Chapter 6 #2
His hand slid behind her nape, drawing her gaze back to his. “Tell me.”
“You’re mine.”
Rey’s low groan was all it took—pleasure crashed over Silla with violent intensity.
Tremors burst through her, her spine arching off the bed.
Her fingers grew bloodless with the force of her grip on Rey’s arms, and he pumped into her with a crazed desire she’d not yet seen.
Silla could not find her voice, could only gasp, could only hold on through wave after wave of sharp, brutal pleasure that darkened her vision.
Rey made a throaty sound as he found his own pleasure, but he seemed distant—as though Silla were underwater and he was above. Wrung out, Silla’s mind was a hazy, drifting thing. Wings ruffled gently within, a low deep purr that softened her further.
“Silla.”
But it wasn’t a purr, it was a low, deep snarl. It was talons sinking into the mind of an old, weak king. It was weathered fingers wrapping around a white-hilted dagger. It was a blade, tearing into the flesh of the young, but not deep enough…
“Silla!”
Her eyes flew open to Rey hovering over her. Sweat slicked his brow, and his tattooed chest heaved with his exertion, but his eyes were filled with concern.
“Where did you go?” he asked, smoothing a tendril of hair from her forehead.
“I’m right here.” Was she? Her heart and mind raced as she tried to shake off the echoes of the dream—had that been a dream?
Rey collapsed onto the bed, then rolled to face her, fingertips skimming along her cheek. “Are you certain?” he prodded, studying her face. “For a moment, I thought Myrkur—”
“He’s not there,” she assured him, sliding a fingertip along the tattooed dragon’s taloned wing. Inwardly, she probed for the god, trying to detect any hint of His presence. But as He had for weeks on end, the god of chaos remained curiously silent.
“Good,” Rey replied, though the line between his brows lingered.
They stayed like this for some time, naked and content and enshrouded in silence.
Silla hadn’t fully appreciated the solitude of Kalasgarde—the peace and simplicity of it all.
And she hadn’t anticipated that in Kopa, they’d each have duties keeping them apart.
Rey’s day was filled with meetings with the Uppreisna chieftains as they scrambled to salvage his careful integration into Magnus Hansson’s network.
Silla, meanwhile, had gown fittings and tutoring sessions on top of her daily etiquette lessons with Jarl Hakon’s friend and confidante, Lady Tala.
And then there were the meetings she had with Jarl Hakon and his advisers. There were endless discussions on how best to capitalize on the sudden reappearance of Eisa Volsik. There was talk of raising banners for the Volsiks once more; talk of marching south and driving the Urkans from the kingdom.
Silla found herself disagreeing from time to time.
She wanted to ask of their plans for the people of the north in the face of the poisonous mist and a grain shortage.
And yet she was only a placeholder for Saga.
The truth was, Silla didn’t want to get too invested in the affairs of ruling.
Aside from the fact that she was completely unsuited, getting too involved would only make it more difficult to let go when her sister arrived.
But she hadn’t been able to refrain from asking Jarl Hakon what course of action he’d take regarding Rokkur.
“One thing at a time,” Jarl Hakon had reassured her.
Though Silla and Rey had told Jarl Hakon everything they knew about Rokkur, it was clear he was not fully convinced.
Silla didn’t blame Jarl Hakon. Violence on his eastern border; the Urkan enemy in the south—these were tangible things.
Problems to be solved with solid solutions.
The twilight of days was too big, too murky, simply too much to consider all at once.
After countless meetings, Silla, Rey, and Jarl Hakon had agreed their priority was to unify the north.
Silla would play the role of Eisa Volsik, and when the jarls arrived for the feast of the Shortest Day, she would be formally presented to the most powerful leaders in the north.
Then Eisa would meet with the jarls and convince them to raise their banners for her sister.
Jarl Hakon thought that Rokkur and the bargain living inside Silla ought not to be mentioned.
Once the jarls were won over, then they would tackle these more challenging topics.
Though her insides rebelled at keeping such details hidden, she could see the merit of this plan.
And so, for the time being, Silla’s goal was to mold herself into the kind of leader the hardened jarls of the north would follow.
But news of Istré had knocked her plans astray. Silla wanted to go to the Western Woods—wanted to fight with her friends. And yet she knew that was not Eisa’s fate. Silla knew without a doubt that Rey was aware of this. Was certain he, too, had been avoiding this topic.
