Chapter 42 Edge of the Break #2
Ella clutched him hard, nails dragging down his chest, her head thrown back against the furs.
The tension coiled inside her, tightening into something unbearable.
But before she could sink into the feeling, he caught both her wrists and lifted them above her head, pinning them gently. Ella’s pulse kicked hard.
Gods, after the fight, after watching him nearly burn, after hearing him claim her in front of half the court, how was she supposed to ever come down? How was she supposed to want anything but this?
He slammed into her, thrusting with a relentless rhythm as the world narrowed to the drag of his breath against her throat. Her need to release was all-consuming and daring her to surrender.
Gods, she wanted to.
She lifted her hips to meet him thrust for thrust. With her wrists still pinned in one of his hands, his other hand slid down to the sensitive spot just above where their bodies slammed together, skilled fingers circling and bringing her to the cusp.
“Please, Jake, fall apart with me.” She didn’t recognize her own voice, aching, trembling, sounding dangerously close to begging.
He refused to slow down, driving into her again and again. The feel of him between her thighs made her widen her legs to take in every exquisite inch. Her legs began to shake.
“I’ll never stop falling for you,” he replied.
It stole her breath.
Pleasure shot up her spine. Words crumbled into sound—hers, his, tangled like smoke and wildfire.
He fought for me.
He burned for me.
He would die for me.
And gods help her—
She wanted him with an ache that bordered on salvation.
Pleasure hit like surf over rock, again and again, wild and somehow sublime.
He might be her damnation instead.
When it finally ebbed, Ella lay beneath him, breathless, every nerve alight. The banquet, the coronation, the whispers—they all drifted to the edges of her mind like distant noise. She would face them soon enough. For now, she held to the only truth that mattered.
He’d chosen her.
And she’d chosen him.
The torches hissed, steady and low, as though the castle had suspended itself in the moment with them.
Dawn found them in a tangle of sheets that smelled of amber and rose, pale gold from the lattice spilling across the floor while the jungle’s slow hymn rose beyond the open window.
Ella woke to his arm at her waist and the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm, and she let herself float there—small and infinite at once, held between warmth and light.
At least she hadn't Threadwalked in her sleep this time. The glaring truth of all she’d kept from him started to creep in; Jakobav was likely wondering why she’d asked him not to draw blood. She hadn't explained last night.
She was afraid.
Afraid of what might happen if the Fae man scented amber on her skin again. Especially after his warning that the consequences would be far worse. And this time, her kingdom would’ve paid the price. She shivered as guilt encroached upon her.
She hadn’t told Jakobav that she knew who’d sent the Tracker through the breach. Not when he bled for her, nor after he stood against Veinfire for her, and not even now.
Instinct warned her that speaking about the Fae—telling Jake the exact words the green-eyed man had said to her—would bring catastrophe down on both their kingdoms.
His lips pressed against the back of her head.
“You’re awake,” she whispered.
“I don’t sleep much, remember?” His smile was lazy, and his voice still carried last night’s heat.
She turned within the circle of his arm. The blood smear may have been long gone from his mouth, but the look in his eyes was not. “They all saw,” she said softly. “What you did to Caelen. Blood-Scenting magic.” She drew a breath. “Jakobav…should you even be able to do that in Orchid?”
“It’s not power born of Dravaryn soil. It’s never been limited to the borders of my own kingdom,” he said. “But his Veinfire came to me faster and stronger than any ability from blood has before. Didn’t think much about it at the moment. Been distracted ever since.”
“It was quite a spectacle. You need to prepare for knowledge of your power to be widespread. Word travels fast here in Orchid. And the council will likely call a meeting to decide—”
“If the court decides I’m to be feared, we’ll be surrounded before a crown ever touches your head.”
“They already decided you’re terrifying,” she said, a wry light in her voice. “They watched you take him down without even blinking.”
His mouth tilted. “You weren’t blinking either.”
“I was busy,” Ella answered. “And why didn’t you use your shield? You could’ve stopped him before he touched me.”
Jakobav’s jaw tightened. “I haven’t had nearly as much practice with that ability as with my others. I almost killed Soren with my shield. I would never forgive myself if—” He broke off, jaw flexing. “And some things I don’t reveal unless I must.”
His admission settled between them.
She recognized herself in it more than she wanted to, her thoughts tormenting her with all she still held secret.
