Chapter 35
35
T HE DESERT BURNS GOLD BENEATH the dawn. We gather on the hard, flat ground, the earth baked into a glaze. Beyond the oasis, sand stretches as far as the eye can see. The sun has yet to pull away from the horizon and I’m already sweating.
The South Wind and I stand a few paces apart. He surveys me calmly. Blade—paltry, frail. Attire—inadequate, the dress likely to tangle around my legs. Physique—lacking muscle, or so it appears, my curves unmistakable. Let him think what he will.
He has the advantage. The desert belongs to him just as Thornbrook belongs to me. I know every darkened passage, every creaking stair, every cracked window and loose stone. Here, I am a visitor, ignorant, uninformed.
My opponent sinks into the guard position, the curve of his scimitar so thin it might be shaped from the air itself. The cold blacks of his eyes hold mine in thrall. The South Wind is ageless, but even gods have their shortcomings.
“Make the call, Brother,” announces the South Wind.
Zephyrus looks to me from where he sits propped against a tree, mouth tight with unease. No matter his opinion, I understand actions have consequences. I gave the South Wind my word, and here I stand.
“Begin.”
The South Wind uncoils, quick as an asp. I lift my dagger in retaliation, for this maneuver is familiar. Metal clangs as the blades collide. I’m out of reach less than a heartbeat later.
He doesn’t follow, merely begins to circle, forcing me into motion if I want to protect my back. The first strike was a test, an attempt to measure my strength, reflexes, agility. The next blow rattles my teeth. I hold steady, our blades locked above the hilts, his scimitar overshadowing my much smaller dagger. My muscles strain, unwilling to give ground. His arms flex beneath his robe, and the veins pull taut in his neck.
Down he pushes, forcing pressure into my wrists. They twinge painfully. Though I stand a few inches taller, the South Wind possesses wide, powerful shoulders. Sweat slicks my hand, fusing my glove to the leather-banded hilt. I cannot break.
But I do not anticipate the sun, nor the well-timed angle of his blade. A starburst hits the shining metal of his scimitar, and the reflected light whitens my vision. I leap backward, the sharpened edge nicking me in the arm, a bright sting.
“Careful!” Zephyrus snarls.
The air stirs to my right. I whirl, tracking the crunch of grit over rock, my skin prickled with perspiration. Through slitted eyes, I pursue my opponent’s blurred outline until the blindness recedes.
He lunges then, and we collide. The speed of his assault forces my focus to narrow. Block, strike, duck, parry. My opponent is always one step ahead. By the time I aim for his abdomen, he is already gone, flicking the sword tip across my upper arm. I hiss at the bite of metal slicing flesh.
“Enough.” Zephyrus climbs to his feet, one hand braced against the curved trunk. “Let this duel be done.”
I ignore him. What is a duel without a little blood? I will not make the same mistake twice.
In the next blink, the South Wind slips his blade beneath my guard. I dodge, knocking the sword aside. The time for defense has passed. What is here in this moment? A god and a mortal. My blade and his. The scream of metal, its ringing clarity.
I am a blade.
I move through the exercises fluently, utilizing every piece of knowledge at my disposal. When the South Wind reveals an opening, I lunge. My dagger swipes low, across the heavily muscled thigh, parting cloth and flesh with the ease of a vessel gliding through water.
He withdraws, dark eyes flat with irritation. I draw him in with an opening, force him back with a series of brutal stabs. Now that I’m better acquainted with his fighting style, I adapt to it. Strikes lead to retreat, reevaluation. He favors jabs and unexpected deflections. The man is too quick.
I give it my best, and I give it my all, but who am I to think I can best a god? It is hardly a match. In the next heartbeat, his blade flicks upward, kissing my throat.
The South Wind examines me with cool detachment, the blacks of his eyes brightened by the bout. He has not broken a sweat. Was it even an effort for him?
“In my realm,” he murmurs, “he who wins a duel, takes a life.”
“Excuse me?” Zephyrus lurches forward. “Since when do our duels end in bloodshed? Or have you learned nothing from our upbringing? The Council of Gods allows for bloodshed only in the event of a serious grievance. Brielle has done nothing. She is innocent.”
I swallow, feeling the scrape of the metal tip. I made a promise, and I will not cower. If I am to die, let it be on my feet rather than my knees.
“Zephyrus,” Notus says with utter stillness, “we have not inhabited the City of Gods in millennia. This is my realm. Its rules are not the same.”
“She is mortal.” The words emerge as a snarl.
“I am aware.”
His eyes flash with frightening ire. “Touch one hair on her head,” Zephyrus spits, “and you will not live beyond your next breath.”
