Chapter 48
T halon paced under the cloak of moonlight while Garrik and Aiden stood stiff, talking. Their words, though hushed and calm, carried a weight dancing along the garden trees until they met Alora on an iron-wrought bench.
In the solace of Garrik’s shield, each syllable, each troubling word stabbed another wound in her heart as Aiden explained the vault he had opened left them with nothing yet again.
Somewhere inside the gardens, metal met metal. Jade had been granted leave to train with Deimon while the rest of them left the throne room. Alora hadn’t yet explained what’d happened with Ezander, but the time would come.
And now, sitting under the stars, she didn’t feel any better than when she’d left the throne room to search Erissa’s chambers.
Now, she felt worse.
Wrapping her arms around her knees, Alora clung to her ballgown. Hating the excessive amount of fabric, the golden swirls of gemstones like sun rays, the color red. If she never had to see that color again, she’d be happy.
Blood was red. Endlessly taunting them when their efforts so far were futile.
Alora’s eyes had fallen near vacant when something cold slipped beside her. She only needed to blink to realize her males had moved. Aiden and Thalon strode away, flexing their biceps and knocking into each other’s chest, when Garrik’s warm voice spoke.
“They are going to spar if you wish to join.”
She wouldn’t mind. Maybe it would release the frustration. But when Garrik sat beside her and draped his arm along the back of the bench, she decided to remain there. Alora flexed her numb fingers that held her gown tightly and let her bare feet drop to the grass, leaning back to feel his cold arm soothing her neck.
Aiden and Thalon squared off inside the center of shrubbery landscaped in a circle, creating a makeshift sparring ring—enough she could see from their knees up. Despite the chilly night and mountain air, Thalon unbuttoned his tunic and tossed it over the foliage while Aiden followed the same.
Garrik settled his attention on the first swing of Aiden’s fist.
But Alora’s attention was more fixed on the way their tattoos moved in the moonlight. How their muscles tightened and flexed under incredible strength and reflexes. The hardened curves of their biceps and flinching abs. The V of muscles extending down into their waistlines. How sweat dripped along the creatures inked into both their skin.
A painful grunt tore from Aiden’s lips when Thalon landed a blow to the gamroara scar on his side.
Garrik exhaled a laugh through his nose, leaned forward, elbows to knees, and mentioned, “Thalon will not be easy on him. He has been away long enough that his movements are not as seamless. Aiden needs the training.”
Indeed, their Guardian laid punch after swing, though their sea captain weathered it well enough that Alora didn’t doubt he could withstand an enemy that was truly trying to slaughter him. He seemed to be doing well enough that Alora turned to Garrik and regarded a strange look in his eyes. Something like yearning, a glimmer of regret.
“Do you want to spar with them?” Because they had a weapon now. A weapon to counteract serpent darkness and permit Garrik to finally live .
The mere mention had that tender-hearted smile, full of life and every beautiful thing, lifting on his face. His silver eyes were more like the moonlight tonight, vibrant with a touch of mystery, as they flashed her way.
In front of them, Thalon’s sweat-slicked arms held Aiden in a headlock, forcing him to his knees.
How long had it been since Garrik last felt the swift punch of his brothers’ fists? The clash of metal without fighting off dark magic? In camp, he never trained. Only ever with Smokeshadows or his swords in the dead of the night. Alone.
“Next time,” Garrik answered and stood. The incredible muscles in his back flexed as he deepened a breath and turned to her. “Aiden mentioned that not all of Erissa’s rooms were searched. And I know she is distracted currently.” He paused, thinking, then went on, “Come with me? You can help distract the guards.”
Some brave and incredibly foolish part of her threw excitement into her veins. That part with suicidal impulses was surely trying to kill her. She should not feel so thrilled to find herself back in danger.
A voice of reason responded, “I will only get us caught and then your shadowy-ass will have to do some persuading.”
He chuckled. “With beauty like yours, I am certain I will not need to do much convincing.”
“In this ugly thing?” She arched a brow, scowling at the sea of crimson drowning her.
