Chapter 13 #2
How could he allow her to be Cillian’s prisoner until they ransomed her to her parents in exchange for better laws to protect Halflings?
How would he ever let her go?
Mora swallowed, her skin giving a little to the dagger’s sharp edge. A frown pulled on his lips. He loosened his grip ever-so-slightly, unable to stop himself from watching blood well up from the wound. Licking his lips, he imagined—
No. He imagined nothing.
Mora’s face hardened, though the softness never left her eyes.
“Is it gold you’re after?” she asked, voice trembling.
Of course the Princess of Berwick assumed money was his motivation.
She likely spent her days in warm, spacious rooms, swathed in expensive jewels and luxurious gowns.
The simple dress she donned was little more than a costume, the city an adventure she could enjoy for an evening before returning to her lavish life.
Leaving the common folk behind. Forgotten.
“Is that all you think the people of Berwick need, Mora?”
Her lips thinned, but she tipped her chin up in defiance.
Silence stretched between them, so he leaned closer. “Nothing to say?”
“I'm not sure what you want to hear.”
Zadriel shook his head, jostling his hood. The soft fabric shifted, glimpses of his features peeking through. “Of course you don’t think for yourself.”
Her brows scrunched, but Mora didn’t say a word. Instead, she grabbed his cloak, those honeyed eyes staring up at him. Pleading. Fear and something else swimming in their depths, though he couldn’t quite place it.
She almost looked...
Regretful?
Where in the name of the gods was Cillian?
Zadriel looked toward the mouth of the alley, wondering if he’d find him there, his eyes gleaming with mirth, a devious grin on his face. It wouldn’t be beyond his brother to linger, chuckling while Zadriel struggled. All so he could tease him later.
All he found was an empty square, lanterns alight and illuminating the stony pavement.
A hint of smoke wafted in the air. Zadriel’s nose curled, his pulse thrumming before he noticed the heat. A warmth spreading over his abdomen, licking its way up his side. Sinking its teeth into his flesh. Searing his skin.
His fingers spasmed, dagger clattering on the ground. Wrathful, orange flames engulfed his cloak and tore through his tunic, blisters bubbling along his stomach and climbing toward his chest. Blood vessels popped, boiling crimson evaporating as it was consumed by the blaze.
Agony rippled through him. Zadriel yelped as he jerked away, the echoing sound blotting out the agitated crowd within the tavern and silencing the soul-song he and Mora shared. Gone was the war in his mind and his worries for the days to come. All Zadriel wanted was for the pain to stop.
But Mora kept her hand outstretched, feeding the flames with her gift.
“You little witch!” he hissed, smacking desperately at the fire.
His back hit the wall, heartbeat thrashing so hard he wondered if his ribs would crack.
Zadriel sucked in a pained breath, choking on thick, acrid smoke and the nauseating scent of his own burning flesh.
Cool spring air caressed his face, gentle and soothing, but wisps of gray rose with it, crowding his screaming lungs.
“You’re Fae?” the Little Witch whispered.
Horrified black eyes bored into hers, the gold within them glittering along with the embers in the air. She reached for him, fingers grazing the parts of his cloak that had yet to burn, when Cillian stepped out from the shadows.
That bright azure gaze snapped to Zadriel for a moment, wide with worry. He mouthed a silent sorry, before grabbing Mora and pulling her away.
Had Cillian abandoned him?
Zadriel fell to the ground, writhing on the cobblestones.
Blinding pain carved through his body, sinking deeper into his abdominal cavity while Mora’s flames consumed him.
He gasped for breath, moaning in agony, silently begging the Mother for relief.
It felt wrong to ask Her for anything at all—Zadriel deserved to burn. But he couldn’t help himself.
Glass shattered by his face and one of Cillian’s water sprites enveloped him, taking the pain away. As if the Mother still cared for him, answering his prayers, even after all he’d done.
The curse curled around Zadriel’s bones, like a tether weaving through his skeleton until it dipped into the marrow. There wasn’t a part of him it didn’t touch, that thread coursing through his blood and twisting around every muscle, every organ, every damned piece of him.
With each sullen beat of his heart, he felt its tug, the ache leading him to Cillian.
There was no sense in denying it—Zadriel marched through unkempt grass, weeds tickling his ankles while fireflies raced between the blades to escape him.
At least his brother had left the city. He and Mora weren’t far from their camp.
It was almost over.
Yet, with every step he took his muscles tensed. How would he face the Little Witch who’d burned him?
His mate.
