19. Wren
Wren
Audra rests through the night. The sleep of the sick, the healing. Although Nicholas’s blood surges through her veins, with everything the prophecy took from her when she spoke, it will be hours before she rises.
I stayed awake watching Helene. Who needs slumber when there’s her? Her eyes, scent, the round pink of her lips...
There’s no greater madness than the desperation for a woman. It turns males into fools.
Her chest expands and contracts evenly. At least in sleep, there are no beasts to bother her. No memories, either. Nothing to scare her or take from her.
I make sure of it.
She curls beside me on the bed with a crocheted blanket wrapped around her body, golden hair swept into a messy braid, the escaping tendrils at her cheek.
What’s the cost of hope? I twist one of the strands around my index finger, rubbing the piece like gold silk. How can it exist when it’s fused with failure, with control? With power and sadness?
Hope is a dangerous thing around Helene.
She crawls into the dead places inside me and makes them feel alive again.
Being a masochist helps. I’ve become accustomed to the pain.
This woman with her flaws and traumas and cautious optimism is not the warrior Valkyrie I used to know. Helene bleeds through everything.
She is the compulsion I’ve never learned to live without.
I pry loose from her hold, an electric crackle lighting my skin where it pulls free from hers. I survive a twinge of remorse before heading into the living room.
The sun lifts to the horizon line with skeletal fingers of cold, hard light. Clouds obscure any dazzling sunrise the town might experience, like a perpetual dome over the entire place. It traps the gloom inside, the hopelessness as abundant as maple trees.
Another gray October morning with crisp air and a quiet broken by my heartbeat.
It clangs against my ribs, and I bet the forest will swallow that in time as well.
The mist of Ginnungagap seeps through thick here.
Another few minutes and those brave tendrils of dawn will push through the dirty mullions of the living room windows.
I cut my attention across the room to the sagging center cushion on the couch. The chair has seen better days as well, patches of fabric fraying.
I’ve half a mind to gift it to Draven’s court as a prototype of torment. Those loose springs are a killer.
But there are dainty hand drawn sketches in faded back frames nailed to the wall. There are herbs in cracked porcelain jugs, and a vase of flowers wilting on a coffee table. Christmas lights decorated in dust she hasn’t yet taken down over a mantel without a chimney.
Blankets drape over the rear of the couch and pillows with tufts and tassels form a satisfactory nest.
Helene has made this dump a home. She makes ugly things feel warm. I hate how much I want that.
But has she ever found the peace I tried to offer her? I—
She clears her throat behind me. “You’re up early,” she whispers.
“There’s no need to lower your voice. Your sister will sleep. She needs to replenish what she’s lost.” I drag a finger along the limp line of a macrame tapestry.
Not turning.
Not looking at her.
Not bothering to hide the shadows seething from my palms like hungry pets.
“Oh.” Helene chuckles, losing some of the morning reverence. “That’s good to know. I didn’t realize you sensed that.”
Fabric rustles, and she stops at my side.
Beyond, the view stretches over the roof of the single story cafe across the street.
The slightly sloping landscape shows the rolling busy streets, the old houses stacked along their borders.
Soon winter’s chill will take residence and blanket the world in white.
Now, frost crackles across tree limbs and stubborn shrubbery.
And if I look at her, I’ll break. One glance will unravel me.
It’s been hard enough to resist the touch, not when her scent has laced its way into every corner of my lungs.
A different scent intercedes, the stringent softness of spearmint. I stifle a grin. She brushed her teeth.
I wonder why.
Her knuckles brush mine. “What do you see when you look at Nightshade Hollow this way?” she asks.
“Do you want the truth or diplomacy?”
She’s silent for a long moment.
“I see a place too stiflingly restricted to contain what’s coming. To contain you,” I say.
“I’m a small-town girl, no matter what you might think of me. This area isn’t much, but it’s kind. It’s quiet. I like the change in seasons.”
My throat tightens. If I look at her, I know what I’ll see. She’s not the woman living a moody little life. She injects her relentless hope into everything she does. Whenever life bruises her, she shows up with her heart cracked open, a joke on her lips.
