Chapter 20
20
G UESTS ARRIVE BY THE HUNDREDS . Dryads and sprites and every manner of creature drift toward the sea-nymph village on their narrow vessels, propelled forward by long, slender poles. Men with feathered wings. Women with hooves and small, curved horns. Children with their eyes plucked out and their skin stitched over, and elderly fair folk so shriveled they appear to have baked in the sun for a century.
From the bench where I sit writing in my journal, I notice a man with snowy skin marked by black stripes flitting among the clustered arrivals, brandishing a long coat that clinks as he walks. He accepts coin for payment in exchange for what appear to be empty glass bottles. Only after he meanders off do I realize the man was likely trading in stolen mortal names.
A trio of women surrounds a flat stone upon which three goblets rest. Two of the women, with their flaxen hair, are undoubtedly fair folk. The first wears a stuffed vulture atop her head. The second possesses short antlers. The third, however, appears quite normal. Mortal, even. Tucked between the two bright-haired creatures, she sits demurely, a long, black braid snaking over one shoulder, hands folded in her lap.
I haven’t seen Zephyrus in hours. As the night progresses, the celebration devolves into absolute frenzy, and I am not even sure of its purpose other than merrymaking, which the fair folk seem exuberantly fond of. We shouldn’t linger. After all, Meirlach awaits, and who can say how many days will have passed when Harper and I return to Thornbrook?
Against my better judgment, my attention returns to the woman with the ebony braid. She sips from the goblet offered by the lady with antlers, who wipes her mouth with a square of cloth as though she were a child.
“Do you desire a mistress, or master?”
My head snaps sideways, and I flinch from the massive shape looming over me. It is both a man and a bear. Small, curved ears poke through the dense fur atop his blocky skull. He wears a pair of loose trousers. His bare chest is wider than two men standing abreast.
When I fail to answer, he leans closer. “Well?”
If I were to retreat any farther, I’m afraid I’d fall off my seat. “I don’t understand.”
“That mortal woman you’re staring at? She’s a pet. Those two banshees are her mistresses.”
Slowly, I shift my gaze back to the trio. I am familiar with banshees. Their lamenting wail supposedly foretells the deaths of those who hear it. And the third woman? Mortal. How is that possible? And what does the creature mean by pet ?
When the hulking creature settles beside me, I slip my journal into my pack. My hand then drifts to my iron blade, and I swallow to draw moisture to my mouth. “Are there many pets in Under?”
“Oh, yes. It’s more common than you might think.”
I cough into my hand. The beast’s breath reeks of decaying flesh. “So, the fair folk take advantage of these humans?”
“You misunderstand. That woman voluntarily entered Under. She sought out a new opportunity, a different life.” I stare at him blankly. “You mortals are always running from something. Down here, it is easy. You gift your name to another, and all your troubles and worries disappear.”
For the first time in weeks, I wish Zephyrus were around. He knows how to navigate sensitive topics of conversation. “But that woman has no control over her life anymore.”
“It is the sacrifice one makes.” He looks me over. “Pets are well cared for. They are akin to your small, triangular-eared gods.”
It takes a moment before the inference sinks in. “You mean cats?”
“Cats, yes.” He beams. “Haughty things, aren’t they? So self-absorbed.”
Indeed, they are, even the nastiest barn cats.
“If you seek a master,” the beast goes on, “I can be of service. You would be cared for in all ways.” His great bear paw settles atop my thigh.
My gut churns in warning, and I clamp my dagger with a trembling hand. I don’t want to use it. I don’t want to draw attention. If I scream, who will come to my aid? I doubt anyone would care.
But the creature removes his hand and says, “Here.” He offers a glass chalice full of clear liquid. “You look thirsty.” He points to a vat simmering over a fire. “We collect water from the river. Once boiled, it is potable.”
Zephyrus mentioned not to drink anything, but surely water is an exception. This is the River Mur, the same river that flows aboveground. If I bless the water prior to drinking, I should be safe, and I am parched. With a forced smile, I accept the goblet.
“Stop!”
