Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Ashara
The Word of the Other
Lycandor fisted the nape of my neck, hair bound round his hand like a rope.
He tugged and tugged, forcing my chin to lift as my eyes searched for his in the shadows.
We were in an Unmantle, I think, though this one had no divider.
The light from outside was low, only the faintest of flickers managing to breach the filigreed holes, both our faces lost to the dark.
But I didn’t need to see…not when I could feel.
His other arm banded my waist, pressing every inch of our bodies together.
Mine had snaked upwards, to his chest, feeling him under my palms, fingers clinging to the hard ridge of his clavicle.
His heart was a frenzy; it pulsed through me, throbbing, joining the beat of my own.
We writhed with thundering breaths, the rise and fall of us perfectly matched.
The hardness of him moved against the softness of me, his long, thick length pinned to my hip.
And the heat…
It blazed, like we were flame rather than flesh. We were wet with it, both of us dripping in sweat, stripped bare of our clothes.
His mouth, illuminated by a pinprick of light, parted, the wicked curve of his lips a vivid red.
His tongue roved over them, and I released a small groan, wanting him to taste me that way—to lick me until I was clean of every droplet that coated my skin.
The scent of salt, embers and jasmine thickened around us, undercut by undeniable want.
He took a shuddering breath, a guttural sound rising from the back of his throat.
“Look at what you’ve done to me, Seamstress.” His voice echoed in the metal, distorting it, as he buried his face in my neck, licking and licking and licking.
I opened my legs, thighs slick with the need to be touched.
A searing hand traversed from the dip of my waist to the curve of my hip, down and down until hungry fingers skimmed over the place that pulsed, ghosting its aching centre.
A teardrop of sconce fire fell upon one of his eyes.
How many times had I imagined their colour? Blue? Green? Black?
Brown.
A light brown. Amber, even. Warm, like hickory bark. A ringleted curl, shining chestnut, dropped over his—
Demetri?
A firm hand cupped the heat of my core, palm collecting the desire that pooled there. I gaped, shuddering at the possessiveness in his touch. He gripped my cunt tighter, the tips of his fingers just beginning to fill me. I ground into them, uncaring if they were Demetri’s or Lycandor’s.
“What has he been doing to you, darling girl? To make you this wet?”
I woke with a gasp, jerking upright, chest heaving.
The linens stuck to my clammy skin like glue, hair plastered to my forehead in sodden clumps.
Reaching for the carafe of water, I glugged it down before peeling myself from the cot.
What time was it? The small rectangle of sky hummed purple, left bruised in the wake of the night.
The sun would soon rise, and he would be here.
Druid Vetrius was coming. The Butcher was coming.
Dunking my head in the basin, I let the tepid water soothe my flushed cheeks, scrubbing at my eyes as if I could erase the image of him, naked in an Unmantle, panting and desperate.
I soaked a cloth to wipe under my arms and between my legs before getting dressed.
Perched on the edge of the cot, I waited, twiddling non-existent buttons.
It couldn’t be helped, the way my eyes continually darted to that place they should not.
He’d be here soon, I reminded myself. Foolish.
Leave it be. But the sun’s glow had yet to touch the sky, and so I padded over to the armoire, falling to my knees.
I should have burned it. I should have destroyed it. It would have been clever. It would have been wise. I was neither as I unclasped the wooden border at its base and dipped my hand underneath.
Fingers skimming smooth stone, I paused when they met its edge, shifting it into my grasp.
I could have kept it in the dresser; no one seemed to check.
And if they did, perhaps it was the unknown friend who delivered me his gift when they slid under my door, for no one had confiscated the sharp shard of the carafe.
Perhaps they didn’t think I’d ever use it, or simply wanted me to try; a woman armed with a slither of glass more a jest than a threat.
But this was no makeshift weapon. It was something far more dangerous, at least, that is what my heart told me whenever I pressed it to my chest. It was a splinter. An agony. The keen ache of a vow.
I scrunched the parchment, reading his words as I had done almost turnly, whenever I was holed up, alone in my chamber.
I will find you. Hold on a little longer. We will take wing, or else plummet together.
My fingers traced each letter, careful not to smudge the coal.
They paused at the symbol beneath them. Two thick, plump, curved lines in the unmistakable shape of his lips.