She uses empathy like a superpower.
She is sunshine with shadows, the scent of rain on flowers. The one who goes out of her way to bring soup when you’re sick, even if she is too.
“You find beauty in the smallest things.” I gesture to the tarnished pewter vase overflowing with buttery yellow and orange marigolds. “And you’re loyal to the bone. Not a small-town nobody.”
“I also avoid confrontation, if we’re going with an analysis this early in the morning. I avoid it until I explode.” She flashes me a practiced smile and puts distance between us. “Do you want some coffee?”
Absolutely fucking not; I’d rather drink sewer water. “No, thank you.”
She shifts away, and my hand snakes out, fingers banding around her wrist to keep her with me.
Stay.
Desire burns too hot for me to control. Her grief sits right below her sternum, twined with her pulse, throbbing through me.
I wanted to take this slowly. One touch from her ruins the idea.
“Why do you call me a monster? I mean, pretty I get,” she jokes, staring holes through the worn carpet. “But monsters aren’t pretty in general.”
“Are they not?”
“Not the ones I’ve encountered. Those trolls? Hideous.”
“You’ve been my pretty monster in every life. Since the first time I met you. Centuries ago.”
Mine. Dangerous thought.
“You killed a sister shieldmaiden who was going to die. A terrible thing. She’d been gutted and suffered.”
The image stands out like it was yesterday. The Fae are notoriously long-lived, but things tend to slip through the cracks after a time. Not so with these memories. Anything regarding Helene has solidified, integrated.
“You saw it as a way to give your friend and someone you cared about an honorable death, instead of a dishonorable and painful one. Even if she’d managed to live, she would have died from an infection within days.”
She shudders. “That’s awful.”
Her scent is everywhere. It’s becoming a problem. Every breath hurts.
Fuck.
I’ve got to get a fucking grip. Losing it at this point will spell ruin for more than me, more than her. The others—
Aren’t here.
A feral smile lifts my cheeks. Only me. Only Helene.
I brush that rogue curl away from her face and linger, dragging my fingertips down the curve of her cheekbone and along her jaw.
My cock fills, and I shift, not to cover it but to give it room to breathe. My pants are too tight and constrictive.
Lust burns, hot and uncontrollable, the core theme of my existence. Control. Power.
Helene shakes the web and sets the strands free. “Wren. Why are you looking at me that way?” she whispers. “If you’re hungry I can make you something to eat.”
“Oh, I’m starving.” But not for anything good.
A hint of a blush pinks her cheeks as her tongue darts out to lick her lower lip. She bites down on it, a combination of nerves and arousal, equally tantalizing.
Don’t run. I might actually lose my mind.
Resting my hand on the side of her face, I usher her backward toward the couch until her knees brush the cushions. Helene’s chest catches.
When I kiss her, she doesn’t push back. Relief hits me so hard it’s almost anger.
My mouth glides to hers like the first touch of summer, blanketing and delicate. A test to see how willing she is to drown and how deep I’ll force us both.
Her sigh is the green light. Her lips part to make space for me.
Well, shit.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
I change the angle of the kiss and brush my tongue over the seam of her lips. She opens further, reaching for me. Her nails bite into my shoulder, not to force me away but to keep me in place. Her opposite arm wraps around my waist.
And because she is open and willing, because my desires are my master, I let my shadows out to play.
They skim across my skin to caress her. Darkness tangles with her sunlight hair and streak along the delicate column of her neck.
“Wren—”
I break the kiss to drag my nose up her chin, inhaling deeply. Helene arches closer. It’s passion and longing set on fire. It’s everything.
I’m a selfish male. I bury my face at her throat and bite her there, heat spearing through me. Helene trembles.
Her heartbeat spikes.
Spending the night was a risk. Being with her here, now, makes me forget the suffering. Or how we all will again.
Her mouth finds mine again, and I devour her, demanding, her tongue hot and urging me to open for her.
She wants a taste as badly as I do.
She moans when I nip her lip, huffing out a harsh laugh. I kiss her deeper as shadows tangle in her hair.