The South Wind regards his brother calmly. “You would deny me my prize?”
Zephyrus flinches. “Not her,” he whispers. “Please.”
“The deal must be upheld.”
“What do I have to do in order for you to spare her?” Zephyrus grinds out.
He lowers his blade a hair. “Would you give up your life in her stead?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation.
“No,” I snap. Stupid man. What is the point of having gone through all this trouble to seek healing from the venom, only for Zephyrus to give up his life? If I am killed, I lose a few decades of mundane mortal life, but Zephyrus has an eternity ahead of him, and all of Under relying on his blood for its existence. “I accepted the bargain. Let it be fulfilled.”
“Brielle.” He stumbles forward with a plea. “Don’t give up your life for one so undeserving.”
The South Wind considers his brother for a moment. He glances between us, then lowers his sword, the grooves around his eyes deepening in puzzlement. “Well fought.” The husk of his voice has warmed with what I believe is respect. “I underestimated you.”
I do not understand. “You will not kill me?”
“Not today, no. I suppose my brother is right. There is little honor in killing a mortal whose only mistake is caring for a disgraced god.”
Zephyrus goggles at Notus, but the South Wind doesn’t rescind his offer of mercy. Instead, he heads for the oasis while Zephyrus and I retreat to the shade of the surrounding trees. A rash has begun to spread across my freckled skin. I miss the low-hanging mists of Carterhaugh. I am not built for heat like this.
After sheathing my dagger, I accept the waterskin from Zephyrus.
“You did well,” he murmurs.
The water slides down my throat like the sweetest relief. I drain the container of its last drop. “For a novitiate,” I say with a pointed look. “Right?”
“For anyone.” If I’m not mistaken, he regards me with newfound admiration. “Fighting darkwalkers, taking down Yakim, dueling my brother. It is obvious you know your way around a blade. Who taught you how to fight?”
“The bladesmith I apprenticed with taught me the fundamentals. I studied with him for three years. Sometimes I’d spar with the boys in town.” A blade in my hand freed me. It still does. “Mother Mabel took over my training two years ago.”
His head cants in curiosity, but he only says, “I’m impressed you held out for so long against Notus. He is a superior swordsman.”
“He is.” The best I have ever fought.
With the skin empty, I set it aside, tip back my head to the burning wind. The slender trees bend, yet never break. “How long before we must return?”
Zephyrus rests his hand on mine, drawing my attention. I still wear my gloves. “We will go tomorrow.”
It is too soon.
I’ve prayed for a miracle, done everything in my power to save the West Wind. But his curse precedes my arrival and will persist long after I am gone. Better to return to Under while he is still of able body.
“We had a good run, yes?” In the cooling shade, his green eyes brighten like the purest jewels.
The ache in my chest migrates to my throat. He tries to make light of the situation, but it hurts too much. We have fought and fallen and risen again, but Zephyrus is still no nearer to freedom. “It didn’t work,” I say.
“I’m not so sure,” he murmurs, fingers tightening over mine. “I suppose it depends on one’s perspective.”
“We failed.” My voice strains. “ I failed you.”
“My darling novitiate, you could never fail me.” At my look of skepticism, he says, “It has been a long time since I’ve allowed myself to hope, but you have made me feel as though anything is possible. That is something I will never be able to repay. Whatever time we have left, I’m grateful for it.”
Why do the people I care for always leave me? “I wish…” Yet my longing dies, the thought too tender, a bruise.
Together, we gaze out at the oasis, the water placid, painted blue by the sky’s reflection. The South Wind has made himself scarce.
“You once asked me if I had faith in the good forces of the world,” Zephyrus says, “and I would not give you a straight answer.” He lifts his solemn eyes to mine. “But having spent time in your presence, I’m convinced there must be some unexplainable phenomenon of all-encompassing good in this world. You helped me see that.”
I have never been good with words, so I cup the West Wind’s cheek, his bristly facial hair scraping my glove. “Can I ask why your face continues to change?”
“Because you have begun to see the decency inside me,” he says, “instead of only the foul parts.”
“I do not understand.”
“My brother, Boreas, cursed me to wear that hideous face. Only when someone recognized a change in me would I begin to change myself.”
I sweep my touch along his jaw. He tips his head into my hand, an expression of quiet agony passing over his features.
“I see you,” I whisper. It has taken months, but I see the West Wind for who he is: deeply flawed, a man amidst transition.
Zephyrus exhales a shuddering breath. “Wait.” He pushes my hand aside. “Ask me why Boreas cursed me. Ask me why I crossed into his realm, knowing Pierus’ wrath awaited when I returned.”