Garrik smirked. “I did not think you needed reminding. But allow me to assure you. You look exquisite in anything. Although, I did especially detest how you flattered a certain princeling tonight. Truly wicked, clever girl.”
The urge to meet his wolfish smirk was there, but instead, the harsh roll of her eyes could’ve summoned a mighty wind. Alora reclined on the bench and crossed her knee over the other, toying, “If you enjoy seeing me like this, you should see me in a crown.”
Those silver eyes darkened. Something unreadable stormed across his features.
Without a word, Garrik’s palm twisted. Smokeshadows tendriled around his fingers, fully engulfing his hand. When they misted away, Garrik’s obsidian-spiked crown rested there.
Those two steps forward had her heart stopping entirely. And when he dropped to a knee before her and held out his crown, her breath hitched to where she imagined it wouldn’t return.
“Princess,” her High Prince drawled, head bowed. And stars, she couldn’t stop staring at him.
Scarlet warmed her cheeks. The night sang around them in a melody of rustling leaves and nightbugs while Garrik’s hair fluttered in the breeze. She leaned forward and lifted his chin, ignoring his crown. When that enchanting stare met hers, Alora said, “Don’t … don’t call me a princess.”
“Yes.” Breathless, Garrik appeared as a starved animal. “Queen is more fitting.”
Dangerous—that line they tread. This was dangerous .
“Stop.” It didn’t come out quite as confident as she meant it to be. “You look like you’re proposing.”
Garrik’s face was unreadable. He stared, barely breathing, as if waiting for an answer to a question he hadn’t asked. “Maybe I am.”
Across the garden, grunting and bone against flesh stopped as she felt the other’s attention swipe their way.
Quiet—roaring, unnerving, rapturing quiet—swept over the garden. Over the mountain. Elysian.
“Well…” She swallowed, fixating on the thunder of her heartbeat, on the decaying beat of his along their silver tether, and said, “Stop it. You look ridiculous.”
Garrik dropped his chin to his chest and laughed. The sound so warm it sent lightning through her spine. With a smile that could send her to the stars, he looked up and jested, “Not as ridiculous as you in that monstrosity?” Gesturing to the cloud of crimson gathered around her.
Alora couldn’t help the stupid laugh and smacked his shoulder. “I hate you,” she lied.
But something changed in his eyes. They weren’t squinting as he smiled—the polished silver brightened. His voice wasn’t a taunt. And she tried not to shiver at the vitality of his stare and how differently he said those words, “I know, clever girl.”
Shadows thieved his crown. Garrik straightened, and the sounds of sparring morphed into clashes of metal as Thalon and Aiden decided it was time for swinging blades.
But all she heard, over and over, echoing through her mind, even when she took his hand. Even as Smokeshadows stormed around them, clothing her in her scaled leathers and Garrik in his …
Was not I hate you .
No. Not hate.
It hadn’t been hate for some time.
Alora laced her fingers in Garrik’s, hearing that one terrifying word she couldn’t speak aloud, and let him dawn them inside the castle.
How many bedchambers does the princess need?
The furthest from the hallway cloisters, this room was so paraded with faelight chandeliers, if Alora dared to ignite them, they would twinkle like distant stars and mirror the endless night. Silver-specked, velvety blue rugs lined polished black granite floors. Its marble a mere masterpiece gathered like infinite clouds and spanned underneath couches and chaises, and one particularly large single seat near a moonlit window. The layered stardusted curtains denied most of the moonlight, but still offered enough to reflect off the black marble fireplace and silver frame of Erissa’s bed.
Bed. That was an understatement.
As a centerpiece, it seemed more like a throne. Perched atop four stairs while night-blue sheets spilled over the frame, emulating the tapestry of the night sky above, and flowing down the steps like a waterfall frozen in time.
Alora remembered wanting rooms like this once. Had gone as far as begging Kaine for it as a betrothal, bonding gift. Where once she dreamed of her own wing in that Telldairan manor. That perhaps their lord would allow her to design it. To shop the streets with wide eyes and a bright smile with all the possibilities she could make her own.
