16. Vireth
Vireth
When Renard stole away from camp in the gathering light of dawn, I followed him almost immediately. Of course I did.
Something about his tense manner and furtive movements left me restless enough that remaining behind became impossible.
What was the reason for leaving here in naught but his shirt and breeches with his sword clutched tightly in his fist?
Likely not for checking any snares he might’ve set yesterday, or any of the traps he laid in the river.
Certainly not for washing, or any other early morning ablutions.
By the time I convinced myself that I was merely being cautious, or indulging my curiosity, I was already moving quietly through the trees with my sword at my side and my pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.
The sounds reached me before I could reach him—voices at first, followed quickly by sounds of violence.
I hurried forward through the undergrowth until the trees finally thinned out enough to grant me a clear view of the small camp below, fully expecting to find him outnumbered and in need of assistance.
His injuries have healed remarkably well, but it would only take a strike or two to remind him that his muscles and body are not what they might have been before coming up against the fell creatures of this realm.
Instead, however, I found myself rooted to the spot.
It struck me that the man must lie constantly, every time he complains about his knee, every time he grumbles about his age, and every time he heaves one of those long-suffering sighs regarding old injuries and aching bones, because the man moving through that camp bears precious little resemblance to the one who groans when standing too quickly.
Perhaps lies is too strong a word for it.
Half-truths, then. Omissions. The careful highlighting of every weakness while quietly neglecting to mention that he can apparently dismantle five armed men with the same calm competence most people reserve for chopping firewood.
The man moving through that camp bore only a passing resemblance to the one I’ve been traveling beside and fretting over. His broad shoulders are familiar. His battered sword is familiar. His golden hair threaded with silver is familiar. Everything else, however, feels entirely new.
I watched him step into the middle of this group of men with all the concern of someone interrupting an inappropriate conversation, and then proceed to dismantle them with such effortless competence that I briefly forget how to breathe.
He dances with his blade, never lifting it needlessly, always evaluating the man who stands before him—as well as the others in his periphery. In a matter of minutes, he disarms a man with an axe, a bow, a sword, and a club with the leashed skill of an instructor teaching a lesson.
Mayhap if I were a more sensible woman, I would be frightened—uneasy—around a man who possesses both the talent and the wisdom to lay waste to a group of younger men when the odds are heavily stacked against him. I’ve never enjoyed being particularly sensible, though.
So I simply stand here, mouth agape like a caught fish, staring at the broad sweep of his shoulders, the rippling strength in his arms, the faint sheen of sweat glowing on his brow, and the calm certainty written across his face.
Competence has always been attractive, but watching a large, capable man act with efficiency and without cruelty, however, turns a steady trickle of desire into a flood.
It would be convenient to lay the reasoning at the Blight Mother’s feet—the goddess of insatiable appetites—but the truth is my desire is mine alone this time.
I’ve wanted him for weeks. I have wanted him while sharing meals beside the fire, while listening to his stories and watching him smile at Nibblebones and weary travelers and every stray creature fortunate enough to step into his path.
I have wanted him against all my better judgments, and now… well. There is something earth-shattering and singularly devastating about seeing a person bloom into something more than you expected them to be.
By the time the last bandit flees into the trees, I am no longer certain whether my pulse is racing because of the fight, or because Renard is standing in the middle of the clearing looking ready to fight the gods themselves to protect me—and perhaps even win.
I need him with a ferocity that staggers me.
“Vireth!” he shouts. “Tell me you’re unharmed.”
He has just bested five armed men by himself and somehow his first thought is…
me? I’ve never come first in all my life, and he hasn’t even bothered to wipe the sweat from his brow before ensuring my safety.
That, more than the fight, more than anything else, finally shatters what little remains of my composure.
Before I can stop myself—before I can consider the consequences or think better of it, I cross the distance between us and kiss him as though the answer to all of life’s great questions lies behind his lips.
When I pull away, the silence that settles between us is just shy of awkward—neither one of us sure of how to respond or react because suddenly, everything has changed.