A tingle raked over the small silver crescent at her pulse, and memory uncoiled—wet stone and a terrace of stars, jasmine in the air, a pendant beating violet, and eyes like ice-cut green answering a thought she hadn’t spoken. Echobinder. Stalking. Waiting.
She wondered if she should tell Jake right then, the confession pressing against her tongue until she bit it back.
“I understand better than most,” she said, her frown softening as she chose to ease rather than burden.
He raised a brow. Clearly waiting for her to elaborate.
“What happens today,” she said, “happens with you at my side and we face it together.”
His hand stroked her temple, a gesture of comfort and protection. “I’ll follow your lead in your hall,” he said, quiet and sure. “But if something reaches for you, I’ll end it. Quickly.”
“I’d expect nothing less, Commander,” she replied with a smirk.
He smiled back, breath drawing for a response—then a brisk knock came at the door.
“Your Highness?” Marisol’s voice carried through the wood. “Crown fittings in a few minutes. Breakfast first. Then the council meeting at second bell.”
Ella closed her eyes and opened them again, the world waiting while the crown called. “Come in,” she called as she eased out of bed and reached for her robe. Then, lower to Jakobav, she murmured, “Try not to look like death incarnate in my sitting room.”
He lay back on her pillow like a storm pretending to be a man. “I can’t help how I look,” he said, smiling with his eyes.
The day began with Marisol sweeping in, carrying a tray piled high with sugared fruit, dark bread, and a small pot of tea. Nira followed, hair pinned and dress immaculate, and—because he had never learned the meaning of a dignified entrance—Demetrius breezed in on a current of his own making.
“Good morning to royalty and whatever he is,” Demetrius announced, tossing Jakobav a salute before striding straight to him and catching his hand in a firm shake.
“Demetrius. Floral arsonist. Terrible influence. For the record, never had a crush on Ellandria, don’t plan to mate her, and have no delusions about destiny. Clear?”
Jakobav’s mouth actually twitched. “Clear.”
“Excellent,” Demetrius said, satisfied. “I like your terrifying face. Very inspiring.”
“Demetrius,” Marisol warned, half-laughing as she set the tray on Ella’s desk. “Manners.”
“I have so many,” he said solemnly. “I just rarely bring them all at once.”
Warmth loosened something tight in Ella’s chest and held for exactly three heartbeats before the glass vase by the window cracked with a sound like ice under a boot and burst into a scatter of bright shards across the floor, the orchids on the sill slumping over.
Demetrius’s hands went up at once. “Not me.”
Ella’s gaze cut to Marisol. “Was that you?”
“Absolutely not,” Marisol said, eyes wide.
The candles on the mantel answered as if to argue, thin flames leaping into spears and climbing to lick the carved edge.
Heat rushed across the room, the nearest curtain blackening at the hem.
Before Ella could move, Nira stepped forward, her palm lifting as the fire collapsed into smoke with a soft, shocked sound, the air going gray as she waved her fingers and coaxed the smoke to twist and coil and sift into a neat spill of ash on the hearth.
“Bad candle,” she told it, dusting her hands. “We do not eat drapery.”
Demetrius let out a low whistle. “Show-off.”
Nira arched her brow without missing a beat. “Says the one who lights roses on fire for applause.”
“Art,” he corrected, and to prove his point he flicked two fingers toward the wilted orchids.
Flame shimmered delicately along their petals until the flowers rose on their stems and rebloomed in leafed tongues of fire that did not consume but only burned beautiful, living cinders that glowed against the dim chamber.
Ella stared despite herself, her throat tight as the room seemed to thin around her, stretched taut like a drumskin drawn too far. “Marisol?”
Marisol lifted her hand over the mantel, and the nearest flame leapt half a length taller. “I might be able to amplify a small flame,” she said carefully, her eyes fixed on the blaze-touched orchids. “But I didn’t touch those.”
A cold thought sliced through her. What if the Fae man had somehow sensed Jake on her again, and these were the first signs of his retaliation? What if she’d brought devastation home to her people without meaning to?
Fuck. This can’t be happening.
Jakobav was watching her closely, as if he could see every direction her mind was spiraling, a look of concern written on his face.
“This isn’t from you,” Jakobav said quietly. “Or from me. Magic was already unraveling. Whatever’s happening…it’s accelerating.”
“Then it’s the Veil,” Ella murmured, her voice almost lost to the dread—and the faint, guilty relief of knowing the danger might not be her doing.