I have wondered this. And now I ask.
His features contort, and then: “I planned to kill my brother.”
There is no mistaking the confession. I do not know what I expected. Certainly not this.
Thou shalt not kill.
Deep beneath the blanketing shock, I am saddened. I didn’t realize how immoral Zephyrus was in the years before we met. Family must mean little to him.
“Many months ago,” he begins, the words thick, caked in long-buried regrets, “Boreas’ power had begun to spread beyond the Deadlands. Pierus was not happy, and for good reason. Whatever affects Carterhaugh, affects Under. Thus, the realm began to wither, its strength sapped by cold. I thought, if I could fix this one thing, if I could stop my brother’s power from infiltrating, maybe Pierus would reward me. Maybe he would shorten my sentence.”
I do recall a strange chill settling over Carterhaugh last winter. “So your solution was to kill Boreas,” I state flatly.
He drops his eyes. “Not at first.” Grabbing a fistful of sand, he lets the grains sprinkle into a small pile. “I arrived in the Deadlands at his doorstep, hoping to reason with him. When that didn’t work, I planned to steal Boreas’ spear, use it to kill him, thus ceasing his power’s infiltration. I could have used my bow, but by that time I had already gifted it to Wren as a means to win her trust.”
Wren—Boreas’ wife, if I recall correctly. “Why wouldn’t Boreas listen to your reasoning?”
“I was not welcome in his home.” His gaze skips to the water, the distant dunes—everywhere but me. “You see, it was not my first visit to the Deadlands.”
I shiver with foreboding, for I cannot see what lies beyond this moment. Change, to be certain. “Go on.”
“I had visited Boreas several centuries earlier. He was married then to a different woman, with a son. I beseeched him to fight Pierus for my freedom, as I had beseeched all my brothers, but Boreas, understandably, said no. He had a family to protect. He was content and wasn’t interested in conflict.”
There is a pause. “The plan was already in place. Notus had agreed to help and was prepared to meet me in Under. I did not hear from our youngest brother, Eurus, but I expected that. Boreas was the last piece of the puzzle. I couldn’t take no for an answer.”
The Bringer of Spring: devious and self-absorbed, yet in this moment, shame-faced, wracked by guilt. My apprehension grows fangs.
“His wife was easier to sway,” he says, too quiet. “I convinced her she would be happier in Carterhaugh, she and her son, though I harbored no romantic feelings toward her. She was merely a tool.”
“Stop.” I lift my hand, fighting for breath in the heat. “I don’t want to hear anymore.” The thought of anyone coming between a man and his wife, voluntarily tainting that relationship, makes me ill. The Third Decree: thou shalt not covet.
“Please, Brielle. I need to say this.”
The moment I begin to accept Zephyrus for who he is, he reveals yet another sharp corner, and I retreat, unwilling to prick myself against it. I think about trust, vulnerability, the terror of being seen. I promised I would stay. He trusts me not to abandon him. Willing or not, I must see this through.
I nod, the motion stilted. Zephyrus swallows and goes on.
“When I offered Boreas’ wife the opportunity to visit Carterhaugh, she accepted. It was my hope Boreas would follow. Once there, I thought that I could convince him to journey to Under and fight Pierus for my freedom. Only, we never reached Carterhaugh.”
He stares at the ground so intently I’m surprised holes do not form in the sand. I do not like the direction this story has taken. “Why—”
“Bandits attacked us mid-journey, killing Boreas’ wife and son.”
I turn away, eyes closed. A god’s loss must be unending, every day a bruise flushed anew.
Zephyrus speaks in a rush, a great outpouring of emotion. “When Boreas discovered what had happened, he spiraled into rage and grief. I fled, fearing his wrath, and stayed away for centuries.”
“But you returned,” I grind out. Zephyrus flinches beneath my disparaging gaze.
“I did return,” he whispers. “But I had not learned my lesson. In the centuries following the death of his late wife and son, Boreas had remarried. I felt feral. Overcome with jealousy, guilt, self-loathing. I am not proud to say I tried to convince his wife, Wren, to kill him. If I did not deserve happiness, then neither did he. But I underestimated his dedication to Wren, her developing feelings for Boreas. I failed. Again.”
What was it the Orchid King had said to Zephyrus?
I’m surprised your brother let you stay at all.
“I’m lucky he did not kill me, though I wonder if that would have been preferable. Boreas is clever. He knew the curse would prolong my suffering.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m sickened, tormented, melancholy. But mostly, I’m confused. I wonder what kind of person would go to such lengths to hurt his own brother. I can only conclude it must be someone who believes himself beyond redemption.
