated her hips and Vina groaned.
“That’s it,” Vina whispered. “Move. I’ve got you.”
“Stop talking,” Simran said, and felt Vina laugh. It felt—strangely good, spiraling through her.
Vina’s hands slipped from her thighs up to cradle her at the hips, holding her up to Vina’s mouth.
Heat, there was so much heat in her, rising to a blaze.
When she thought it couldn’t get any higher, she felt Vina’s gloved fingers against her, between her legs—a teasing touch, a hint of pressure, the slide of cool leather inside her.
Her body exploded, pleasure a starlit arrow shooting through her. She must have cried out, but she couldn’t hear herself. Her mind was white-hot. Then, slowly, she returned to herself.
She was trembling, throat sore—and then Vina was above her, cradling her face.
“How do you feel?”
“Great,” Simran said, speech a little slurred. “We need to get your armor off you.”
Vina gave a husky laugh and said, “I’ll need your help.”
Simran sat up, with some effort—her legs felt like jelly—and said, “Tell me what to do.”
She followed Vina’s instructions, removing her gauntlets first—baring those elegant, sword-calloused hands.
Then buckle after buckle, each one releasing to reveal a little more of Vina beneath it.
Her clothes followed, and this Vina helped with—their hands brushing, entangling.
Vina’s bared skin was brown, her hips narrow, her shoulders pleasingly broad.
Her skin was scarred, her body strong. It made Simran’s throat dry with wanting.
“You’re beautiful,” said Simran.
Vina grinned. There was a confident swagger to her steps as she climbed onto the bed, then crawled forward on hands and knees, bracketing Simran with her body. Simran reached up, palms sweeping against Vina’s shoulders.
“How do you want to be touched?” Simran asked.