Someone slaps the glass from my hand. It shatters on the rock, and the scent of cherries hits, momentarily veiling the cloying odor of rotting plants. When I glance at the spilled drink, I notice the liquid is now red, not clear as it had been.
“Get out of here.” A tiny creature shoves the much larger beast from its seat. “Go!” The bear-like brute trundles off in obvious disappointment.
My savior turns.
I blink, stare into a pair of smooth, ebony eyes, in contrast to the snowy hair and skin. “I remember you,” I whisper as the sprite’s name comes to mind. “Lissi.”
Those slime-coated gums flash. Small, cracked teeth protrude from their moist pulp. “And you are Zephyrus’ companion,” she replies, cupping my rounded cheek. “I did not think I’d see you in Under so soon before the tithe. Do you seek a violent end?”
Lissi plops onto the rock beside me. Her long white dress pokes beneath her battered overcoat. “Do not fret, sweet. You will not remember the tithe once you return to your own realm. What occurs in Under, stays in Under. But do tell me, are you participating? Miles Cross is not far from here.”
“I don’t know.” Mother Mabel has yet to select the twenty-one women for the ceremony. Or at least, she hadn’t when Harper and I left Thornbrook. “It hasn’t been decided.”
“Do let me know if you’ll be in attendance. Perhaps we might sit together.” She sidles closer, linking her skinny arm through mine, and props her head on my shoulder. “How are you enjoying my village?”
“Oh.” I was not aware Lissi lived here. “It’s… quaint.”
She beams at me. “See my home over there? It’s small compared to your larger mortal dwellings, but I don’t need much, just enough space to sleep and store my poultices. The matriarch is fond of my tinctures. She offered me housing in exchange for my healing services. But tell me. Has Zephyrus been a decent guide?”
“For the most part, yes.” When he is honest. When he does not act in his own self-interest.
“And your mortal companion? She has been sitting alone the entire evening.” Lissi pairs that with a salacious smile. “It is rare we encounter a face so lovely belowground.”
With her pale skin, black hair, and azure eyes, Harper is indeed comely. Unfortunately, that means enduring the fair folk’s attention. A pair of horned, bare-chested men currently circle her fire.
“Do not be fooled by her beauty,” I inform Lissi, voice darkening. “Her heart is rotten to the core.”
She laughs. “Even better. I imagine she would taste delicious.”
“My companion is not for eating, I’m sorry to say.”
“Well, poo.” The sprite swings her legs back and forth. “I admit I am curious. Why return? It seems like an unnecessary risk.”
Information has always been the fair folk’s preferred currency. But she will receive no payment from me.
“My business is my own,” I say, and leave it at that.
Lissi appears thoroughly pleased by my avoidance. “You are learning. But I must warn you,” she says, an edge to her voice. “If word gets back to the Orchid King of your presence, he might get involved, and that is the last thing you want. The agreement between Under and Thornbrook is quite clear. Mortals are only allowed to enter on the eve of the tithe.”
“I was granted permission by my abbess. Surely that is an exception?” I struggle to maintain slow, steady breaths.
“Historically, the Orchid King and your abbess have not had the most affable relationship. But if you claim she granted you permission, well, then the Orchid King is likely already aware.”
And if he is not? Nothing is certain. That frightens me. “Will you keep our presence here to yourself?”
Lissi tugs on one of my curls, watching it spring back when she releases it. “That is quite the favor.” A small, secret smile plays across her mouth. “You are too pure for this world, and I would not see the Orchid King crush a flower in winter. Yes, I will keep it to myself, but for my own safety, this must be the last time I speak with you. I do not want to be punished.”
Zephyrus’ initial warning resurfaces: trust no one. The fair folk, however, cannot tell a lie. Thus, Lissi speaks the truth.
“I understand,” I say, and push to my feet. Someplace quiet, I think, will do. “Best to you, Lissi.”
Her stony eyes take me in. “And to you, my sweet.”
Skirting the edge of the village, I retreat deeper into the cavern, relieved when the rock softens to grass, which eventually empties into a glen sheltered by towering oaks, brightened by the yellowing enchantment of the moon. With a sigh, I unlace my boots and tug them free. The cool air feels wonderful against my sweating feet.