“Is that what you think?” I demand. “That if you don’t deserve happiness, no one does?”
His eyes shine, and he blinks rapidly to clear them. “I am not a good man, Brielle. I fear my past transgressions will always burden me.”
“Why would they burden you?”
“Because I am the same as I have always been.”
“I do not believe that.” Even in the short time I have known Zephyrus, I recognize a change in him. “You are more than the man you were. Of that, I am certain.”
He shakes his head. “I am not so sure.”
I consider his tale with newfound perspective. A tragic series of mistakes? Maybe. I will not know until I ask the only question able to alleviate my doubt.
“Are you sorry for what you did? Do you regret treating your brother so poorly?”
“Every day,” Zephyrus says. “Every gods-forsaken day. There is a rot within me. It cannot be changed, nor can it be purged. It stays with me, always.”
The horror of his past softens in me, and fades. We are all made of separate parts. Zephyrus might always carry this rot with him, but who is to say it cannot be burned away to some degree, or lessened? The West Wind is the grower of green things. He is relief in the cold. I choose to see him as a collection of parts, some undesirable, others shaped by curiosity, playfulness, wonder.
“Maybe you’re not the most likeable person,” I admit, to which Zephyrus laughs, a noise strained to breaking, “but I like you well enough. I’m not perfect either. You erred, as we all do. What matters is how we learn from our missteps. That is how we grow.” Briefly, I touch his arm. “Tell me what you have learned.”
“That I am the cause of my misfortune. My selfish, self-centered, sabotaging nature.” He speaks harshly toward himself. “An immortal who is careless with his own life. Imagine that.” Yet eventually his voice gentles. The lines smooth from his skin, as though warmed by a touch of compassion.
“But life, I’ve learned, is fragile, even mine,” he continues. “It must be cherished, nurtured, embraced. I must not be careless with others’ emotions, for it will lead to my own isolation. I must hold myself accountable for my actions, for how else am I to understand the harm I inflict on others? And you, Brielle…” He regards me with an openness I have yearned to witness since our first meeting. “You have been the wisest of all my teachers. You are a teacher of faith, of how to live an unselfish life, of patience and empathic humility. You are,” he says haltingly, “too good.”
“I am Brielle. Nothing less, nothing more.”
One of his hands lifts, strong fingers encircling my wrist. “We do not have much time.”
Indeed, the sun has begun its descent. I look to Zephyrus’ hand, pondering all I have been through. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. I ask myself what I will regret. I think of what could have been.
Pulling my wrist free, I begin to tug off my gloves. Zephyrus watches, marveling at the sight of my pale, freckled hands, their hardened calluses.
As his gaze locks with mine, my belly quivers. If he were to close the distance, I might again experience the sweet pressure of his mouth, the wet slide of his tongue.
“You once asked me if I wondered what a man’s touch felt like,” I say, and those piercing eyes flicker. “I didn’t then. I do now.”
He watches me with grave understanding. I have removed my gloves, this inviolable barrier cast aside at last.
“I want to know what it feels like to lie with a man.”
“Brielle.” Zephyrus shifts closer, though he does not touch me. “We don’t have to do this. It is enough to be in your presence. There’s nothing you need to prove, not to me, nor to anyone else.”
“I know I have nothing to prove,” I state. “I want to know how it feels, just once.”
“Only a virgin may become an acolyte. You said so yourself.”
“I know.”
There is a change, and it is a change in him, and in me: two contraries falling into harmony with one another. “Are you sure?”
“Zephyrus.” I cup his face in my hands, and oh, how his skin sings to mine. “I am sure.”
Leaning forward, I press my mouth to his. Curved and smooth, his lips part, slotting briefly into mine. Warmth blooms in my chest as I ease back. “Though I do not know what to do.”
Wrapping his fingers around my wrists, he anchors me in place with the delicious heat of his skin. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, allowing him to pull me closer. “I trust you.” That which had been broken is finally mended. It is worth more to me now. “Are you feeling strong enough?”
The tightness in his face eases, and his hands loosen, skimming up my arms, across my shoulders, down my back. “The oasis gifted me a reprieve, but we will not have long. What about pregnancy? Is there… that is, you’re not taking anything to protect against it, are you?”
“I took a vow of celibacy, Zephyrus. There was never a need to protect against it.”
He nods in acknowledgment. “Here.” Growing from his open palm, a small shoot spreads its leaves. “Chewing on these leaves will prevent pregnancy. You might feel a bit nauseated tomorrow, but the effects will wear off in a few days.”