My heart thunders in my chest, skin alight with awareness, and all the while Renard stares at me with those wide, impossibly blue eyes.
Gods. This is a disaster.
Not because I regret kissing him—that would be patently absurd—but because it occurs to me I’d much rather spend the day kissing him than head toward Valehar, burdened with things like responsibilities and a rapidly approaching apocalypse.
No longer is our destination a vague location waiting somewhere down the road—it is a place capable of taking him from me.
The curse no longer threatens nameless strangers or distant kingdoms but reaches, in my imagination at least, toward someone whose loss now feels unbearable.
Every danger, every uncertainty is all the more frightening now, simply because I have something precious enough to lose.
“I should probably apologize,” I begin, but Renard closes his eyes and lets out a rough, helpless groan that sends a shiver through me. He stares at me like he’s seeing me anew—not as a traveling companion or a debt of honor, but as a woman he wants with equal fervor.
“Renard?” I hedge.
Something in him seems to snap, and he moves like a hound after a hare—his mouth crashing against mine with a deep, primal growl.
Oh.
One hand slides into my hair and fists against my scalp, while the other settles firmly against my waist and yanks me closer with a possessiveness that sends a flood of arousal between my legs.
“Gods, Vireth,” he rasps against my lips. “What have you done to me?”
My name is a raw scrape of sound, and the desperation in it—the longing that it clothes—makes my desire burn and my pulse flutter.
My lips quirk up in a smile—I cannot help it.
There’s a dark pleasure winding through me with the knowledge that I am the cause of this surrender.
After weeks of watching him deny himself every ill-advised want, I have finally become the thing capable of unraveling him.
Deep within my chest, the Blight Mother stirs in response, lifting her vast attention toward the feelings blooming between us, and something ancient seems to unfurl beneath my ribs.
It feels like a satisfyingly slow uncoiling of something that’s been tightly wound in my belly for what feels like an age.
Renard's attention is fixed upon me with an intensity that leaves me feeling wonderfully, dangerously unsteady, and standing beneath the trees with his shattered restraint and his unburied longing, it’s hard for me to remember whatever reasons I had for keeping him at arm’s length.
He kisses me with devotion and desperation, his lips claiming mine in a manner that leaves no room for doubt that they belong to him now. Tentatively, I suck at his plump lower lip and test its plushness between my fangs, and his sharp inhale gives me the space to slip my tongue into his mouth.
Oh, hells. If I thought he smelled good—all apples and leather and sun-warmed wheat—he tastes like something reserved for the table of the gods. Sweetness, saltiness, and something similar to the tang of his blood… a fae could get addicted to a taste like this.
My hands sink into his gold and silver hair at first, but can’t manage to stay there for long—too eager to explore the body that has haunted my dreams and fantasies every night of late.
When they track down his back to grip his firm ass, he groans low in his throat and the sound threatens to make me combust.
“Vireth,” he murmurs, pulling back to drop kisses down the line of my jaw and column of my throat.
“Mm?” The sound comes out a most undignified whimper, which he answers with another low, dark chuckle.
Please don’t say we should stop. Please.
“How far we go with this is entirely in your hands,” he says, nearly choking on the last words since my clever fingers have traveled to the front of his abdomen and are working their way down to the front of his breeches and impressive erection.
“Are you asking for my permission?” I tease, unable to help myself.
“I have dreamed of touching you—tasting you—taking you—in a thousand different ways. I assure you, I will not be the one to end this until I have learned the map of your body’s pleasure and committed it to memory. You will need to be the one to say no, but on my honor, I will obey.”
“Obey?”
“Your every whim,” he says, reaching up to palm my breasts through my thin sleeping shift. The soft, worn fabric is almost as good as bare skin, and I moan when my nipples harden into aching points, begging for attention.
“That’s quite an offer,” I whisper. “Perhaps I have many whims.”
“I am but your humble servant,” he rasps, his breath fanning the sensitive skin below my ear. “You have but to name them, my lady.”