Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Maryk is more likely to send his forces out from Dildain if he believes the dragons to be elsewhere.”
“You refuse to use our best advantage?” Maeve asked.
Aemyra eyed the general, wondering how much obstinance to allow. “Fires can spread out of control. We would be as likely to trap our own soldiers within the valley as to burn Leuthanach clansmen. They chose to follow their laird, but loyalty is not a crime punishable by death.”
Perhaps it was Sorcha’s pleas for the non-Dùileach people of Tìr Teine that had changed Aemyra’s mind, but she needed to at least give all of her people a chance.
“I will not use the beathaichean like pieces on a tàileasg board,” Aemyra said.
“With freshly broken Bonds it is unlikely that Aervor or Kolreath will make an appearance,” Thear added helpfully, his rumbling voice calming.
Aemyra thought of the danger being linked to Aervor’s mind now put her in. With Fiorean dead, would his dragon already be unstable? Was that why Terrea was blocking her out more frequently?
Maeve looked nervous, no doubt thinking of Sorcha waiting in camp while the soldiers departed.
“If Aervor attacks, Terrea will intercept him,” Aemyra said.
This seemed to settle Maeve. With a deeper bow, the general left the tent.
Riya got to her feet. “The phoenix warriors accept our orders, Your Majesty.”
“Tell Greer to keep the fires burning as we march. Solstice is one week away and our soldiers need to remember we also fight for the Goddess.”
Riya made the sign of Brigid’s cross followed by a low bow, her proud nose almost touching the pile of sheepskins draped over a stool.
“This will be our first true test,” Aemyra muttered, splaying her fingers across the rough parchment of the maps. “Great Mother have mercy on us.”
The council repeated the blessing before leaving Aemyra alone with Thear once again.
Letting out a breath that stung her raw lungs, Aemyra pulled the pitcher of ceremonial wine toward her.
Unable to look at Thear lest the memory of what had passed between them before the interruption seize her again, Aemyra sipped the wine.
The brazier was crackling merrily and she stood as close as she could without burning herself. Aemyra would never again take for granted being able to dry her hair with a flick of her wrist.
She flinched when Thear took the jug from her hands, jolting her out of her muddled thoughts.
“A little on edge?” he asked. “The eve of battle makes everyone jumpy.”
Aemyra turned her back on the brazier, trying not to moan when it warmed her frozen buttocks.
“On the contrary. I feel more like myself than I have in weeks,” Aemyra said.
Thear loomed over her. “I’m inclined to agree. I’ve seen glimpses of the dragon queen make an appearance before—that evening at the Cuith, and over breakfast with my father. But the way you took charge of the council, laid out your battle plan…that was my first glimpse of the true queen.”
Aemyra’s breath hitched as the shadows made Thear’s eyes appear darker. “You’ve grown. Into a queen who is far more than what her father made her.”
Something in his gentle tone gave Aemyra pause. Perhaps witnessing their sparring match had him viewing her differently.
“Your soldiers say Draevan is the temper but his daughter is the temperance. Do not disappoint them.”
His words elicited a small thrill.
“You are a good deal too bold, lairdling,” she muttered.
“I’ll take that to mean you agree.”
Aemyra threw her damp hair over her shoulder. “I didn’t say that.”
Thear froze where he stood, his mouth slightly open, and Aemyra didn’t have to look down to know why. Her hair had been covering her breasts, the contours of which were clearly visible through the robe.
The comforting scent of growing things, reminiscent of her days spent foraging, met her nostrils and she had to force herself not to lean forward.
Where Fiorean had stoked the fire inside of her, had met every sharp word with a cutting phrase, Thear softened her. He was a gentle hand and kind word that she knew would eventually make her a benevolent queen.
But could a benevolent queen do what was necessary to overthrow the Chosen and rid Tìr Teine of them for good?
The point of a knife at her breast, a stripe of red, a kiss tasting of iron and ancient promises…
“I had no choice.”
The words Fiorean had spoken on the riverbank still haunted her. She had heard them uttered once before, in the memory of him Bonding to Aervor.
Had she been nothing more than kindling? Fiorean a searing flame forced upon her, and she had given him everything he needed to thrive—while she had crumpled in the process.
Holding her hands out to keep Thear at bay, her burn scars were illuminated.
She wondered if she would be nothing but ash without Fiorean’s flame. Perhaps their marriage had always been as insubstantial as smoke, her lingering feelings choking anyone who came too close until she was finally free of him.
“I must ready my warriors for tomorrow,” Thear said softly. “If you want more from our current arrangement, all you have to do is ask.”
Aemyra held her breath as faint heat skimmed her skin, Thear’s magic not quite sufficient to completely dry her hair.
With that disarming declaration, he left her alone and Aemyra quickly made her way to her own tent before she could grow cold again.
Groans and whimpers of pleasure leaked from between tent flaps, the army letting themselves feel alive before battle. Shadows writhed in the low flames of cookfires and blankets rustled on the grass.
In the solitude of her own tent, for the first time since the battle of àird Lasair, Aemyra sought to find release.
Whether it was the impending battle, or the way Thear had teased her, she didn’t know.
But if she didn’t take care of the ache within her, she might very well venture out into the darkness and fuck Thear in the middle of camp.
But as much as Aemyra thought of the handsome lairdling as she worked her clit in furious circles, the eyes she pictured when she finally climaxed weren’t a gleaming amber.
They were a startling shade of emerald.