Chapter 39
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
Mine.
The word echoed in Loren’s mind as he finally slammed into her, the hot grip of her body erasing every other thought he’d ever had. He’d meant to tell her that none of it mattered. That Shaw’s claim on her meant nothing, because she was here and his in every way that counted.
But she moaned, her hips rolling desperately to meet his thrusts—and Loren knew he was in danger of embarrassing himself catastrophically after he’d worked so hard to make her beg.
“I won’t take it away this time,” he promised, working his thumb over that tight bundle of nerves.
She tried to answer, whatever she’d meant to say lost in a desperate sob. The shadows still held her wrists pinned above her head, her hands opening and closing as she thrashed in their grip, burgundy hair escaping her braid and sticking to her sweat-slick skin.
“Let her go,” Loren told them.
They obeyed instantly, unwinding from her wrists. But they didn’t retreat, instead skimming over her skin. Araya gasped, her freed hands flying to grip his forearms as those shadows rolled over her nipples, stoking the fire Loren was building higher.
“I have you,” Loren told her, his thumb still working relentlessly. He relished the bite of her nails, her hands clutching at anything she could reach. He pushed her higher and higher, until her breath came in sharp, broken gasps and she clawed at his shoulders in desperation.
But this time, he didn’t stop.
Araya clung to him, a sharp cry tearing from her throat as she clenched around him. Loren cursed, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood as he worked her through every shuddering wave until she sobbed his name and grabbed his wrist, collapsing in a twitching mess beneath him.
Loren leaned over her, brushing the damp hair back from her face. Her silver eyes were glazed, her lips swollen and every muscle in her body loose and trembling. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
“One more,” he said, gathering her into his arms.
Araya’s shook her head, her entire body shuddering as he shifted their positions. Her knees landed on either side of his hips, their bodies still joined as he leaned back against the headboard.
“I can’t—” she protested, her voice hoarse and rough.
“You can.”
Loren gripped her hips, rolling her against him. He kept the pace slow. Gentle. His hands guiding her just enough to tease them both until she made a frustrated sound against his throat, jerking against his hold.
Loren let her go, twisting his fingers into the sheets as she braced herself against his chest to find the angle she wanted. Her brow furrowed, her eyes drifting shut as her hips moved faster and faster, taking what she needed from him.
Not yet. Loren locked his jaw, steeling himself against that growing pressure at the base of his spine. Not yet, not yet—
Araya’s breath stuttered, her rhythm faltering as she clenched around him with a soft, broken cry.
Now.
Loren gripped her hips, driving up into her one, twice—gasping her name into her hair as she dragged him over the edge with her.
Araya collapsed against his chest, gasping for breath. Loren held her there, slowly tracing each thick ridge of scar tissue across her back as her heartbeat and breathing slowly returned to normal.
She made a soft sound of protest when he shifted her to the side. But she didn’t open her eyes, her breathing evening out again when he tucked the blanket around her and slipped out of bed.
The bathing chamber was exactly as he’d left it, down to the neat stack of folded cloths beside the basin. Loren turned the tap more out of curiosity than anything else, raising his eyebrows when the pipes groaned and coughed, a trickle of warm water flowing into the basin.
Twenty-five years later, and the hot water still worked. A testament to fae craftsmanship.
He wrung out the cloth and returned to the bedroom.
Araya lay where he’d left her, one hand loosely curled against the pillow.
The tie for her braid was long gone, her deep red hair a tangled mess behind her.
She stirred slightly when he sat down beside her, curling toward him with a drowsy murmur, but her eyes didn’t open even as he pulled the blanket back.
By the time he’d cleaned them both up and set the cloth aside, she was fast asleep, one hand curled loosely under her cheek.
The responsible thing to do would be to go back to the others.
But Loren couldn’t bear to wake her. Not yet.
He dimmed the aetherlamps, pulling the blankets up over them both.