“I see you and your prickly companion came to a head earlier. A bit harsh to speak to a friend that way, wouldn’t you agree?”
Zephyrus slides into my line of vision, clothes rumpled, hair unkempt. Moonlight paints his skin a lovely, sun-kissed gold, cheeks infused by a rosy flush. Angling toward him, I notice that the irregularity of his skin has smoothed, as though it has healed itself. My eyes dip lower: the trailing laces of his tunic, its collar open at the throat. Chest hair, slightly darker than the curls on his head, sprinkles the toned pectorals.
“Harper and I are many things,” I snap, hating the burn beneath my fire-hot skin, “but we are not friends.” With stiff movements, I sit, adjusting the skirt around my legs.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
My stomach twists. Right. In my frustration, I’d forgotten to keep Harper’s name to myself. “Maybe she deserves to have her name stolen,” I mutter.
“She is your only ally belowground. I would not be so quick to toss her aside.” Drink in hand, he saunters closer, the hem of his emerald green cloak swaying around his legs. “Might I suggest attempting to bridge that gap?”
“Why? So she can craft more insults?” He does not understand. If I were to write out every horrible offense Harper has hurled my way, there would not be enough time in the day to list them all.
The West Wind considers me before settling at my side. “Why do you think she has targeted you?”
“I don’t know!” A low hiss of frustration flames across my tongue. “If I knew, do you think I would be in this predicament?”
“You have never asked?”
As if I would bare my neck to Harper’s blade.
“You know nothing about me or my situation. You know only the surface and haven’t bothered to look any deeper than that.” My eyes narrow, daring him to argue. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
Placing the glass near his feet, Zephyrus draws his knees to his chest, slings an arm around the front of his shins. “She continues to beat you down, yet until today, you’ve refused to do the same to her. Why?”
I shrug. It is true what they say. Misery loves company. “It’s not in my nature to be cruel.” My mother taught me to place loyalty and kindness before anything else, but what did she know? Her last words to me: Be good, Brielle.
“Maybe I’m just weak,” I mutter.
“Soft does not mean weak,” he responds, with a sadness that does not suit his smiling mouth, “but does your faith teach you to be kind, even at the detriment of your own self-worth?”
“We are Daughters of Thornbrook,” I explain. “Our mission is not to build ourselves up. Our mission is to serve the Father, no matter the cost.”
“The cost being your own individuality.”
He has no idea what he’s talking about. “No one is more accepting of individuality than the Father. There is nothing I want for myself that He can’t provide.” In my darkest years, He stood by me. He did not abandon me when the world grew dim, the ground unstable, my childhood turned to dust.
Zephyrus studies me beneath lowered lashes, that penetrative gaze roaming over my legs, mapping out each curve, before coming to rest on my pinkened face. “Not even that kiss we shared?” His voice deepens, running hot fingers across my skin.
I swallow, glance around. We alone occupy the glen. “The kiss was a mistake.”
“Because you enjoyed it so thoroughly?”
“You misunderstand,” I stammer.
The brightness of his teeth provides temporary relief from the darkness, and a breeze teases the curls of my hair. “Do I?”
“I thought I was going to die. I would not have agreed to it otherwise.”
“If only I believed you.”
I straighten, fully prepared to defend myself, when I notice the drink he holds, the subtle sway of his body against the overgrown grass, the glaze of his green eyes.
My mouth flattens in distaste. “You’re drunk.”
“Enchanted,” he corrects, lifting a finger. “I am enchanted .”
“I thought you said the wine doesn’t affect you.”
“It doesn’t. Well, not in the way it affects you.”
“Then why drink it?”
“This isn’t wine.” Raising the glass, he swirls the gold liquid around, lifts it to his mouth. “What you see here is a taste from my homeland. This, as it turns out, is the last of it.”
His words alone do not give me pause. Rather, the longing behind them. “Is it a liquor?”