The leaves taste bitter, but I dutifully swallow them. I appreciate Zephyrus’ foresight.
His expression softens as he takes me in, and my cheeks flame. “I am remembering that kiss in the glade,” he whispers.
A flutter stirs my heart, for I, too, recall the hushed darkness, how distant I felt in that moment, completely removed from reality. Some bold, entirely fearless part of me dares to ask, “What do you remember about it?”
Reaching out, he presses a fingertip to the pliant center of my lower lip. “I remember your smell. I remember the small, breathless sounds you made. I remember the shape of your body in my hands. But mostly,” he says, low with yearning, “I remember you left me wanting. I have been wanting ever since.”
Clasping my jaw, Zephyrus coaxes my mouth to part, his lips capturing mine. Together, we sink. Peace in drowning.
His breath is elixir. The air is but particles between us, our faces so near I can count the pores on his nose, the silver striations in the dark green irises. Our noses brush, and my eyelids sink closed as the heat of his tongue plunges past my teeth.
I gasp, hands clamping his shoulders, spearing upward into his silken curls. So many textures await exploration. The edge of his jaw, coarse with facial hair. The delicate shell of one ear. The smooth skin of his neck. I touch them all with unabashed curiosity.
“I love your freckles,” he murmurs. “Like small grains of sand.” Then his mouth returns to mine, and he eats at me hungrily. My lips move with equal fervor.
I push to my knees. The West Wind grunts and hauls me closer, the gold sand beneath the trees scattering like a thousand flaming stars. The kiss does not break; it only deepens. I am unraveling. Consumed. Body and mind reshape themselves, for I am pious, yet desired. A novitiate, yet still a woman. What do I wish? To climb beneath his skin. To tuck my heart alongside his. To know, truly know, that I am loved—mind, body, soul.
As the sun begins to set, the warm tones give way to cooling hues, and still we are kissing, reaching, tangling into one being. His fingers twist in my snarling hair, tightening near the scalp, and a moan breaks free.
After two failed attempts, I clumsily manage to straddle him. Something long and stiff juts into my inner thigh, and I whimper.
Zephyrus breaks the kiss, panting. His eyes flicker, pupils like dark pools within.
“I adore you like this,” he whispers. “With your legs spread and your weight on my lap.”
The gravel in his voice intensifies the flush in my face. “You are pleased?”
Gripping my waist, he shifts me back and forth across his erection. My breath catches as the pressure begins to sharpen. “Do you not feel this?” He grinds upward, and the delicious friction sends a hot pulse through my legs.
“I do,” I stammer. Strands of damp hair stick to his temples, his skin warmed by the sinking sun. “Can I touch you?”
The question slips out with all the awkwardness of inexperience. I want to know what Zephyrus feels like in my hand, but it is difficult navigating a road untraveled.
Down his hands slide, stroking the tops of my thighs. “Brielle.” Bright, glancing heat marks the curve of my neck—a swipe of his ravenous tongue. “I would love nothing more than for you to explore my body.”
“What if I do something wrong?”
“Darling.” The slow spread of his smile is my undoing. “You can do nothing wrong as long as you are touching me.” His palms coast around my waist, up to the heavy curves of my breasts. The dress is so torn the neckline hangs in strips, exposing the generous flesh of my cleavage, which twitches with each shortened breath.
With some effort, I manage to detach myself, sliding free of his lap onto the sand. His stiffened groin pushes against the cotton of his trousers.
He widens his legs suggestively, and my throat tightens, desire and shame warring within me. In the violet-edged dusk, I am bold. Reaching out, I clasp my hand around his length through the fabric of his trousers.
The West Wind expels a deep, shuddering groan. He studies my efforts through slitted eyes. “How does it feel?”
I laugh nervously. “Strange.” Neither hard nor soft, it pulses as I run my thumb beneath the lip of the head, tracing its fleshy rim through the cotton. I give it an experimental squeeze.
He curses, and I snatch my hand away, cheeks hot. “Did I hurt you?”
“On the contrary, it felt too good.” He grits his teeth, one hand clamped around his bent knee. “Here.” He angles my hand, places it over his bulge. “Try again.”
As my fingers clasp his thickness, he guides me in a steady rhythm, his larger hand enveloping mine. Tucked inside his trousers, his length pulses against my palm, then hardens, the wide head oozing dampness into the fabric.
My mouth parts in surprise. “You reached completion?”
The West Wind snorts. “No, though I admit I’m close.” The strokes are firmer, long and unbroken, root to crown and back. His hips twitch, rising to meet my touch.