She fit against him like she’d always been meant to be there—her back against his chest, his arm draped over her waist—the sound of her slow, steady breathing filling the quiet of the room.
You should rest too, the shadows murmured.
“I know,” Loren said. But he didn’t close his eyes. Moonlight crept across the far wall, illuminating stones that were far older than he was. “She believes we can win here. Is she right?”
The shadows were quiet for a long moment. So long that Loren thought they’d dispersed, scattering to the corners of the room rather than answering him.
We don’t know, they admitted finally. There is great power here, but…
But that power had cost his mother her life. And now it might cost his mate hers.
Araya shifted in her sleep, her soft breath tickling his collar bone.
Loren tugged her closer, holding her tight until her breathing evened out again.
Part of him wanted to drag her away, to lock her up where she couldn’t even consider something like this.
She was his mate. His to cherish. To love. To protect.
But she was also his equal. The queen who could challenge him. Make him worthy of being king. So now they were here. And tomorrow they would find out if they were strong enough together to win where his parents had failed.
Or they would die together. Because there was no future where he stood without her.
The Eldergreen was exactly as Loren remembered it.
He stood at the edge of the clearing, hovering in the shadow of the same gnarled trees with their moss-covered roots.
Tiny white flowers studded the mossy ground, an unseen brook babbling nearby as the magic that ran through it all brushed against his skin.
It urged him to step forward, to enter the grove and face his fate.
But it was a siren song—one that would drag him under if he let it. Loren dug his heels into the soft moss, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn’t interested in the judgement of yet another ancient power, no matter what promises it had made Araya.
“Lorendrael,” his mother said.
He was across the threshold before he’d decided to move.
Every step crushed tiny white flowers beneath his feet, filling the air with the sweet perfume Loren had come to associate with Araya.
His heart had lodged somewhere in his throat, stealing his breath and his voice as he stumbled to a halt in front of the familiar fae female like a child who had been called to task.
This wasn’t his mother, he reminded himself. It looked like her. The same fae green eyes. Her silver hair tumbling loose and unadorned around her shoulders. She even wore the same simple linen nightdress his mother had always favored in the summers.
But his mother had died twenty-five years ago. Loren had visited her tomb. Seen her bones. This—this was something else. Something wearing her face and voice like a mask.
Instinctively, Loren reached for the shadows. They were vast and ancient. Together, they could surely bring even this power to heel—
They weren’t there.
Loren staggered, the shock nearly taking him to the ground. He tried again, throwing his mind wide. But the only shadows here were the ones cast by the gnarled trees surrounding the grove.
“Dara’el does not sleep, Lorendrael,” the forest said with his mother’s voice. “They do not dream. Not since they accepted you.”
A dream. This was a dream. Loren wet his cracked lips, swallowing hard. That meant all he had to do was endure until he woke up.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“What do you want, lost prince?” it challenged, green eyes flashing. “You lead humans here. Let them burn my trees. Cut my vines. But you do not seek me out?”
“You killed my mother,” Loren said.
The forest cast him a sharp look, something ancient and furious staring out at him from behind his mother’s face. “Queen Lysandiane died charging us to protect the power here,” it said. “That was her choice. What will your mate choose, Lorendrael?”
Loren stared into his mother’s face. At the eyes he’d inherited, the lips that had kissed his forehead and the hands that had brushed the hair out of his eyes and soothed his hurts.
She’d given everything to protect the fae as best she could.
His father had too, even if it hadn’t been enough in the end.
“She shouldn’t have to die here,” he said. “You want the last of the Shaws dead? Let me do it.”
The forest cocked its head. “You failed before,” it said. “Why do you think now will be different?”
“I don’t know,” Loren admitted. “But if anyone sacrifices themselves here, it should be me. Let her live. Please.”
The forest was silent for a long moment, the only sound the soft whisper of the breeze through the trees.
“We will consider,” it said at last. “Your time grows short, Lorendrael. Wake now, lost king. And fight.”