Chapter Twenty-Seven
Loreleivnna
Few times have I seen Father lose grip on his regal persona.
Once in the rose garden on his own father’s deathday, when Grandfather used his dying breath to say I do not regret planting your seed, son, but you will never be a great King.
Again when the lead healer pronounced Mother a lost cause, so beloved by the Fallen Stars that her mind tangled in their fate-roots.
And now, as he discovers his avowed brother has sunk hooves into his unbloomed daughter’s heart.
I’d thought Father’s endorsement of the joust meant he was at least resigned to our betrothal. Clearly, I was wrong.
The space between the two most important males in my life is so brittle, I fear any words will cause the ground to quake and swallow the whole cottage.
“Father.”
My heart pounds, but I’ve learned from the best. Always remain pragmatic, at least in appearance, even while withering inside.
Father drags his thorny gaze toward me, and the mountain of hurt I see there makes me wilt. I always knew this was a dangerous game, but I never suspected Father would shuck me of his love. I fear I miscalculated.
“Pikquarrys and I are root-fated.” I lock my feelings away and present my case. He cannot refute the will of the Wise Ones. Sensible. Logical.
“Littlest Bloom.” The endearment sounds venomous, rolling off his scorned tongue. “Attraction does not make something fated. An aged creature taking advantage of a lusty petal is not the pattern of the roots.”
“It may be sudden for you, but the roots foretold our pairing long ago.” I point at Pikr’s tattoo. Father refuses to look his direction. “The seed has been planted.”
Fury gleams in Father’s eyes, and Pikr lets out a huff, his hooves stomping restlessly.
Plucked roses, that’s not what I meant. I roll my eyes, then tighten the grip on my control.
“Mother saw it.” That garners Father’s attention. “The day of the joust, she told me my fated one would prevail. I thought she spoke of Halor.” I wince, sending an apologetic glance in Pikr’s direction. “Clearly that was the enchantment’s hold. My heart belongs to Pikr.”
Father scoffs. His green skin is nearly violet with the blood boiling so close to the surface. The urge to protect Pikr possesses me, and I take another step inside the room, closer to my betrothed.
“How could I possibly believe the spiritvines would keep this from me?” Father fumes.
I’ve wondered the same many times. Although we tried, we were not always careful. I can only assume the spiritvines favor our match.
He jabs a finger toward Pikr, who looks at him with wounded fern-winged puppy-dog eyes. “And you! How dare you pluck my daughter, defy my trust! You’re no hero. I should send you back to the forge, so your darkness cannot blight Svitaeryl’s soil.”
“For my betrayal, I am deeply sorry,” Pikr says. He places a fist over his heart, and the sadness that lowers his brows scorches my heart. “But for loving Loreleivnna, I will never apologize.”
Love.
My pragmatic facade decays, every practical argument fluttering away like autumn leaf dust in the wind.
I gawk at the centaur who has held my heart longer than the elements have ruled the earth.
His gaze flicks to mine, and under the pain swirling in his ethereal black and white irises burn coals of love, dark and warm and endless.
Father looks between us, and I summon my mask once more. He makes a sound I’ve never heard from an elf, and for a moment, I fear he will summon vines of razor whisperblooms to pelt Pikquarrys with, leaving welts and scars where the thorns break skin, as I’ve seen him do to criminals.
The dirt beneath Father’s feet raises up, a mound of vines breaking through the packed earth floor until he reaches Pikr’s height. He draws his fist and slams it into the centaur’s jaw.
The impact makes a horrid sound, but Pikr doesn’t flinch or draw back.
By the time I process what happened, Father is out the door.
“Pikquarrys!” I yelp.
“Don’t wilt,” he replies calmly. He rubs his jaw with one hand, the other reaching out for me. “That went better than expected.”
“You’ve gone utterly peeled. The King of Svitaeryl just punched you in the face!”
“But he did not order you whisked away or send me back to my forge,” Pikr counters. “Which means you still get to taste the crested noxwing I spent all day preparing.”
My shaky gaze drops to the table, where a divine spread is laid out. My other senses quickly follow, and I take a deep inhale of all the quintessential seasonal scents. Parsley, clove, rosemary. Roasted root veggies and seared meat.
“You prepared all of this for me?” I breathe in again, exhaling with an embarrassing moan.
Pikr chuckles. “Yes, but if you must release your tension upon my tongue first, then it can wait.”
I shoot him a playful glare, glad the vibe between us can shift so quickly. Father’s disapproval will fester on my soul for many days to come, whether we dwell in the darkness of it now or set it aside for later.
“Nothing stands between this delicious bird and me.” I take a seat in the wooden chair. “Not even your tongue”
He blows an exaggerated sigh and picks up the serving utensils. “Very well. One feast at a time.”