Tilting back his head, Zephyrus stares up at the strange, oily sky, beyond which lies the earth, grass, Carterhaugh, all veiled behind a blackness without end. “It is not, though it does alter one’s state of mind.” He leans back, supporting himself with one hand, and considers me. “But we both know you would never broaden your horizons in such a manner.” With a satisfied smirk, he downs another swallow.
Oh, he dearly loves to push my buttons. Who defines my character? I do. No one else.
As he takes another mouthful, I swipe the glass from his grip.
Zephyrus lurches forward, blinking a few times. When he spots the drink in my hand, his eyes glimmer, as though delighted to have been proven wrong. “I have spoken too soon,” he murmurs.
“What would happen if I were to try the drink?”
His eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Perhaps you should see for yourself,” he hedges.
“Perhaps I will.”
“Then by all means.” Zephyrus gestures for me to proceed.
I take a small—very small—sip, and frown. “It tastes like…”
“Beets,” he says.
It tastes nothing like beets. “It tastes like freshly baked bread,” I correct him.
“To you, yes. But to me, it tastes like beets.” At my look of confusion, he elaborates, “Where I come from, we call it nectar. It tastes like one’s favorite food. Thus, the taste differs depending on who consumes it.”
I see.
“Your favorite food is beets ?”
Zephyrus looks affronted. “Do you have something against them?”
“They taste like dirt.”
Slowly, he crosses one ankle over the other. Ponderous. The effect suits him. “I agree. I wonder what that says about my tastes?”
“That they are poor.”
Zephyrus smiles, as do I—the first we have shared.
“I wouldn’t say poor, exactly.” His grin widens. It eases the awkward planes of his face and allows them to slip into something more harmonious. Pleasing, even. “After all, I kissed you, and I thoroughly enjoyed that.”
Despite my burning face, I force myself to maintain eye contact. His dancing gaze meets mine, and slowly warms as silence ensues. At some point, I have managed to relax in the West Wind’s presence.
Lowering the glass into my lap, I examine the gold substance, if only to avoid some undesired realization coming into sharper focus. “This is the last of the nectar?”
“In my possession, yes.”
It seems a shame to waste the drink on someone who will not savor it. “Here.” I offer it back to him.
He straightens from his languishing, abruptly suspicious. “You do not want it?”
“No.” Not after learning that it cannot be replenished, this reminder of his home.
The West Wind moves as though afraid he will frighten a rabbit back into its burrow. He reaches toward me. Warm, clever fingers curl around mine. However briefly, we cradle the curved crystal in togetherness.
An enthusiastic screech from the distant festivities shatters my paralysis, and I relinquish my hold on the drink, watching his throat work as he swallows the last dregs.
Zephyrus sets aside the glass with unusual care. Gone is his previous amusement. “To answer your earlier question, I drink because the nectar helps dull the pain.”
I am drawn to this version of him, this grave immortal who has seen the world. My attention is his to manipulate, his to bend. “What pain?”
“The pain of life. What else?”
There is a certain ambiguity to the response, which tempts me into questioning him further. Zephyrus has never given me so much in so few words. “Life isn’t just pain,” I tell him quietly, although much of my life has been marked by it.
“How young you are. How little you know.” Before I can defend myself, he says, “Imagine this: A god, beloved and adored by all. A hero, in some regard. Yet one mistake was enough to tear down the legacy he’d built, leaving his name forever tainted. Coward, they called him. Murderer.”
My eyes widen. Murderer?
“That is my pain,” he murmurs. “I am the West Wind no longer. Now I am simply Zephyrus: outcast, prisoner.” His head hangs. “You deny the pain of life? That is very naive of you.”
“You aren’t listening,” I snap. “Of course we experience pain in our lives. That is the nature of our world. But if you find your life to be only pain, only suffering, then I question the manner in which you live.” I point to his hand. “You continue to gift your blood to this place. Why? Why must you harm yourself for the Orchid King? Will you spend an eternity suffering for his benefit?”
“You must understand. It is the price I must pay.”
“For what ?” That is the question that remains unanswered, that plagues me during my sleeping and waking hours, that I have brought forth into the light for careful study, yet still I lack an explanation. “Why are you bound to the Orchid King?”
