Chapter 68
Kopa, íseldur
Silla sighed contentedly as Rey picked a comb gently through her freshly washed curls. A fire crackled in the hearth nearby, and the feel of Rey behind her was absolutely divine after so many days spent apart. He let out a sound of displeasure, working the comb through a stubborn knot.
Rey’s chest brushed against the back of her nightdress, and the friction set Silla’s skin alight. Gods, but she’d been away from this man for too long. But tonight, Rey was back in Kopa. Back in her bed. And Silla’s patience was quickly fraying.
All told, they’d lost roughly a third of their warband in the battle of the heartwood, and it hurt Silla deeply to think that each one was a father, a brother, a sister, or a mother who would not come home to their family.
Yet their sacrifice was not without merit.
They’d defeated the leech and had prevented its poisonous mist from spreading and creating any more Turned creatures.
But it was impossible not to think of all those who’d already been Turned.
To wonder how many draugur had traveled to the place called Rokksgarde, and for what purpose.
Still, Silla had returned to Kopa with Myrkur’s bargain broken. She was free from His dark whispers, from His twisted influence. She no longer had to dose herself with hindrium to protect her Ashbringer source. And reuniting with her cold, wintry light had been a moment of pure joy.
The biggest prize of all wrought from the battle of the heartwood was Saga.
The sisters had flown on Havoc back to Kopa ahead of their group—a fact that both Rey and Kass had initially opposed.
But with Saga’s condition, days upon days spent traveling outdoors would be too taxing, and besides, Silla would let nothing come between her and getting on that winged horse.
When Rey and Kass had seen the conviction on the sisters’ faces, they’d begrudgingly relented.
Silla would admit her heart had squeezed with delight when she’d laid eyes on Havoc.
True the stallion did not care for her attempts to sweet talk him, but Havoc had allowed Silla to climb onto his back behind Saga.
Soaring above the Western Woods and gazing out over the snow-swept lands of íseldur had been a moment of absolute freedom.
There had been much fanfare upon the sisters’ arrival in Kopa, but Silla had quickly ushered Saga into her chambers, where they’d remained sequestered ever since.
They’d exchanged stories of the strife they’d each faced, laughing and crying at each high and low.
And then Silla had begged for stories of their parents—of the castle she’d been too young to recall.
She collected each story like a treasure, and when Saga had offered to draw their parents, Silla had been overcome with emotion.
She owed her life to Saga. Once again, when she’d found herself in the darkest of places, Saga had extended a hand in help.
Again and again, Silla mulled over the strange effect of braiding their power together.
It was clear this channel between them allowed more than just communication.
She had felt Saga—had seen her sister’s memories in her own mind.
And Silla had felt Saga’s love like the warmest hug.
Yet she wondered about this bond and what power it might reveal.
But now Silla finally had time alone with Rey. Each pass of that comb wound her up even tighter, the maddeningly gentle way he handled her hair only worsening things.
The next tug at her roots broke her patience clean through.
Silla brushed her toes against Rey’s calf, back and forth, back and forth.
But the man was dedicated to his task. She blew a wayward tendril from her face.
Then another idea struck her. Silla dipped her shoulder, wiggling it until Rey huffed in irritation.
“Be still, woman, I’m nearly done.”
But it was enough—the loose collar of her nightdress had slid free. She waited for Rey to notice the bare skin of her shoulder; waited for the wet heat of his tongue to slide along it.
Nothing.
Her brows snapped together as he continued to pick at a stubborn knot.
She bristled with frustration, then pulled forth her Ashbringer galdur.
A smile curved up as the familiar cold press of her magic filled her veins.
Her forearms glowed with pure white light, and her chilled breath clouded the air.
Gods, but she’d missed this skill of hers.
Silla found the crevice in her mind that controlled her expression and gently pulled at it, allowing a slow release of her light into the air.
Rey’s comb stilled, and victory swelled inside her.
Silla herded the motes of light toward his bare foot, using the softest of touches to make them dance along his skin.