Mother Mabel never educated us on sex. I was forced to acquire any pertinent information from books or town gossip, so my understanding is rudimentary at best. It is pleasurable. It hurts. It is messy. It is brief. It is prolonged. It is uneventful. It is life-altering. I wonder which is true.
“That’s good,” he breathes, head falling forward. He watches my hand work him over.
I, Brielle of Thornbrook, will bring the West Wind to his brink. It does not seem entirely real.
Up my fingers skate, circling the head, squeezing in curiosity, and the wet spot enlarges, a spreading blemish in the fabric. I continue to pleasure Zephyrus until he removes my hand.
“Lean back,” he coaxes.
I follow his guidance, nestling into the cooling sand while he hovers over me. One hand drifts under my gown, tugging the hem suggestively. His burning gaze meets mine. “May I?”
The oasis drifts in the darkness of desertion. The South Wind has disappeared, and we are alone. I trust Zephyrus. I will not be afraid. “Yes.”
Carefully, his hands slip beneath the fabric, coasting up my calves, behind my knees, across the paler insides of my thighs. A gentle push widens my legs, and he kneels between them. The West Wind is faithless, I remind myself, but tonight, I might be his altar, my flesh and blood an offering, his head bowed as though in prayer.
Higher my dress creeps, gathered in folds around my waist. My feet dig into the sand, and I stare upward through the fronds of the trees swaying overhead, beyond which lie the Eternal Lands. Warmth gathers in my pelvis.
“I once asked if you had ever touched yourself,” Zephyrus murmurs. Long, deft fingers drift nearer to the apex of my thighs. “You did not give me an answer then.”
It was too embarrassing a thought. My own flesh, forbidden to me. Now? Legs bared and spread, my breasts so sensitized they ache against my corset, my heart racing beyond my control. This moment feels inevitable, as if it had been set in motion all those months before.
After my return from Under, I grew curious. My attempts at shuttering those licentious thoughts failed. I locked my bedroom door and explored my body. I touched my breasts, between my legs. Come morning, I knelt before the altar, head bent in repentance.
“I have,” I confess, breathy and low.
His gaze snaps to mine, stunned. The West Wind’s smile grows, a decidedly hungry thing. “How did it feel?”
It is too humiliating for words, so I mutter, “Fine,” and say nothing more.
“You already have an idea of what you like. We can work with that.” He massages shallow circles into my thighs. When his fingertips brush the edge of my chemise, I stiffen.
Zephyrus retreats as if nothing is amiss, moving back down my legs to my knees, calves, ankles. Eventually, he moves upward once more. A broken sound rises in me as he skims the top of my pubic bone. My core clenches reflexively.
Without looking at me, Zephyrus asks, “How did you touch yourself?”
The thought of him watching an incredibly private act… I do not know if I am brave enough for that.
“Close your eyes,” he croons. “Pretend you are alone in your room at the abbey.” He peels the skirt away from my legs. “I want to see how you pleasure yourself. I want to imagine my hands on your skin, the breathless sounds you’ll make.”
Settling deeper into the soft, whispering sand, I close my eyes. Dipping one hand beneath the hem of my chemise, I brush the top of my seam with two fingers, a bright, tender touch. I remember sliding my hand between my legs, evening veiled beyond the window, all those lightless pockets of Carterhaugh hidden until morning. I’d felt maddened, compelled, free.
As I did then, I slip my fingers between my thighs, lightly brushing the bud nestled below the thatch of mahogany hair. The sweetest agony darts through me, and I bite the inside of my cheek, hips lifting nearer to the touch.
Here is something I never told Zephyrus: when I first touched myself, I imagined his hands cupping my breasts, his muscled torso bent between my legs. Wetness trickles through my folds, which I catch and use to ease the passing of my fingers across my flesh. Slowly, I circle around my entrance. Pleasure gathers to a point.
A hand grabs my wrist, and my eyes fly open. Zephyrus kneels above me. His eyes glitter like cut gems.
“I have a confession,” he says.
My thighs clamp together, and I nod, licking salt from my lips.
“The thoughts I have about you are not meant for mortal ears.”
It is cruel, his beauty. I’m caught, dragged in by the enchantment that is the West Wind. “Tell me.”
“My mind is twisted,” he whispers. “I want you filthy, unclean. I want you breaking apart beneath me. I want to fuck you like an animal, to claim you as mine.” He palms my breast, his thumb brushing over the boned corset above my hardening nipple. “I want everything you can give me. I want it all.”
His fervor frightens me even as it comforts me. To know the wanting is soul-deep, that is here and he will stay. That, too, frightens me, comforts me.