He had entertained her idea, leading her around the polished streets and inside every ornate shop only fit for the privileged. But nothing suited him. Nothing of his taste. Everything she asked for was too much or too lavish or too ridiculous or, or, or …
She should’ve known from the first word that it was never in his plan to allow it to happen. He made a game of it, a show of the perfectly generous and loving male he illusioned himself to be in public and a terrifying monster in private. Taking pleasure in her suffering. Playing her for the fool in front of his attendants and entourage.
After all, trophies were only to look pretty on a mantel, not to design the mantel they sat upon. It was his greatest pleasure: denying her everything.
Everything…
Alora’s eyes burned; her throat knotted.
Through the budding pressure in her head, she almost heard his voice. Almost heard him say, It’s because you didn’t deserve anything.
But Alora gripped Soulstryker so hard the leather groaned, shoved into the silence of the room, “You’re wrong,” and closed her eyes, listening to the way darkness whispered. To the way shadows felt against the tear slipping down her cheek.
In that moment, Alora dreamed:
Of the faces she now knew—loved—instead of empty rooms.
A bed so safe and inviting instead of a prison of warmth and servitude.
The smile growing up her face instead of decades of surviving in anguish.
A cold, soothing touch instead of painful, fiery punishment.
Every single thing she had gained since Telldaira. Since Kaine.
When her sapphires opened, she took in the room. Traced a finger down a long darkwood table so smooth it felt made of glass. Not a single scratch or dent in it.
Her likeness reflected in the base of silvery candelabras as she drifted Soulstryker through the air. Gliding it carefully, her eyes solely aware of Life lacking luster inside the leather handle until she was certain no gemstone was there.
And she told herself as she finished scanning that room that she did deserve something like this. Did deserve everything she now gripped so tightly to her heart that if any of it were ripped away, she would feel its emptiness for the rest of her life. Like parts of her would be missing.
An icy chill swept over her. Calm and steadying.
That everything Kaine denied, in Garrik’s eyes, she glimpsed all things infinite. Neverending.
Not something dangled in front of her on a string to be ripped away the moment her fingers grazed it. With Garrik, it was offered from a bended knee, chin bowed, crown raised.
Leaning against the threshold of the doorway, Garrik’s corded arms were folded, ankle crossed over the other. Looking at her as if she were the last star in the sky. He didn’t need to say a word, she knew he sensed the words stirring inside her mind—her heart.
Her High Prince pushed from the darkwood, the shadows around his shoulders misted away with each step.
Soulstryker fell on the table with a metallic clunk the moment his lips touched hers. His hands—his incredible hands—cupped her cheeks and tangled in her hair, offering her a promise so abiding it permanently refined her soul.
The world , Garrik repeated in her mind, against her lips. She didn’t imagine it. He didn’t stutter. It wasn’t a lie or an empty promise. The world, Alora.
Each kiss echoed it. The world. The world. The world.
And she couldn’t imagine anything other than that world. What it would look like with him. What Elysian would be because of him. What she would be …
Who she was, Blood, Elysian—it all ceased to exist when Garrik’s kisses became desperate. That easily, nothing else seemed to matter that much. She hardly recognized the dark marble slipping from beneath her boots or his hands lifting her thighs. Barely realized her legs locking around his waist when a pillowy cloud of navy met her back.
Garrik climbed over her on Erissa’s bed and lowered his hips to hers. Those desperate kisses became bruising, claiming, wild and ruinous, yet surrendering and certain and free. A hand slipped up her thigh, her hip. She gasped, writhing at the possessive squeeze before his fingers splayed across the scale-covered armor on her lower stomach.
He pulled away from her lips, and she thought she might die from the very small distance. Like the world would end if he moved another heartbeat away. But those lips fell to her neck, which she stretched for him, offering anything he wanted. Offering everything she hoped he would give.
“My stars, Alora.” Garrik panted against her skin, never allowing his lips to part from her more than a breath. “I can’t … I need … Alora .” Desperate groans escaped him. By the cruel stars, he trembled with unfathomable restraint, and she longed for him to unravel.