Murderer.
“It occurred long ago. I’ve accepted my situation will not change.” When his eyes lift to mine, they shine with clarity. All traces of the nectar’s enchantment have vanished. “I am not like you. My beliefs are full of holes. The water pours through.”
It hurts me to see those with little faith—in anything, really.
“But you do believe in something,” I press. “Right?”
One of his hands slides on top of mine, pressing it into the grass. I stare at the place where we touch, and my toes curl inside my boots. Despite my gloves acting as a barrier, his wide palm imprints heat into my skin.
“You ask what I believe?” His lashes dip, gold fringed in the dying light. “I believe there is more to you than I first assumed. I believe you have many shades, not just one.”
“That’s not—” I falter, unsure of how I feel about his admission. It warms me even as it frightens me. “That’s not what I meant. Belief in a higher power. Faith in the good forces of the world.”
“Why can’t I believe in things that move me? Are you not a good force in this world? Do you not spread kindness and compassion wherever you go?”
I’m helpless to stop the blush reddening my skin. I didn’t realize Zephyrus viewed me in such a favorable light.
“You,” he says, “are a bright, willful woman who understands the sacrifice true dedication requires. It takes strength of character to extend compassion to so many, even those who don’t deserve it.”
Bright . A word gifted to things touched by illumination: knowledge, a star. I had not believed Zephyrus capable of seeing deeper than one’s skin, of hearing anything aside from his own laughing voice.
“We are all deserving of compassion,” I say.
“Are we?” And then the despair manifests, fully formed to dull his eyes. “I have questioned myself more in your company than I have in the last thousand years.”
“Is that so bad a thing?”
He frowns, takes a breath. “I believe there are few good things in this world,” he says, “but the kindness of your heart might be the best thing I have ever experienced, in any lifetime.”
My throat tightens. I am not sure whether to weep or fling myself into his embrace. Never have I received so thoughtful a compliment, and so generously gifted, without the expectation of reciprocation.
“Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely.
His gaze drops to the grass with a rare shyness. “You are an incredibly special person. I just want you to know that.”
I understand, as I had not previously, what it means to desire. How the wanting is a flood. It does not seem so terrible a thing in this moment.
“My darling novitiate,” Zephyrus murmurs. “I would very much like to kiss you.”
A puff of warmth washes across my mouth, and the sweetness of his breath lures me nearer. Mossy rings encircle the welling blacks of his eyes.
“You’ve already kissed me,” I say.
“That was not a kiss.” He slides one hand forward, loops it around my wrist, where glove and sleeve meet. “I would kiss you the way a man kisses a woman he hungers for.”
I am not thinking of my vows. I am not thinking of my faith and what a betrayal it would be to accept the West Wind’s mouth. I am thinking of all the truths I have never before considered, including this: his kiss is an offering I cannot refuse.
Because I have been a good servant this last decade, haven’t I? I have never, not once, strayed. It is true that no man may touch a Daughter of Thornbrook, but what of a man who views me as a woman first, a novitiate second? What of a man who encourages me to consider my own needs, those separate from the Father’s?
Lowly, I whisper, “What of Harper?”
“We are traveling companions, nothing more.”
My lips purse. Light and laughter from the festivities trickles through the shifting meadow grasses. “You picked a funny way of showing it.”
“What can I say? I enjoy getting under your skin.” His eyes flash, full of impish cunning. Again, the sense that his features have softened, become something else. “It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages.”
At my droll look, he laughs, drawing my hand up so it rests on his thigh. My skin leaps at the heat there, the hardened muscle beneath, as I say, “Tell me the truth. When I was bathing in the river, did you truly want to kiss me, or were you just toying with me?” As he does with everything else.
For a time, he considers me. Then: “Let me ask you this. Would you deny a parched man water from the cool mountain stream?”
The gall of this immortal. I should challenge his claim, yet I’m ashamed to admit that I had wanted his mouth, sought to relish his taste, however brief.
“No,” I confess. “I would not.”
