Chapter 33 #2
I almost argue. Almost remind him in pitiless terms that what we just shared changed nothing, that he’s no more entitled to me now than he was yesterday.
Getting fucked out of my mind by a savage god?
An excellent decision. Willingly spending the night naked in my future executioner’s bed for an encore performance?
A level of insanity I’m not prepared to claim.
Still, I’m filthy and sore and exhausted. I need to get clean.
I close my eyes and let him carry me through the halls to his chamber.
His bedroom is exactly as I imagined and nothing like it at all.
The tall windows admit a wash of aetherlight that illuminates the enormous four-poster bed with black sheets.
Past that is a comfy-looking dark leather chair covered in stacks of books.
The red roses have climbed nearly every inch of his walls and ceiling, still open and in bloom even in the darkness.
The Wolf doesn’t give me time to process my surroundings. Just carries me into the adjoining bathing chamber and sets me on my feet beside a sunken tub big enough for his wings.
Steam curls from the water as he fills the bath and gathers some bottles. The warmth licks at my skin, chilled after all that time spent naked in the elements.
He eases us both in, settling me between his thighs. I tip my head back with a sigh as floral-scented steam curls around me. A shiver rolls through me as his fingers thread through my hair, untangling the snarled mess with surprising care.
“Too much?” he asks.
“No.” I fidget, trying to tamp down the emotions battering around my ribcage. “Just new.”
“Lean back. Let me take care of you.”
So I do. He works the soap into a lather and glides his palms over my spine.
He’s meticulous in his attention, as if he’s trying to memorize me in this rare, soft moment.
Cataloging all my injuries. His power reaches for me, sliding across my skin and healing the bruises from his hands, the places where branches sliced into my skin during the run, the cuts on my palms, my injured feet. Comforting. Soothing.
He reaches for my inner thighs, and I tense, bracing. Ready to shore up the cracks broken open by his gentle hands.
“Easy. This is just…” He exhales, and it sounds oddly unsteady. “This isn’t about getting you wound up again. Just cleaning you off and making sure you’re all right.”
Holding my breath, I let my legs fall open.
The Wolf slides his hand along my inner thighs and I bite back a moan as he gently brushes fingers along my pussy, his magic soothing the soreness before he backs off.
His palms smooth over my skin in circles.
So careful with me, almost reverent as he washes my breasts, my belly.
There is no demand in the drag of his fingers, no seduction.
No intent beyond the act of caring for me.
It’s unbearable. Tenderness has no place between us.
I should pull away, armor myself. Yet, as I tilt my head to study his face, the words wither.
Our gazes catch and hold. The pad of his thumb finds my bottom lip, dragging until my mouth falls open on a sigh.
Something complicated twists his features.
“You’re too quiet,” he says. He seems almost uncertain. “Did I hurt you?”
“No more than I wanted.”
The Wolf’s eyes flicker between mine. “Then what’s happening in that head of yours? Trying to convince yourself that this was a horrible idea? That you should have said ishkah before I had you up against that rock?”
“I was just thinking that for someone so dangerous, you’re far too good at being soft.”
“Only for you.” He strokes the damp hair from my brow and cups my cheek. “Temporary insanity brought on by rut-fever.”
“Is that all it is?”
“What else would it be?”
I don’t have an answer for that. Not one I’m willing to give.
His mouth finds mine, the kiss an unhurried glide of lips and tongue. Lush and intoxicating. So different from the way he claimed me before, all violence and desperation.
When he finally lifts his head, I’m dizzy. Drunk on the feel and taste of him.
“When you’re like this,” I whisper, “I have to remind myself.”
“Remind yourself what?”
“That you’re very dangerous for mortal women with fragile human hearts.”
“Then it’s a good thing this mortal woman is too clever to catch feelings.” His head dips, lips shaping the words against my temple. “Stop thinking so hard, Devaliant. It’s inconvenient.”
“Is this…” I struggle to find the right words. “This gentleness. Is it just part of the biological process? Soothing your partner after breaking them?”
“Rut-fever comes in waves. I’m using the time between to give aftercare to the human I just found out was a virgin and didn’t tell me.”
I make a noncommittal sound but offer no real response.
He doesn’t press, just resumes his reverent exploration of my body. Skimming his fingers over my ribs, up and down, stroking until I’m drowsy.
With a kiss on my temple, he reaches over and snags a small glass bottle from the collection on the rim of the bath. “Drink all of this,” he says, pressing it into my hand.
I uncap it and sniff. The scent is medicinal, but not overwhelming. “What is it?”
“It’s rare for gods and humans to have children, but we’re biologically compatible. It prevents pregnancy.”
Oh. I down the entire bottle and set it aside. “Thank you.”
He returns to stroking my hair, pushing it back from my face. “Will you be mine for the rest of Aethertide? You can say no.”
I was prepared to reestablish boundaries, build up my walls, and return to my room. But the way he’s touching me—speaking to me—is so careful that I’m not ready to let it go. When was the last time someone took care of me like this? Let me be wild?
“Yes.” I settle my hand over his. “Do you need me again?”
I feel his smile against my nape. His breathing quickens with excitement. “In a few minutes. And again after that. Until neither of us can move.”
When the Wolf deems me sufficiently clean, he dries me off and settles me in his bed. The mattress dips as he slides in beside me.
He feels like safety, like shelter. And I’m too strung out and sex-stupid to question the complicated tangle of feelings I shouldn’t have for the god who’s going to kill me.
So when he rolls me under him, spreading my thighs with his knee, I let him.
He takes his time with me, drawing out every sigh and moan.
Sucking bruises into my skin as he fucks into me, nice and deep and slow, like he’s savoring me this time.
I lose myself to the hazy pleasure of it.
To the filthy words he breathes into my skin, to the sweet ache building between my thighs.
He maps my reactions—every hitch in my breathing, the helpless arch of my spine. And when he’s wrung every drop of ecstasy from me, he hauls me into his lap and starts all over again. It’s too much. It’s not nearly enough.
When he finally pulls me on top of him, spent and satisfied, he says, “During Aethertide, I’m Evander.”
“Just Aethertide?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his heart thudding under my ear. “Just Aethertide,” he says, very softly.
A few days to have this. To pretend this is something simple. Where I’m not a Devaliant, and he’s not my executioner.
You look like someone I’d keep, if you were anyone but you.
“Then I’m Bryony,” I whisper back.
He shuts his eyes and gathers me closer against him. “Night, Bryony.”