“Zephyrus,” I say. “I want that more than you know.”
Pushing my hand aside, he hooks his fingers in the hem of my chemise, yet pauses, looking to me for permission. I nod and lift my hips, allowing him to push the folds of the undergarment toward my stomach.
A shiver of cold air slinks across my naked legs. I’m afraid Zephyrus notices the size of my thighs, their unsightly pallor, the lack of defined muscle. But his lips part, and his eyes darken with unmistakable hunger.
His hand replaces mine at the juncture of my thighs and begins to move, drifting across the wet folds, lower, before dragging upward again, brushing the nub there. Over and over, his touch draws the pleasure to higher peaks. Sand scrunches in my sweaty palms as the trembling worsens and the ache between my legs throbs so intensely I fear I might pass out.
Leaning forward, Zephyrus catches my mouth. “Let the pleasure come.”
One of his hands lifts, cupping the back of my head while the other slicks upward in a hot glide. Two fingers brush the top of my sex where the nerves pinch, quivering. Faster and faster, he circles. My legs widen, heels digging into the sand, hips lifting for prolonged contact. The burn is unbearable. When he returns to the throbbing bud, he flicks there, and the heat ruptures.
A hoarse, broken moan peals out of me. My body splinters and heals in turn. My hips shudder as they rise and fall, his fingers plunging inside me, and the pleasure explodes with glittering intensity. I cry out, clamping my legs around his arm as a second wave of pleasure barrels into me, sweeping me asunder.
All at once, the tension inside me drains, and I slump onto the sand. As Zephyrus pulls away, I grab his arm, my eyes searching his.
“Do you need space?” he asks carefully.
“No.” I try to catch my breath. “Do you need space?”
He laughs, and I laugh, because it’s the most infectious sound. “No, Brielle,” he chuckles. “I need the opposite of space, if I’m being honest.”
My smile widens, for I, too, desire the closeness of two bodies aligned.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” he probes. “It cannot be undone.”
I reach for his hand, seeking the connection that has been built, strengthened, broken, and reforged since we first met. “I’m certain.”
“We’ll go slow,” he assures me. “All right?”
My eyes drop to his groin. I swallow to draw moisture to my mouth. “Yes.”
A few deft movements, and Zephyrus disposes of his trousers. His pubic hair is much darker than what lies on his head. The length of his sex protrudes, veins ridged down the shaft.
The sight is… well. Again, I’ve seen nakedness before, but never a man fully erect.
As if sensing my trepidation, Zephyrus brings a hand softly to my face. A breeze disturbs the moonlit oasis. “If at any point it feels uncomfortable, tell me. I’ll stop.”
He will. If nothing else, I trust him to honor my boundaries.
Settling back, I focus on slowing my breathing. When the head of his erection brushes my entrance, I tense, yet force another exhalation from my lungs. I feel no apprehension, only fear of pain. I’ve heard the first time can hurt. It stings as he pushes inside.
Knees braced, Zephyrus leans forward, gripping my outer thighs as he slides deeper. I flinch, hissing softly.
He stops, head bowed. “No.” He shakes his head and pulls out. “We’ll do it another way.”
I prop myself on my elbows, thoroughly confused. “I want to continue.” I see no blood. Not yet, anyway.
“Not like this. Your first time should be handled with care.”
Emotion swells as a lump in my throat. I appreciate his consideration, though admittedly, I’m distracted. His erection glistens, the head ruddy with color. My fingertips brush the flared crown. It twitches beneath my exploration, a clear substance beading at the slit, sticky to the touch.
“Lie back,” Zephyrus orders, and I relent, his gaze warm, bright with adoration. He massages my upper thighs, thumbs indenting the soft skin. His mouth drifts upward, skimming the top of my sex. Zephyrus pauses there, inhales, eyes shut. When they open, the emerald glimmers with vibrancy.
“I want to taste you.”
I blink at him. “You mean—” I cringe at the thought. “But it’s unclean.”
“Is it?” He drops his nose to the slope of my pubic bone. I try to close my legs, but his shoulders prevent me from doing so.
“Zephyrus.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “If you’re sure.” I can’t imagine I would taste good.
He sinks his weight into my hips, pinning me as his tongue darts out, swiping the divot at the top of my seam. Another slow, lingering swipe of his tongue, the end curled, dragging upward through the wiry hair. Sparks fly behind my closed eyelids, and I gasp as a wave of heat rolls through me.
He devours me with increased enthusiasm. When the heat of his mouth latches over me, his tongue flutters, bending the tension through my core. A low moan snags in my chest.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “You’re doing so well, Brielle. I love how your body opens at my touch.”