“I know,” she answered his pleas. She knew. She knew . Because she felt it too. Heard what neither of them could speak aloud but screamed in their silence. In the longing looks across rooms until they would at last find each other. In the gentle scrapes of their fingers as they stood side by side.
Stars. She knew.
“ Maiezine, Alora. Maiezine ,” he growled it, and she prayed the stars heard. “ Voirduti. Nayr. Maiezine. ”
Mine, Garrik. Mine… You. Are. Mine.
So tenderly brushing his hands along her sides, scraping down the silken blanket on Erissa’s bed, Garrik traced the waistline of her pants until he found the snaps and ties. She undulated her hips, urging him to not stop.
Possessive male hunger darkened his eyes the moment the first tie released. Darkened more with the next. He lifted his hips when her hand drifted between them, allowing her to palm his hardened length before finding his belt. And with Garrik’s nod of warrant, Alora unfastened him too.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t quiver, or balk when she laid her hand across his heart. Over the battle leathers, the scar she regretted burning into him underneath.
For a moment, they only breathed. Unevenly panting, staring into the depths of each other. Hearing every single unspoken promise and hope as if they screamed across that tether as he lowered to her lips?—
Garrik whipped his head toward the door.
They stared at each other. Their chests rapidly rose and fell as their heartbeats merged into one.
In a veil of Smokeshadows and his shield, Garrik pressed her against the wall as a bloodthirsty voice faded through the doorway.
“Erissa.” His voice like cold unquenchable thirst. Death inside a demand. “Get back here.”
Silas.
Garrik gritted his teeth so hard she was certain his jaw would seal into place.
“Who are you to order me around?” Erissa sneered as her bedchamber door slammed against the wall, cracking the frame.
The spymaster stopped inside the doorway, heaving breaths. His pin-straight dark hair disheveled, tunic opened halfway down his rune-tattooed chest.
For a moment, Alora thought his blood-gaze landed on them across the room. In the darkness clouding them like it did everything else so naturally that no one could possibly think something lay within. Then Silas’s attention snapped back to the princess, unmoving as if unsure of stepping inside.
Garrik’s eyes went distant. Towering over her and staring above her when his head tilted. Perhaps he was creating illusions. Securing an escape into the last room they hadn’t searched yet.
But Silas cleared his throat, knocking Garrik’s focus back into the room, and snarled, “As much as I am enjoying this attitude of yours, you need reminding of your place, princess. ” The title wasn’t endearing. That was a threat.
“We should leave,” Alora whispered.
Garrik shook his head. “Not yet.” And lifted Soulstryker between them. When Alora regarded it, the gemstone dull and lifeless, he sheathed it at her side. He must’ve dawned it from the table, she realized. The table Erissa was slowly backing into as Kadamar’s darkest predator prowled closer.
Alora stiffened against Garrik, who stood as a barrier of protection. Enveloping her, his back to danger, keeping her concealed and safe.
Silas looked like he would tear Erissa to shreds. The look in his eyes like a bloodlust spanning the course of a thousand years and his first meal in millennia stood feet away.
“Yes?” Silas asked when Erissa gripped the table, with nowhere else to run. Caged. Helpless.
As much as Alora despised the princess, she didn’t wish to witness her death. At least not by the spymaster’s hands. Her fear speared Garrik’s face. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was Erissa’s breathless consent answering over her roaring heartbeat.
“Do your worst, spymaster.”
Alora couldn’t even cry out.
Silas lunged at the princess so fast he almost seemed to fade from one place to the next before his hand snaked around Erissa’s throat.
The princess’s eyes fluttered backward as an unbridled moan escaped her lips. In a solid, demanding twist, Silas pushed the princess forward on the table, running his hand down her back to hold her there.
Moonlight cast a silvery glow against the markings on his hand, standing stark against the porcelain skin gripping the fabric of Erissa’s wine-colored nightdress. Silas shoved the fabric up, wrinkling it around her waist, baring her to him. Without a wasted breath, he unbuckled his belt, unsheathed himself, and slowly pressed into her until he was seated.
