Chapter Twenty-Five #2
I surge forward even as he pulls me in. Our mouths meet with shocking urgency.
And, just like that, Soren is kissing me.
A kiss I have no words for, a kiss that is the opposite of everything I thought I knew about passion.
Not the violent combustion of pent-up need, not the unstoppable flare of lust, but something else.
Something deeper. A kiss so deep, I could swim in it forever and still never reach the bottom.
Pretenses fall away as our maegics meld together. Water and wind, air and ocean. We sink into each other, a deliberate drowning. Fast as a riptide, I am lost. Lost in the sea of him, infinite and all-encompassing.
He is just as lost. I can feel his unfettered need for me, the unfathomable scope of it, as he hauls me flush against him.
His fingers dig into my skin, gripping me tighter—one hand collaring my neck, the other anchored at the small of my back.
My own hands shake with desire as they lift to his chest, sliding up the strong planes to cling to his shoulders.
I’m shocked by the desperation that swirls inside me, a wild tempest of longing finally unleashed; shocked by how much I want him now that I am at last able to own up to it.
Throughout my life, I had dreamed many times of a deep, dark sea.
A dream I’d returned to again and again, for as long as I could remember.
Sinking, sinking, sinking. Never quite knowing what I’d find at the bottom.
I would wake gasping—tasting brine on my lips, feeling salt on my skin, curious how my mind conjured such a vivid dreamscape.
Wondering why, of all my dreams, it was the one I most longed to return to whenever I closed my eyes.
And here it is again. Only this time, I am not asleep.
This time, as I sink, I am wide awake. I slip deeper and deeper, losing a bit more of myself with each moment.
I should be afraid to lose sight of the shores of logic and reason, should be terrified as reality ebbs out of my grip.
But with each devouring stroke of his mouth, Soren breathes life into me.
With each drugging touch, he guides me into an abyss from which there is no end.
I do not want an end.
The dams have broken wide, unleashing a flood that soon carries us away.
We are both caught in the current, unable to stop as we finally allow ourselves to taste, to touch.
Indulging in fantasies long forbidden from even entering my waking thoughts.
I feel less in control of my body than I was the night he fought back the tsunami, when his power pulled me to him; less in command than I was in the leylines, when I felt the tug of something—someone—familiar amid the oblivion.
I do not recall moving, yet here I am on his lap, my arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, my knees straddling him. When I feel the rigid length of his desire pressed against the sensitive heart of mine, my hungry whimper breaks the kiss.
“Skies, skylark,” he rasps, mouth moving to my neck.
His teeth scrape down the column of my throat.
He nips sharply at my collarbone then kisses away the sting, sending a shiver through my bones.
His lips curve in a smile when he feels it.
As they skate lower, I arch against him, pressing as close as physically possible.
In this moment, if I could climb inside him, I think I would do it.
I cannot prevent my hands from clinging to his nape as his mouth moves between my breasts, nor can I stop the shocked gasp that erupts from my throat as he begins to trace the spirals of my Remnant mark with the tip of his tongue, a devilishly slow exploration that makes me feel like I might combust.
“Soren, that’s—” I moan. My airway is suddenly too tight to speak; I shift to mind-to-mind. “That’s sensitive.”
“Oh, I know.”
He moves with startling quickness, flipping me over onto my back.
I blink up at the full moon for a second, my sluggish mind trying to orient itself.
My hand flies out, reaching for him—hating the sudden loss of his mouth, his touch, his scent.
His grin is a white flash in the dark as he takes in the sight of me sprawled across the steps of the sea organ.
But the look on his face changes as his gaze lingers on my body.
Growing predatory with intent, it pins me in place as effectively as a set of shackles the moment before he strikes.
The sodden hem of my gown drags through the swells of the incoming tide, the salt no doubt ruining the perfect silk, but I cannot bring myself to care as Soren’s hands bunch in the fabric, shoving it up over my parted knees.
He kneels between them, hands skimming up the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, mouth trailing in their wake.
He takes the thin material of my undergarments in his grip and, with one tug of his strong fingers, tears them clear off my body. Blindly, he tosses them into the waves.
“What are you—”
My mind fragments into pieces as he kisses me in a place I’ve never before been kissed, a place I did not even know one could be kissed.
The pleasure is blinding. A volt of pure lust arcs through me.
I bow up off the steps, an involuntary squirm, but his hands lock onto my hips, holding me firmly in place as he begins to feast on me like a starving man.
Gods, I’m about to shatter and he’s only just begun.
My desire densifies the air around us, an electrical charge building in direct relation to the relentless pleasure he is inflicting, lash by lash, stroke by stroke, until I fear I will unleash a storm of electricity.
“Soren,” I cry. “Soren, I’m going to—”
“Let go, skylark.” His inner voice is raw with lust. His mouth never stops its delicious torture between my legs; if anything, it grows more ravenous. “Let go.”
His teeth clamp down, a sudden spike of sensation, and I explode into a violent release.
The moment I do, bolts of lightning streak across the midnight sky overhead, a jagged display of power I do not even see, as my eyes are closed.
His name sings down the bond again and again, harmonizing with the low song of the sea that vibrates from the pipes beneath us.
My blood continues to pound as the intensity of what has just occurred starts to wane, as the aftershocks of lust clear from my mind. Soren is still between my legs, pressing kisses to my inner thighs, when I manage to open my eyes to the moon.
“Did I tell you I like your dress?”
A startled laugh bursts from my lips. “No,” I whisper aloud. My voice sounds as staggered as I feel.
“I do.” His inner voice slides through my head like the silk he so easily ripped into scraps.
