Chapter 23 Ashes & Oaths
Ashes you’re riding with me.”
“No way.” I cross my arms tight, hugging myself and shaking my head.
His brows lift like he expected the answer, just not the venom behind it. “Neither Brimstone nor Ashwing can carry you in their conditions,” he says calmly.
“So, what, now you’re a horse expert?” I snap.
He shrugs, irritation threading beneath his otherwise cool tone. “I told you, I’m a man of many talents.”
“More like secrets,” I say, not meaning to voice it aloud. I straighten anyway, chin lifting to meet his gaze. “And are all the rumors about your ‘many talents’ true, Your Highness?”
The words leave my mouth lightly, but my chest tightens.
I’ve heard—and seen—so many versions of him. From the fae whispering in the kitchens. From the women who claim to have shared his bed.
Is the man standing before me the same one who played cards with Cassy? The ruthless king who would have killed his own guard for touching me? Or the man who risked his life to save mine?
I’m beginning to understand that he wears desire like armor, letting the world believe whatever it wants.
His jaw tightens as he strides toward me, reins in hand, closing the distance until his shadow falls over mine, eclipsing me.
“What have you heard, Fire?” he asks, his mouth curving into a dangerous, knowing grin.
My breath catches. The air feels suddenly thinner—charged.
“Many things,” I say carefully, refusing to look away.
His gaze darkens. “Well,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “most—if not all—probably are true.”
My pulse jumps.
“As I said,” he continues, a low growl threading beneath his words, “I’m a man of many talents. Centuries’ worth, in fact.” He pauses, then leans in. Heat radiates from him, a smirk curving his lips. “Things I’d very much enjoy teaching you, Fire.”
My pulse stutters. Not that line again, the scoundrel.
Something flashes through me. Not anger. Something worse… Awareness.
The image flashes unbidden: hours pressed against him in the saddle, his warmth at my back, nowhere to retreat. Nowhere to hide from how easily my body remembers him.
No.
I glare back. “Let me be very clear, Highness,” I say coolly. “I’d rather die than let you teach me anything ever again.”
The air between us crackles. His gaze sharpens, trying to intimidate me.
I don’t give him the chance. “In fact,” I add, already stepping away, “I think I’ll walk.”
I call softly to Brimstone and Ashwing and start down the trail.
“It’s half a day’s ride,” Keiren calls after me, exasperated.
“Then it’ll be good exercise,” I shoot back. Walking hurts less than letting myself want him.
“Your ankle is in no condition for that,” he retorts, but I ignore him.
The sharp clip of hooves follows in my wake, and before I know it, Keiren is in front of us, turning Aetherion to block the path. Brimstone rears slightly, bringing us to an abrupt halt.
“Move!” I demand.
Keiren mutters something under his breath in a language I don’t recognize, but the tone needs no translation. He’s livid.
“You’d really let them suffer longer,” he says, “just to spite me?”
The gravity of his presence presses in. I hate how it freezes me. Humbles me. More than anything, though, I hate that he’s right. Brimstone isn’t fit to carry me, and the longer I argue, the longer Ashwing and the foal suffer.
I stare down at the forest floor, fists clenched. “Fine.”
He dismounts and holds out a hand to help me up, but I ignore that, too. In one swift motion, I mount Aetherion myself, gripping the saddle to steady my bruised body.
“Well, let’s go,” I mutter, still avoiding his gaze.
“We’re burning daylight. Your Highness,” I say, offering him a shallow bow from the saddle—more insult than respect—and flick my wrist. The infuriating man just stands there, smiling.
I whip my head toward him, and he holds my gaze a beat too long, his expression unreadable.
Then, with an infuriating slowness, he swings up behind me and settles into the saddle.
I regret my decision to ride with him the moment we start to move, all too aware of all the constant contact between us.
Despite my best efforts to stay rigid, I can’t ignore the way his unusually broad shoulders bracket me as he steers Aetherion, or the heat radiating off his body—how his chest warms my back, how his breath stirs my hair.
Every shift of the saddle reminds me how close we are, how easy it would be to lean into him, to let his touch warm my chilled bones, to accept the comfort and safety he offers.
But I don’t. Instead, I sit so far forward that my hips grind uncomfortably against the front of the saddle, which will undoubtedly leave bruises later.