I giggle, nearly salivating as he fills a bowl. “Don’t wilt. There’s plenty of time to do what mates do. Including…that.”
“Including what, Princess?”
“You know.” My cheeks heat. I glance at his smirk, then back to the bowl, fidgeting. “That.”
“I cannot pluck the words from your mind, Blossom.” Pikr rounds the table. He hovers the bowl in front of me, the savory scents wafting down until I glare up at him. “What do you speak of?”
“You know,” I grind through my teeth. My insides are warm and fizzy, like bubbling stew. “Licking each other.”
“My mate is so powerful and commanding. She speaks her truth like a true goddess.” He sets the steaming bowl down and leans into my space, twirling a loose tress of my hair around his finger.
“Yet when it comes to admitting how hungry she is to coat my tongue with her sweet honeyed cum, she hesitates.”
“I do not hesitate,” I snap. I nab the fork from his hand and turn my fury toward the delicacy before me to hide the heat on my cheeks. “I simply have manners, which you clearly lack, you rustic clod.”
“Ah, of course, my little witch. Forgive me.”
Determined to prove my point, I stab a parsnip and grumble into my bowl, “Besides, I hunger more to taste the slick that leaks from your long, centaur cock.”
Pikr chuffs, then looses a gruff whinnying sound, his front hooves trotting in place. I chance a peek at him, enjoying the way my words disarm the towering, barbaric centaur. I vow to use my tongue against him more often, both in a sexual sense and with barbed quips.
“Don’t worry, my love.” The word sounds so natural as he settles against the reclined lounge across the table. “There’s a budding sprout of naughtiness within you. I’ll coax it into the sunlight during our years together.”
I want to argue that there is no such seed hidden inside me, or if there is, it’s not hiding. But the first bite of meat lands on my tongue, and squabbling about my naughtiness melts from my mind like the flavors coating my taste buds as I moan.
“Oh, yes, little Witch.” Pikr groans, adjusting himself under the table. “I’m withering to discover all the ways I can coax that sound from you.”
Sweet, needful heat pools between my legs. I squirm in my seat, sure I’ll leave a mark on the chair he so thoughtfully placed for me if he keeps speaking this way. “May I eat this delicacy in peace?”
“Certainly, as you’ll know little peace from now on.” He lifts his bowl and slurps from the rim, his black and white gaze pinning me over the edge.
“Rosy,” I drone sarcastically. I sink my teeth into a soft parsnip, sighing as it fills my mouth with flavor.
“Don’t feign modesty with me, Stranger. You wished for a lusty centaur. Now you have one, and I will wring pleasure from you in ways your fantasies could never conjure.”
“You’re barbaric.” I never wished for a lusty centaur, only for this particular centaur, but I don’t correct him. I take another bite of crested noxwing. “Pikr, this is delicious.”
“I’m pleased you like it.”
After a few moments, it appears my change in topic worked. I enjoy the next few bites with all of my focus, no dirty thoughts clouding the bouquet of senses before me.
“Have you used the oil?” Pikr breaks the silence, proving me wrong and sending a rush of heat over my skin to shoot straight through my core.
“Erm,” I cough, then have to dab broth from my lips.
He chuckles. “The scent of your reaction says yes. How does it feel?”
“So good,” I admit. I slurp some broth and bravely meet his gaze. “It feels so good. Tingly, warm.”
“Thank you for telling me.” He wraps his lips around a cube of meat, watching me as he chews, then swallows. “Did you coat the toy with it, as I instructed?”
I nod. My hands drop to my lap, and I squeeze my thighs. “I did.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It felt so, so good.” I squirm in my seat and search my vocabulary for any words other than good. “It makes me so wet, and I can take the …toy deeper.”
“Wonderful news.” Pikr smiles, but it’s the smile of an apex predator about to devour hard-earned prey. He takes a sip of cider, and I reach for mine to do the same. “How many times have you used the toy with the moondust oil?”
My neck warms. I debate telling a lie, embarrassed by how many times I’ve used the thick centaur cock replica since our failed attempt at a lover’s frolic.
Pikr quirks a brow and leans his forearm on the table. “More than twice?”
My eyes widen. I freeze.
“More than four?
The embarrassment grows, and I stay silent.
Pikr groans. The strong muscles of his flank twitch, his eyelids fluttering. “Don’t be ashamed. The more times you use it, the easier you’ll take me. Remember, I am a virile centaur male. The lustier you are, lass, the better. Please, tell me, I beg you.”
“At least twelve times.” I push veggies around my bowl to avoid his gaze. “I lost count after that.”
“Good girl, Princess,” Pikr growls. “Your sweet cunt will be nice and soft for me.”
I preen under his praise, sitting straighter in the chair.