The green of his eyes deepens, as though a shadow has fallen across the moon. Framing my face, he tugs me forward, nose to nose and breath to breath. “All right?” he murmurs.
This is not the first time Zephyrus has touched my bare skin. Am I to burn in the blackest depths of Hell? “Y-yes?”
“Is that a question or an answer?”
“Um.” I bite my lip. Each of his fingertips are a brand upon my face. How can something that feels so right be a sin? “Answer.”
Leaning closer, Zephyrus bypasses my mouth, skimming the tip of his nose along my cheek, across my jaw. The fragile, butterfly-wing whisper spreads warmth down my neck. I hold still, trembling, awaiting his touch. And when his mouth brushes mine, I catch fire.
A wash of heat explodes across my tongue, pulls down my throat, fists in my lower belly. The drag of flushed lips. The scrape of stubble across my skin. I try to follow Zephyrus’ lead, but I have no idea what I’m doing. My fingertips dig into the soil—an anchor. Then I’m swept far and wide, sucked beneath waves I cannot climb, arches of white foam collapsing over me in dizzying sensations: sight and sound and taste and, by the Father, his smell . My mind, my entire being, spins out of control.
I break away, shaking from head to toe. My body has seized, the energy coiling so tightly inside me it ruptures, shockwaves extending down my limbs.
“Sorry,” I whisper through chattering teeth. “I’m no good at this.”
“Do you see me complaining?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
“No.” But the insecurity creeps through me regardless.
Zephyrus rubs my upper arms in soothing strokes. I’m likely twice his weight, yet in this moment, I feel small. “We can take it slow. There’s no rush.”
I cannot see where this door will lead. But I understand that passing beyond its threshold means leaving the vows I swore to uphold behind. To become intimate with a man, this man… I choose this for myself. “I’ve never done this before.”
His eyes soften. “It’s an incredibly frightening thing, letting someone in. We move forward if and when you choose to.”
His patience helps soothe my frazzled nerves. The West Wind can be incredibly accommodating when he wants to be. “Is there a better way to… you know.”
“Better way to…?” Zephyrus regards me expectantly.
He will make me say it, the fiend. “Kiss you.”
A bit of playfulness lightens his expression. “Do whatever feels good.”
“That’s not helpful!”
“How will you know unless you try it?” It emerges as a throaty purr. “Do you dare test your boundaries?” At the next breath, he catches my mouth with his own. And when my lips part, peeled open by his eager tongue, I whimper.
He makes a sound in turn, his taste so much more potent now. The slow, indulgent kiss is worshipful, absorbing all my concentration in a way I have only experienced in deep prayer.
Tilting his head, Zephyrus begins to find a rhythm. I’m shocked by how good it feels, this need to press forward, rub catlike against him so the heat sparks fire. My mouth throbs, raw and abused, as the kiss deepens.
“Give me your tongue,” he murmurs.
“H-how? I don’t know how.” I squirm in place, trying to ease the tightness coiling between my legs.
The West Wind presses a brief, chaste kiss against my chin. “Relax.” One of his hands envelops the front of my throat like a warm collar. “Part your lips… Yes, like that. Ease your tongue past your teeth. Good girl.”
Everything we have done thus far, each deliberate unfolding, piles into rich extravagance. Together we climb and together we fall. For the second time, I break away, swaying.
“You’re lovely,” Zephyrus says. “So perfectly pristine.” The hand at my throat tightens slightly. When I swallow, my muscles strain against his grip. “And yet, I find myself wanting to do filthy, depraved things to you.”
My heart knocks against my ribs so forcefully I’m certain his immortal ears catch its harrowing rhythm. “Like what?”
The banked heat in his eyes reveals the impious corners of his mind, the fiercest cravings. “I will show you,” he murmurs, nipping at my jaw, “in time. For now, let us indulge.”
The West Wind coaxes my mouth open too easily. The slide and curl of his tongue. The hard plundering that follows, which drags all those rough, embarrassing sounds from my throat. My breasts brush his chest, and I whimper.
“ Brielle .”
