Chapter 36
Avice
The day of the Equinox ritual came. Avice was a whirlwind of nerves, and Trewoofe was underfoot.
She was in a feral mood. The rising tide of her anxiety over their situation finally reached her mouth and she felt as if she was drowning: the raging storm, the fracturing ward, their dwindling food supplies, her seething anger at the church and Father Peter, the betrayal from John, the marked offspring of Faerie and human alike, and finally, the suffocating pressure of making sure she brought forth Spring that night.
Avice had only ever danced to bless the woods and fields to make them more fecund.
Never before had she attempted to summon the season itself, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
She had spent all day snapping at her boys – like a cornered, wounded animal – until the King finally bit back.
“Why are you talking to me like this?” he growled, side-stepping her relentless pacing.
“Because. You. Are. In. The. Way.”
She was hot – too hot – and the cottage was cramped. The four of them had been stuffed inside for days in the dark. She needed space and she needed to breathe.
“You usually speak kindly to me.” He pouted.
Avice was ready to tear her hair out. “Lord! This is important, everything must be perfect for twilight.” She glanced towards the shutters. Not like I can even tell when that will be.
A line appeared between his brows. “Why?”
“Because I said so,” she barked.
Bramble flattened his ears against his head. Avice, we do not even know if the Faeries will come.
“Do you think I do not know that!” she exclaimed, tossing her hands in the air.
“What if this is a complete waste of time? What if the Good Neighbours of the woods are frozen stiff? What if Nell, John, everyone… What if they have all starved to death? What if our ward collapses and buries us under the blizzard?”
“Avice—”
“No, Ashling.” She ground her teeth. “What if this does not work and we all die.”
Trewoofe stepped over to her and caught her wrists, running his thumbs over the velvet rise of her delicate veins.
“Little witch,” he spoke firmly, his tone that of a King.
“I do not know the details of this ritual. I see you are worried, but apart from helping you with the offerings…” – he nodded to the overflowing baskets by the door – “you have not told me what you need. Tell me what you need, and your wish will be my command.”
She opened her mouth and snapped it shut.
“This ritual…” He lowered their arms, his thumbs still soothing her pulsing wrists. “From what have you mentioned, it is to make the woods and fields more fertile for this turn of seasons?”
She nodded, all her focus on the points where he stroked her. The softness was startling. Tingles shot up the pearlescent scar on her arm and heat pooled between her legs. She bit her lip; chin tucked to her chest.
“So, what do you need?” he asked.
“A moment. I need a moment,” she croaked.
Avice tugged herself from his grip – she needed to breathe – her anxiety and sparking desire mingling in a way that made her desperate for a release she could not explain.
She bit her tongue to stop herself from asking Trewoofe to stroke somewhere else.
She burnt at the lewdness of her unspoken words.
She darted to the door and shoved on her cloak and boots.
The lines on Trewoofe’s faced deepened. “And you need to go outside for this?”
“Yes.”
Bramble rose, ready to amble after her.
“The moment needs to be alone.”
He tucked his tail between his legs.
Avice swallowed back her guilt, threw open the door, and bolted into the garden, ignoring the steady stream of snow that fell from the fractures above.
She looked frantically for somewhere to hide.
Trewoofe had already felled the largest tree – which would have been ideal – so she settled for the second biggest, hiding herself behind it so her cottage was out of sight.
She leant back against the trunk. Her skin still singing at the points where he had held her. She traced her fingertips over her wrists. She squeezed her hand up her sleeve, stroking her sensitive scar, even digging in her stubby nails to mimic the dimpling sensation of his claws.
Avice let out a ragged breath, shifting her featherlight caress to her breasts.
Her nipples had pebbled, and she knew it was not just from the cold.
She experimented, massaging a breast with one hand and rolling a nipple with the fingertips of the other.
It felt… nice, but not like the shooting sparks she felt from Trewoofe’s claws.
She needed more, she needed friction, she needed touch, and it needed to be down there.
The cold prickled her as she hitched up her many layers of skirts.
Tracing up her inner thigh – grateful that her courses had finished – a tingle shot straight to her centre and added to her sticky pleasure there.
She bit her lip to stifle a whimper, silencing her self-exploration.
However unlikely it was that Trewoofe would catch her voice over the tempest outside, she coiled with delight at the thought of him overhearing her.
Avice drifted up, stroking the black triangle of curls between her legs before dipping down.
She was wet. So wet. She had never felt so lustful.
That steady voice, those soft touches, the way he calmed her storm, it was enough to send her into a near-frenzy.
She found that special spot – the one she called a pearl – and tickled herself once.
She let out a shuddering breath as stars appeared in her vision. She looked down at her quivering hands; one holding the skirts up, the other teasing between her legs. She wished it were Trewoofe there, so she closed her eyes and pretended they were his massive hands instead.
Avice rubbed again, knowing he would be oh-so-careful with his claws.
She fumbled, but eventually found a rhythm of steady circles, his silhouette on the back of her eyelids.
He would kneel in front of her, red eyes watching, one hand spreading her and the other working her pearl in a pattern she would command.
“Trewoofe…” she mumbled, increasing her tempo.
Pressure built and she threw her head back, the image blurring in her mind.
“Yes, Trewoofe.”
His name sounded like a prayer on her lips.
“My King.”
She pictured his tongue dipping down beyond her curls, one fork lapping her pearl, and the other teasing her entrance.
At that image, she fell.
Avice plummeted into the first orgasm she had ever experienced, with her Knucker’s name on her lips.
She ground down on her hand, riding waves of pleasure, stars shooting on the backs of her eyelids.
Her spine tingled as she soaked herself, stickiness dribbling down her thighs and dampening the tops of her stockings.
Avice panted as the tingling pleasure slowly ebbed. She opened her eyes just as a single, large snowflake landed on her nose, immediately melting from the heat of her skin. She was a mess, and she knew it. More than anything, she longed to be a mess for and with him.
With a shuddering breath, she dropped her skirts, acutely aware of how soaked she was. She cast her gaze around, looking for how she could clean herself up.