“Damn the Fates,” he spat, pressing his hand to his side. His cloak was in tatters, except for the hood hiding his face—his ears—from any who might see.
An ache pulsed beneath his touch, blisters oozing as his body worked to knit itself back together. He gritted his teeth, the pungent scent of his burning flesh coating his nostrils and bleeding over his tongue. It took all of his strength not to gag.
“The Mother has a wicked sense of humor,” he muttered, hissing as his wounds slowly closed under his palm. He could still feel Mora there—the warmth of her hand on his cloak, before she’d condemned him to burn, oddly... soothing.
“I hate this,” he sighed to whatever stars listened. They glittered above, the sky a kaleidoscope of light, twinkling glimmers dancing among the darkness, bathed in the glow of the moon.
It was almost a pleasant night, if not for the itch skittering along his healing flesh... and the way his heart climbed into his throat at the thought of what he and Cillian were doing, and who they’d be doing it to.
Clenching his fists tight, Zadriel inhaled the spring air. It soothed him, that fresh, sweet breeze. The wind twirled through his dark hair, cooling his skin and pulling at his ruined clothes. They fluttered in the breeze, barely clinging to his frame. What a sight he must have been.
As Zadriel neared an old barn, its red paint chipping off the wood, he heard soft moans. The kind that spilled from swollen lips, parted on a shuddered breath as they succumbed to the beckons of pleasure.
“Cillian,” a breathy voice sighed. It was almost musical, if not for the wrongness of it all.
Zadriel tensed at the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. The scents of citrus, lavender, and sex flooding his lungs. His stomach lurched, bile clawing up his throat, but he swallowed against it.
His feet felt heavy, one ache in his chest replaced by another. Cillian was close enough the insistence beneath his ribs eased, Brennan’s curse satisfied he was near a Dother. Instead, the mate bond thrummed off rhythm. Crushing his lungs as he neared a crooked door barely hanging onto its hinges.
Cillian’s dark green breeches lay in a heap on the ground. And there was his brother...
“I love my name on your lips,” he breathed, his hand between Mora’s thighs, gently teasing her while he thrust into her so wildly.
Mora’s nails dug into his shoulders, her back arched, those maddeningly beautiful eyes half-lidded.
What the hell was Cillian doing fucking the woman they were meant to kidnap? How did this play into their intentions to ransom her back to her parents? To make the world better for Halflings?
It didn’t feel real. Time slowed, the sight of the two of them together burning into his mind. Heat flooded his cheeks, his hands shaking at his side.
Was it fury that had him clenching his jaw until the bones creaked? Jealousy that had his breath caught in his throat?
Mora’s moans faded behind him as he wandered through the field, back to where they’d camped the night before. Yet, he couldn’t stop hearing the sound.
“Zade.”
That whispered voice broke through Zadriel’s dream of gnarled branches and an empty meadow. It was grating. An unwelcome intrusion. His eyelids fluttered, but he held on to sleep.
“Zadriel, wake up.” Cillian grabbed Zadriel’s shoulders and gave him a shake.
Cracking an eye open, he groaned. “Mother damn you. The sun hasn’t risen yet, Cill. Leave me.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Zadriel willed his dream to take him, memories of the night flooding his mind.
He couldn’t unhear it... unsee it.
When he took another breath, he could smell her all over Cillian.
A low growl rumbled in his throat before he could rein himself in.
“Someone’s tired,” Cillian chuckled, unmoved by the show of aggression. He crawled over Zadriel, reaching for his bag. “Our plans have changed.”
Zadriel spat the words as if they were poison. “I assumed as much when I saw you fucking her.”
Pulling back, Cillian gave him a confused look. “You’re angry?”
He bared his teeth. “You left me to burn!”
“I gave you a water sprite.” Cillian sighed when Zadriel said nothing. His knapsack plunked against the ground before Cillian settled on his bedroll. “You healed, did you not?”
“Of course I healed.”
“Then what, exactly, is your problem?”
Sinking deeper into his pillow, Zadriel watched the top of their faded green tent flutter, the old material pushed and prodded by a gentle spring breeze. “Whatever you’re planning, Brennan won’t be happy,” he muttered, unwilling to give his brother the reason for his indignation.
Cillian huffed an unamused laugh. “Brennan’s never happy,” he said, fiddling with the ring. No matter how many times he twisted it around his finger, the eye inside bored into Zadriel’s, an endless dark stare.
“What’s the plan now?” Zadriel asked, hating himself for speaking the words.
His brother chewed on his cheek. “How do you know if someone’s your mate?”