We’ve always brought out the softer side of each other. In a world designed to harden people into diamonds, moments like this are salvation.
She pushes against me, and I hold her, my body strung as tight as a bow. My hand drifts to her temple, pulling her back to stare as she stokes the flames.
Her eyes are pools.
“Darkness looks good on you, monster.” I maneuver her forward to whisper. “You’ve always been praise wrapped in shadow.”
She shivers. “I’m not one for those stupid, cutesy words.”
“You haven’t heard the correct ones then.” I kiss the whorl of her ear and massage circles on her scalp. “You haven’t been told the right compliment by the right person.”
“And that’s you?”
One of three. My girl was never satisfied with one sole facet of anything. Not life, not love, and not death. She always had to experience everything offered, and if she couldn’t find completion in a single person, well…
Who the fuck am I to tell her no?
My shadows bend around her and contour to her curves. Her chest heaves erratically, nipples already hard.
“Well?” she pushes.
“Greedy, pretty monster.” I groan. “Always strong. Fierce.”
Secrets from another life bubble up, ready to drop like pools of wax. Ready to decorate her in heat and a bite of pain if I’m careful.
I steal her air and kiss her with it. Her chin tilts, bringing her closer. I tighten my hold on her hair until she gasps into my mouth.
“I remember tasting you the first time on a battlefield,” I whisper.
We fall together, her spine pressed to the sagging cushions as I loom over her. Close enough to kiss but not to touch.
My shadows wrap around her ankles and pull her legs wider. But rather than dive into her sweetness, I restrain myself. With tendrils of darkness brushing like velvet along her ankles and calves, I stroke my way over her collarbone.
“You were so overcome with pleasure, Helene. You rode my face on a river bank, not caring who heard you scream out for me. Your bloodied fingers in my hair, working my face against your dripping core.”
My fingers trace a path across her chest and up the curve of her torso. Her ribs nip into a neat waist, the pleasing flare of her hips. Her breasts are two ripe apples and my mouth waters.
Instead of giving in, I flutter touches beneath her breasts until the sounds in her throat deepen.
“Oral on a riverbank,” she says with a groan. “Doesn’t sound like me. I hate oral sex.”
“No, you don’t.”
And I’ll kill anyone who gave it to her and soured her on the experience.
I growl against her lips.
She has to give herself over to me. I haven’t gotten her there yet. She’s too distracted by everything going on. I should be preoccupying her every thought. That’s just part of the game.
It’s one of her favorites. Our favorites.
Will she ever remember?
Shadows drape across her legs and brush along her inner thighs. I draw back, stealing a moment to stare at her.
What use are words in a connection this sacred?
It’s mindset and physicality. She has to feel the focus. I have to take her to euphoria, and she has to give herself over to it completely.
“You’ll let me know if it’s too much,” I force out.
Something must always be in place to call it quits, whether it’s a bite too hard or a thrust too deep. Permission can be withdrawn.
Those are the rules in this power exchange.
Helene stares at me for a moment as my shadows brush her hair away from her head. Strands rest against the emerald of the tufted pillow like a bride stolen from her marriage bed and placed into a coffin. Gone too soon.
I square my shoulders, taking in a breath, waiting.
Eventually, she nods. “Okay.”
It’s important to bring the right energy to the game, and when my mouth goes dry, I bend until we're eye level. She angles toward me and purses her lips. The kiss gives her power. Her confidence adds a different taste to it, yet she won’t fall into a position of vulnerability and softness if I don’t offer command and presence.
When she reaches out to touch me, the shadows hold her back. I don’t let her.
“I’m in control, love, not you.”
I wrap my hand around her throat as I deny her touch. Teasing. Tormenting.
I want more than my fucking hand on her. I want her to move where I guide her.
We lock eyes as my shadows drag across her chest, her clavicle, her arms. And without breaking eye contact, I kiss her, nipping at her lower lip until her moan grows in intensity.
This makes it all worthwhile. This scene. This woman.
This adoration is intentional. It manipulates everything I do.
And if I could die for it…I would. Which is deeply inconvenient for me.