I brought it to my mouth, pressing a kiss where his had been, remembering his taste.
A taste I reminded myself was all cherry wine, and not the thick scent of jasmine that seemed to follow me from dream into waking.
A knock rapped at the door and I scrambled to the floor, placing the letter beneath the armoire. Careful not to let it scrape, I replaced the wooden panel and silently rose to a stand. He was a most impatient druid.
“Seamstress,” he greeted, the same as every day, the door already swinging inward.
“Druid,” I returned, painfully aware of the lingering scent of my secret. What would it smell like to him? Burnt bread, perhaps? Sea salt? Sweat?
Gods, I was sweating.
I stared at the ceiling, keeping my gaze determinedly away from the armoire, but also, the expanse of his shoulders, the plains of his chest, or the thing in his breeches that he’d pressed against me in my dream.
Perhaps the templum’s water was riddled with henbane, for what else could explain these delusions?
“This morn I need to—” He paused, helm rotating until his shielded eyes landed upon the bed, its sheets cast askew.
I blanched.
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.
But of course, my minder would be the only druid in all of Thromarra—the only person in all of Thromarra—blessed with a keener nose than a bloodhound.
Heat trailed over my body in a rush of uncomfortable pricks.
I fought, with considerable effort, to keep the flush from rising, but my neck and chest were already lost.
“Never mind.” His smile practically bled from under the mesh. “Change of plans. We will need another trip to the baths, it would seem. You appear to have gotten yourself in quite the state.” To my horror, he strode to the cot, flipped over the linens, and knotted his bare fingers into the fabric.
He wouldn’t, would he?
Helm intent on where I stood by the basin, he lifted my sheets to the chains at his face. The blush I’d somehow managed to cage escaped in an instant, blood rushing to my face in one almighty swell. He inhaled—deeply, slowly.
“Fuck,” he whispered, so faintly I may have been misheard him. My lips trembled and I righted them still. Would my knuckles break if I struck his helm?
He cleared his throat, then laughed. “Just what have you been doing here, Seamstress? Is there a man locked in that armoire I should know about? Or a sister?” Could mesh shift with the wiggle of a brow?
Because I swear, in that instance, it did.
“I can’t make any promises not to remove their head…
” he continued, strolling over to its bulk, sheets trailing behind him.
“You are my ward after all, you understand.” He opened its doors, sticking his great, clunky head inside.
“It would damage my reputation to no end if the druids found out I’d let another slip into your rooms.”
He was going to make me say it, wasn’t he? As he closed the dresser’s doors, I readied for battle, straightening my back and lifting my chin. Weave a lie in the same breath as a truth. The druid really should have thought twice before teaching me such tricks.
“I had a dream.” My face was the picture of indifference, brow arched, smile slanted.
“A dream? Pray, what about? Or should I say, who?” He’d folded his arms, the linens still clasped in his hand.
Truths within lies. “Demetri,” I returned without a beat of hesitation.
His fists clenched before he relaxed them again.
And now, for the killing blow. “My linens are rather too big to pocket like a handkerchief, Druid. Did you want me to tear off a square since you seem so reluctant to let it go? Do you like the scent of my yearning? It must be such a novelty for you.”
He tossed it back onto the bed as if it were crawling with ants. My chin lifted higher. Now to distract. “Now, if you’re done using my sheets as a comforter, and before we leave, how are the laurels?”
I asked every morn, and every morn his answer was always the same—with only a few minor details ever seeming to change.
He sighed, crossing back to the door and readying to leave.
“I spoke to Freddor but six turns ago. They are much the same as they always are. The acolytes asked questions, and the laurels complied. Nothing has changed since yestereve.” His knee bounced, just slightly.
It didn’t matter how much I’d begged, coaxed, raged at Vetrius; he always told me the same.
“They won’t kill them,” he answered, to a question I had yet to give voice to. “…at least, not yet. They will have to endure; the same as you.”
How many penancings had Demetri endured whilst I dreamt of a naked druid and read Vetrius’ books, curled up in his office like a lapdog whilst he took drips and drabs of my blood?
Had they sent Capriche to whip him? Was he alone?
Was he scared? I glanced at the armoire, my stomach coaxing the lingering heat from my cheeks until I felt cold. Freezing, even.