I’m spiraling, too far gone to care that he has spoken my name aloud in a place that would surely snatch it. Zephyrus claims he is faithless, but my name rings like the holiest of prayers.
“Tell me how it feels,” he murmurs, lips tickling the shell of my ear. “Tell me I am your undoing.”
His hand skims up my shoulder, down my arm, across my stomach. His fingers skirt my chest, return to my heaving back, where his palm sinks between the shoulder blades. I cannot deny him, for it is true—his touch is my undoing.
My body bows toward Zephyrus as he shifts his attention to the curve of my neck, a press of damp heat above my collar, mouth always in motion. Yes. More. As soon as the thought forms, it evaporates. My thighs clamp tighter around the budding throb that lies between.
As Zephyrus grips my hips, the timbre of his voice drops. “Sit on my lap.” He squeezes my waist—the area I’ve always been most insecure about. It freezes me in place.
“I’m too heavy,” I tell him.
“Says who?”
“Everyone.”
He is too quiet.
The inward retreat has already begun. My weight has never mattered to me. It has only ever been a topic of contention for others.
“Your body,” Zephyrus murmurs, eyes intent, “is beautiful. I have always admired it.”
“You don’t care that I’m larger than you? That I could carry you without breaking a sweat?”
“Absolutely not.” He drags his hands down to my wrists, fingers encircling them like bracelets. “I love your shape. I love your curves and the muscle in your arms. I love how physically strong you are. The differences in our bodies? That is the headiest allure.”
I lick my lips nervously, and my stomach clenches as Zephyrus’ eyes lock on to the motion.
“Sit on my lap,” he says again.
I do not fight the temptation. I’m too far gone. Straddling his waist, I ease my weight against him.
He sinks his fingers into my hips, the fabric of my dress so thin it may as well not exist. “Do you trust me?”
Over the course of this journey, I have come to better understand him. I may not trust the West Wind with my heart, but there is trust enough for this: allowing him to bring my desire to life. “What will you do?”
“I will show you that exploring one’s body is not selfish. I will show you that indulging is no sin.”
As if reading the uncertainty in my expression, he rains soft kisses down to my jaw. The sensation suffuses my skin with an unbearable heat. I hold still, poised on a knife’s edge, a trembling deep in my belly.
When his mouth slants over mine, I am prepared. Eagerly, I feed the kiss, edged in these feelings I dare not name. My head tips back, and Zephyrus drinks deeply of everything I offer. He then shifts me to the side, one of his legs slotting between mine, and he holds me there, rocking his thigh against my core until the sensation takes root and I begin to move.
Oh. My eyes roll into the back of my head, and all at once, my body loosens, contouring around his hard, flexing muscle. Then, a brightness, something igniting in my core. I falter.
“Let it unfold,” Zephyrus whispers.
Whatever this is, I can’t control it. I shift my hips harder against him, his hands securing me in place. The pleasure sharpens as it nears its peak, and though my body seeks to chase it, I am desperately afraid of what awaits me at its end. Abruptly, I go cold.
“That’s enough,” I gasp.
Immediately, Zephyrus stops.
My thighs continue to tremble, muscles locked tight. He studies me—this panting, red-faced, wide-eyed woman. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I just… need space.”
Expression grave, he nods and loosens his hands from around my waist.
I slip off his lap. The ground is cold beneath me. For whatever reason, I want to cry. How can I miss his touch when I’m the one who demanded distance?
“Sorry.” I’ve never offered a more pitiful apology.
Zephyrus catches my hand, gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.”
Then why do I feel so inadequate?
“I thought—” A helpless sound escapes. “I thought I wanted to do… that . But—”
Despite the abrupt shift in mood, his eyes soften. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.” Reaching out, he cradles my cheek, brushes his thumb across its curve. “Rest,” he says. “I’ll watch over you.”
Curling into the grass, I lay my head on Zephyrus’ thigh. He weaves his fingers through my hair, pushing the curls away from my face. The meadow, the stars, and the West Wind—infuriating, too clever by half, yet at times unexpectedly sweet.
When my eyes close, I dream of spring.