“Grab the table,” Silas growled in a voice that would convince faeries they were safe in Firekeeper’s realm, far from him. And by his demand, Erissa gouged her nails into the wood, curling around the dark boards before Silas began thrusting at a punishing pace.
Garrik flattened a hand beside Alora’s head and rubbed circles against his eyelids as if pain tormented him behind them. When they opened, he found the night sky on the ceiling and shook his head before murmuring, “Why?”
Alora pressed her brows together.
He quietly sighed. “I do not recall signing a contract to pit me as the unlucky bastard who witnesses these agreements.” He must mean Aiden, no doubt. “They better fucking finish soon.” And glared over his shoulder.
As if hearing Garrik, Silas groaned behind them, “ Fuck , I’m close.” Bucking his hips as he squeezed Erissa’s throat, pulling her flush to his glistening chest. “Wear this for me tomorrow. At the masquerade. I want to remember this all evening when I see it. Want you to remember screaming my name.” Playing with the necklace around her neck, he thrust hard enough that the table scratched an inch over the marble. Then again. So savagely it made her do that very thing before his teeth claimed her pulse.
Wet iron cloaked the air as Erissa cried out.
Alora rubbed her thighs together at the sound. At the way she imagined Garrik doing that to her. Making her blissfully scream. Making her body his , a slave to his will. Bewitched by his every thrust and touch and taste.
Her traitorous hips pressed into Garrik’s.
And his polished silver slowly raked down her face and burned into where she touched him.
A smirk twisted on his face before he taunted, “Your pulse is racing, clever girl.” Garrik’s hand clasped her hip that didn’t receive the missive to withdraw. Garrik leaned in, stabilizing himself by the hand flattened on the wall as the moans grew louder and her blood boiled molten at his stare. “Do you wish it were you on that table?” His lips, they were back. Right against her pulse. Brushing so lightly they mirrored a feather.
Alora stilled. “Not with Silas,” she admitted, eyes half-lidded at the touch of his icy breath.
Garrik made a low humming sound against her skin, sending sharp pings of lightning through every vein. “With who, then?” Cold lips gently kissed below her ear. “Ezander?”
Alora shivered. A pulsing ache settled between her legs.
“Or perhaps … someone else?”
Her chest tightened. Or maybe it hollowed out entirely. She wasn’t certain of anything other than how his eyes heated. Pinning her to that wall.
“Who do you think of when your body aches at night? Whose hands do you imagine caressing you?” In emphasis, Garrik’s thumb stroked her waist, traveled to her lower back, and pulled her into his frigid body. And by the cruel stars, he leaned into her ear, brushed his chest against hers, and whispered, “Whose cock do you imagine inside you now?”
She couldn’t form the words because Garrik’s hips pressed forward, pushing that very thing he spoke of against her. Hard and needing, sending her thoughts to exactly what it would feel like if he lifted her to towel around him, pressed her to the wall before he fucked her against it.
Garrik’s teeth sunk into her neck, tongue swirling against the sting before he growled, “Tell me, clever girl. What’s his name?”
A whimper escaped her. “You,” she breathed. “It’s always you.”
His lips twitched upward like a cat that had caught vermin.
She vaguely registered Silas roaring and collapsing across Erissa.
Every bit of desire pooled between her thighs as Garrik held her stare. And her hands roved up his muscled chest, eliciting a long, rumbling groan from his throat that thrummed into her entire being.
“I want you stretched and breathless beneath me,” he began. “While I kiss and fuck you with a passion, the likes of which this starsdamned realm has never witnessed before.” His voice dropped an octave, and she willed herself not to fall to her knees.
“The next time you gallivant around on the princeling’s arm, indulging in the thrill of his perfectly polished armor, think of my cock deep inside you while you moan my name. Because when I told you that you are mine …” His lips brushed her jawline, teasing so close he could steal a kiss. “Know I meant it. And I will not hesitate to claim you the moment you speak that I am yours.”