He gasped, goosebumps pebbling beneath her cold light, but his skin did not frost, nor did he jerk his foot away. She’d practiced this lighter touch in the days since her return to Kopa, and hoped that in time she could use her Ashbringer skill as adeptly as Rey did his smoke.
As though he could read her thoughts, the scent of smoke pricked Silla’s nostrils.
An undulating charcoal tendril drifted over her shoulder before entwining with her light and lifting it away from his foot.
She loved to watch their magic play together; loved watching the contrasts of dark and light, of ice and fire.
It was strange, she thought, how such different elements could complement one another so well.
Rey’s smoke thickened, its heat quickly melting away the icy motes of Silla’s light.
And then the smoke was changing direction, sliding along her bared arms and leaving pinpricks of heat.
With a gasp, Silla writhed away, but—trapped between Rey’s body and his smoke—there was nowhere to go.
The press of Rey’s chest to her back sent desire spiraling into her center.
“I was nearly done,” grumbled Rey, mouth directly next to her ear, “but since you cannot keep your galdur to yourself, now you’ll have to suffer the consequences.”
“What consequences?” Silla asked breathlessly as his smoke entwined her wrists.
With a quick twitch of his fingers, Rey’s smoke hauled her up from between his legs and over onto her stomach.
Face pressed into the furs, Silla was disoriented as the binds around her wrists pulled upward until her arms were pinned above her head.
She managed to turn her head toward Rey and blow some wayward curls away from her face.
Rey had discarded his tunic, revealing an expanse of warm brown skin that contrasted the deep blues of his dragon tattoo. Silla didn’t know where to look first, but her gaze soon fell to where he strained against his breeches.
“Your hair,” warned Rey, “will be mussed.”
His heated look made Silla’s body clench down on empty air. “Make it thorough. Hopelessly tangled.”
“You want that?” he asked dangerously. “To be all tangled up?”
She nodded emphatically, then gasped as his smoke rolled her over once more.
Now she lay on her back, wrists twisted over each other.
More smoke wrapped around her ankles, wrenching her feet apart and rucking her nightdress up.
A delicious shiver rolled through her as Rey crawled closer, then rose up on his knees to examine her splayed form.
She was utterly at his mercy, and the predatory gleam in his eyes told her he knew it, too.
But as his ember-bright eyes met her own, Silla saw the question there.
They both knew that with her bloodline gift, she could free herself from her binds if she wanted.
Yet after weeks of fighting against Myrkur—of refusing to surrender to Him—there was something thrilling in letting Rey take full control.
“Do you want this?” he asked.
Silla nodded before he’d finished speaking, then moaned as the delicious weight of his body sank over hers.
Bracing himself on his elbows, Rey cupped her face and stared down at her, the gold flecks in his eyes blazing with heat. The thin layer of her nightdress separated them, and she shifted, impatient to be rid of it.
“Always so eager,” he mused, the vexing man holding himself still. “Do you want me to take care of you, Sunshine?”
She nodded, squirming against him. The proof of his want was pinned against her stomach and impossible to ignore, but the man had pulled his mask of control into place, and Silla shivered with anticipation. Slowly, he brushed a lock of hair from her face.
“You’ll have to earn it, Silla.”
And then he brought his lips to hers. Rey’s mouth was so soft, his kiss controlled. Gods, but she wanted to shatter his composure—to drive him to wild, reckless abandon—but there was something so freeing in surrendering all control to him.
Her soft whimper drew a grunt of satisfaction from Rey before he drew back.
Arms caging her in, he hovered his face just above hers.
This close, she could count the dark eyelashes framing his eyes; see the place where she’d nicked him while trimming his beard.
A giddy feeling rose up inside her. She adored this man with his glowering looks.
The way he took charge. The softness he showed only to her.
“Silla—” he murmured, and she sensed there were words he could not quite give voice to. Rey shook his head, then shifted his weight to the side. His eyes never left hers as a callused finger slid inside her.
“Fuck,” he muttered, so soft she barely heard him.