The praise lights me up. I want to please him. I want to know him as he knows me, two hearts colliding, bodies connected in harmony. I do not think of who I was before this moment. I cannot regret following my heart, no matter how filthy the act may seem.
I spread my legs wider, groaning. His first finger slides in easier than the second, but once he begins to work me open, the pain lessens, my muscles relaxing to accommodate the intrusion. He curls his fingers, pushing against the walls until they give. The pleasure crests, warm and slow and drenched in heat.
“Zephyrus.” A whimper shudders out of me.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No.” On the contrary, I’ve never felt so relaxed, so attuned to another, so unashamed in my nakedness.
He pulls away then. “Get on your hands and knees.”
I do as he commands. He lifts my dress, tossing it over my back. My exposed backside tingles in the cool night air.
The shame does not come. I have broken every vow, snapped them as easily as twigs. But I feel crazed by the West Wind’s smell, like sun warming the wet earth, the delicious abrasion of his touch. My senses snap and sharpen, and I am awake.
One palm coasts over the curve of my rear. A crack rings out, and I whimper, jerking forward as the sting of his slap erupts across my naked cheek.
His palm returns, rubbing the irritated skin until the hurt abates. My nipples catch the inside of my corset, peaked and aching.
“Too much?” he asks.
I’m panting as though I’ve run miles, but I shake my head.
“Brielle,” the West Wind murmurs. “You’ve been an obedient girl, but I see what desires lie in your heart.” He leans forward to suck my earlobe into his mouth. “Such thoughts are sinful and must be punished.”
I glance over my shoulder. Zephyrus continues to rub my backside with a look of sharp greed. “Will you do it again?” I ask, surprising myself.
“As your Text states: ask and you shall receive.”
My head drops forward, scarlet curls curtaining my face. I bite my lip as the smack rings out.
Abruptly, he grasps my hair, drawing my neck backward until it strains. His teeth hook into my shoulder, and a moan floods out of me. My body tightens as the West Wind, curled over my back, begins to slap my rear with increasing force, the hot wind stirring the sting into permanent irritation.
I am neither obedient, nor devout, nor pure. I am simply Brielle, a woman, desired.
Shoving two fingers into me, Zephyrus hammers them against my inner walls. Tension spirals as choked moans fall from my open mouth. Then release rips and roars through me.
My body contracts on a wave of heat. I’m so far gone I don’t realize Zephyrus has removed his fingers until the head of his sex nudges my entrance.
“Slow,” he reassures me, and sinks in.
My loosened muscles allow him deeper penetration compared to our previous attempt. A continuous push and retreat, a wonderful, breathless stretch. When he’s fully sheathed, he murmurs, “All right?” One of his hands clasps the back of my neck. The other grips my hip.
My head hangs. “Yes.” There is no pain, only a feeling of fullness.
His slow, deliberate thrust sends warmth blooming through my lower belly. My fingers curl into the sand. As his thighs slap against my bottom, I choke for breath, arms trembling. At the next thrust, my vision slides out of focus.
Faster, harder, wickedly deep, Zephyrus finds his rhythm as the heat builds. What am I? A vessel for the West Wind’s pleasure. He squeezes my breasts, bites my shoulder, teeth hooked into my skin. I take it all. I release myself from shame. I become my bones and skin, heart and breath. I simply become .
“You feel so good, Brielle. So damn good.” He hits a spot that makes my nerve endings sing. “I’m close.”
“Zephyrus.” Drenched in the heat of lovemaking, I remember only his name.
My core clenches around him as a second wave hits unexpectedly. I moan through the pleasure, as does he, riding it out until my arms can no longer bear my weight. Together, we collapse onto the sand, reality returning in fragments of color and light.
Unbidden, a sob wrenches itself free of my mouth.
Zephyrus freezes, his eyes snapping to mine. “Did I hurt you?”
I grab fistfuls of his tunic. “It’s not that.” I know only this: I am changed. I have seen the world. I have felt another’s heart beating in time with mine. To think I might have missed the feeling of being held close by a man I have grown to care for deeply. “Sorry.”
He soothes me with long strokes up my back, his concern plain. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He kisses my cheek. “You need not hide from me.”
In time, my emotional high returns to rest, and our bodies cool. It doesn’t take long before the West Wind’s breathing evens out. Sleep, however, eludes me. I have traveled far. I have fought and overcome. I have fallen and risen again. I have pushed myself to the extremity of what I believed I could sustain, and now, lying beneath the stars, I can’t help but wonder.
What if I have seen my god in another?