His eyes are bright as he comes up over me, one hand planting on the marble step beside my head, the other hovering just above my face, tracing the outline of my lips with one finger.
“Though I am eager to see what you look like out of it.”
I crane my neck as his mouth comes toward mine, ready for the kiss, ready for more. So much more. His lips have scarcely pressed down when a keening toll blares overhead, stilling us both instantly.
The beacons.
For one frozen moment, neither of us moves.
“Something’s wrong,” Soren mutters, scooping me up and setting me on my feet at the top of the steps. “Something’s happened.”
Together, we run back into the city.
We smell the smoke before we see the blaze.
Slamming to a halt at the edge of the canal, I cannot believe my eyes.
The floating market is on fire, each barge engulfed entirely in flames.
Civilians are running for cover. Vendors scream as their livelihoods are reduced to ashes.
Some toss bucketfuls of water, but their efforts have little impact. The inferno is raging out of control.
Soren looses a low oath as he takes in the scene. His maegic surges, a potent current, as he draws up vast quantities of water from the canals and douses the barges. The fire splutters out with a crackle and a hiss.
I exhale in relief.
The panicked screams subside as those gathered along the edges of the market watch the rise of steam that drifts into the cloudless night.
It is a bleak sight—most of the colorful barges blackened with soot, their proud banners naught but cinders.
Only hours ago, I was here with Farley, Jac, Mabon, and Cadogan, sampling delicacies, spending coin, calling merrily to passing boats…
“How did this happen?” Soren asks one of the vendors, eyes roaming the wreckage. “This is no natural fi—”
His question stops short as a guttural bellow pierces the night—a cry of victory, and of vengeance.
My eyes seek out the source of the sound and go wide when they find it.
Standing atop the bridge that spans a nearby canal are two men with flaming torches held aloft.
They are bare chested, their skin streaked with something dark.
Dirt?
Paint?
I cannot tell from this distance.
They stare at us for several frozen seconds, their eyes locked on Soren.
“For Shadowfall!” one of them screeches, tossing his torch into the canal.
With a hiss, it extinguishes instantly. His companion follows suit.
Then, before the tendrils of my wind or Soren’s water can ensnare them, the two men pull daggers from their belts, lift them to their necks, and draw the blades across with harsh finality.
Blood spurts as they fall, dead, to the bridge.
A collective gasp ripples around the market.
“What the hell was that?” My eyes fly to Soren. “For Shadowfall?”
He looks utterly grave. His gaze moves to mine for a brief moment. He says just one word—but that one is enough to freeze my heart in the cold grip of fear.
“Efnysien.”
I have questions, but there is no time to ask them. We run to the bodies as fast as our feet can carry us. For once, it is Soren who struggles to keep pace with me. My heels have wings tonight.
He kicks at one of the corpses, confirming it is truly dead as I drop into a crouch to examine the other. They are mortal, judging by their rounded ears. Every inch of their skin is streaked with dark, dried fluid. Not dirt or mud…
“Is that paint?”
“Blood,” Soren mutters.
My nose wrinkles as I bend closer, inhaling the sharp, metallic scent. It wafts off the corpses like strong cologne. Definitely blood.
A lot of it.
It does not take long to check the bodies; they are not wearing much of anything, barefoot and bare chested. Nothing of value in the pockets of their thin breeches, no sigils stitched into the fabric.
“How did they get in?” I look up to the ramparts, seeking signs of an attack. All appears quiet and still atop the walls. “Did they breach the sea gate? Or sneak in on a merchant ship?”
Soren’s head shakes. “Every arrival has been accounted for, every manifest inspected multiple times.”
“Then I don’t understand…” My heart is racing. Something is not adding up here. “Why set fire to the market? And why kill themselves? Is it some sort of message?”
Overhead, the beacons continue to sound despite the fact that the fire is out.
Soren’s eyes shift up to the royal grounds, narrowed to pinpricks.
As though he is trying to pull something into sharper focus.
I do not know what he is looking for, what he is sensing…
Not until I see the shadow of fresh smoke snaking up toward the stars.
Not until I feel the rush of fury burning down the bond.
Pendefyre.
Soren and I look at each other, both feeling it. Both fearing what it means. Without another second of hesitation, we take off running again.
The fire at the floating market was a diversion, designed to cause chaos, to shift focus from the true target of this attack. And it worked. For at the first sight of flames, every member of the Hylian Guard went running to help…
Leaving the royal grounds undefended.
My heart pumps with dread as we sprint up the many sets of steps, passing darkened villas, winding through silent olive groves. Smoke thickens the air as we ascend. The fire is close now.
But what is burning?
My eyes go wide as the stables come into view. They are ablaze, a raging inferno. I hear the sound of equine fear—neighs and snorts of distressed Paexyri—along with Yara’s voice, yelling in the night. I want to stop, to offer my help.
I cannot.
Not now.
Both Soren and I feel Penn’s burning wrath and know, without a spoken word, that whatever horrors are unfolding before his eyes far exceed a few smoldering stalls. This blaze is more than likely another diversion, designed to pull attention from the wedding feast.
We run on past the dark silhouette of Arwen’s villa on the cliffside.
As we cut through the lemon grove, we pass by two dead bodies lying face up on the path.
They, like the ones we saw on the bridge, are covered in blood.
I am again struck by the sheer amount of it as we leap over them.
It is not applied in careful stripes, like the Reavers’ black warpaint; they look as though they’ve fully submerged themselves in it.
Their lips and eyelids are coated, along with every bit of visible skin.
Some strange intimidation tactic?
An odd form of camouflage?
It makes no sense.
Racing up the steps toward Soren’s villa, taking them three at a time, we hurtle into the gardens—and into a scene ripped from my darkest nightmares.