She released a weary exhale and forced the words out. “I cannot go to Istré.”
“I know.” Rey twined her curls between his fingers. “Your work with the northern alliance is too important. And you must continue your search for a cure for Myrkur’s bargain.”
Silla smoothed a finger between his brows. “And your place is in Istré. I know this job has haunted you. Know you must see it through.”
Rey nipped at her finger. “It is only for a time.”
She nodded. All of this was temporary. Rey’s job in Istré. Silla’s job as queen.
His rough palm slid up her spine, and Rey pulled her to him. Closing her eyes, Silla drew in deep pulls of his scent; counted his heartbeats.
“The Kalasgardians will stay as your queensguard,” Rey said into her hair. “Keep them by your side no matter what.”
Silla nodded as tears burned her eyes. “I’ll miss you.”
“And I you.” His lips found hers, so soft and lush, but he drew back suddenly.
“I have something for you.” Rey rolled off the bed, and as he crossed the room, she stared unabashedly.
He turned and caught her looking, his eyes darkening as he sauntered back to her.
Silla was so distracted, she scarcely noticed what he’d handed her.
“Keep this on you at all times.” He paused. “And be careful who you trust here.”
Trying to blink the lust from her gaze, she stared at the item. An ivory hilt protruded from a supple leather sheath attached to a strap that looked far too small to fit her hips. “I don’t think—”
“Like this,” said Rey, his voice rough and deep. He took the sheath from her and slid the leather strap over her foot before dragging it upward.
“A thigh sheath,” she breathed, gasping as his fingertips brushed the sensitive place behind her knee.
When he reached mid-thigh, Rey tightened the strap into place.
Then he sat back on his haunches to examine his work.
A smile curved his lips. “Perfect,” he murmured, eyes grazing down to her toes and back up again.
“Show me,” he said huskily, “how you’ll use it. ”
Silla’s hand slid along her stomach, then down her thigh, as she watched the black of his eyes expand. Her fingertips reached the ivory hilt, then wrapped around it. The blade made a soft shick as she pulled it free.
“Good,” said Rey, taking the blade from her hand and tossing it to the floor. His eyes were black pools as he covered her body with his own.
“Promise me,” he muttered, pressing kisses down her throat. “Promise me you’ll wear it.”
“I promise,” she whispered. “Promise me you’ll write.”
Immediately, Silla felt like a fool. The man was heading into danger—he had far more serious things to worry about than writing letters. Besides, with Istré burned to the ground, how would that even work?
But Rey didn’t so much as pause in his ministrations. “Every day.”
Silla blinked in surprise. “You will?”
Rey drew back so that he could look her in the eye. “I’ll bring falcons with me. Will send one daily.” His unyielding gaze dared her to question him.
A tentative smile crept across Silla’s face. She was relieved to have this discussion behind her. She arched like a contented cat. “You know, Galtung, your ex-lover is a real kunta.”
Rey blinked, then rolled onto his side, chuckling. Gods, she loved his laughs, and prided herself that they came more frequently now. “I think you’re being generous,” he said.
Silla snickered, then gasped. “Kraki! When we played the drinking game with him in Kiv, he mentioned her.” She searched her memory, trying to recall. “I asked you about her and you responded—”
“The spawn of Myrkur,” finished Rey. “I stand by what I said.”
Silla shook her head incredulously.
“You do know that Kaeja cheated.”
Her gaze snapped to Rey. “What?”
He reached out. Smoothed a thumb across her lower lip. “She’s a Harefoot, Silla. Did you not wonder how she was able to move so quickly?”
A “Harefoot,” as Silla recalled, was the type of Galdra who could generate great bursts of speed. And as she thought back on their battle, she recalled several instances when Kaeja had moved impossibly fast.
“Her aim was to humiliate you,” Rey continued with pride, “and in that, she failed.”
Silla lifted a hand and frowned at it. If Kaeja had inhuman speed, how in the gods’ ashes had Silla been able to maneuver past her? “She called me a thief.”
Rey snorted. Fingertips slid beneath her chin, tilting it toward him. “You cannot steal something that already belongs to you.”
And with that, his lips slid against hers, and every thought in Silla’s head evaporated.