by Emma Hamm
“Aisling,” he muttered, “they’re expecting us to dance.”
“I didn’t agree to be the show of the night.”
“It’s not the worst thing we’ve done together.” She could feel his eyes on her. They drifted across her shoulders, dipping down to the curve of her waist. “Shall we?”
She swallowed. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with my new face.”
“You couldn’t make me uncomfortable if you tried,” he replied with a chuckle.
“Is that a challenge, Unseelie?”
“It always is between us.”
The words filled her with a sense of purpose, an understanding of their predicament. He wasn’t holding his discomfort over her head like a trophy he’d somehow won. They would march forward through his past.
She let out a shuddering breath as his fingers danced over her shoulder. Each digit carefully whispered down her arm. Two of his fingers slid under the soft skin where her heart beat furiously, then he lifted her arm delicately into the air.
A musician ran his bow across a violin’s strings. The thrumming call echoed in a single note, vibrating through her soul. An answering call rang out on the other side of the room.
Bran gently stepped forward, heat blanketing her shoulders. She tried to focus, to breathe, but everything faded away as his other arm reached in front of her. His hand spread wide over the rounded curve of her waist, then sliding forward until his palm was flat against her stomach.
When he tugged her backward, every muscle in her body tensed. Fire spread from his palm, but she wasn’t afraid. Instead, the heat spread through her body until she felt as though she could fly.
His voice whispered in her ear, “Are you ready?”
She tilted her chin just enough to catch a glimpse of dark feathers. “Unseelie, I do believe you are trying to seduce me.”
“Witch,” he growled, “what would you do if I was?”
They spun into movement, gliding across the floor with her back pressed against his chest. He controlled her body and soul with every tiny nudge and pressure. She knew exactly what he wanted her to do, how he wanted her to move, and she yearned for him. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know how to dance. He did.
Control was not easy for her to give up. He damned her to yield, and every time she stiffened, his body compensated. Slight shifts, a pressure at her hips, small indications of what he wanted her to do, and she didn’t even need to see his face.
Unseelie flashed by, their faces twisting into one macabre vision of monster and Fae, melded together into one impossible being.
As the violinists lifted their song into a crescendo and beasts beat drums, he released his hold on her hip and spun her in circles. She saw only flashes of starlight until he brought her back around and caught her firmly against his chest.
Aisling focused on the bruise of his lips, parting into a smile that seared her to the bone. His arms slid under hers, and her quaking knees didn’t matter since he held her up. He spun them in circles, around and around the ballroom. Moonbeams danced across her shoulders, dripped down the open part of her dress, pooled in the center of her being, and filled her with feminine light.
He didn’t recoil from her face. The more he stared, the less his gaze ached with disappointment.
“What are you staring at?” he asked.
“You.”
“Why?”
The ache in her chest spread until she could hardly breathe. She wanted to tell him he haunted her thoughts and dreams. She was terrified of his rejection and hadn’t realized that until this moment. Their travels had turned her into a different woman, and she didn’t know herself anymore.
Instead, she lifted a shoulder and stepped closer. “You’re the only thing to look at.”
He arched a brow, and the raven eye stared her down. “Not the answer I was expecting.”
“And what were you expecting, Unseelie prince?”
The violins wound down, and a final beat of the drums hung in the air. Bran slid his hand up, cupped her head, and gently dipped her backward until all she could see was the dark feathered side of his face surrounded by shards of broken stained glass.
“Even with all your darkness, you are too good for me,” he whispered.
“I will never believe that,” she replied.
“Why not?”
“Because you have a crooked smile that is both cruel and kind. You are Unseelie, yet your hands speak of softness and a desire to do good. You have stardust in your eyes, and I find you utterly brilliant.”
“Careful, witch,” he warned, “I might think you enjoy my company.”
“I do.” The words tumbled from her mouth without warning. She hadn’t meant to admit it, but there it was, out in the open, ragged and shivering in the cold air of the ballroom.
His eyes widened, shock running through him in a shiver that carried into her. His arm tightened around her waist, his bicep flexed to pull her forehead to his. Breath fluttered over her lips that was more powerful than a kiss.
“What are you doing to me?” he whispered, the words slipping down her throat and burrowing into her heart.
The duchess’s voice cut through their revelries. Her slow claps echoed through the ballroom. “Bravo! Such a wonderful performance, it shall entertain us for centuries.”
Bran slowly straightened, keeping his grip steady and reassuring. “It is our pleasure to oblige, Duchess.”
“I’m sure it is.” The grin on her face twisted into something feral. “Run along now, little children. I don’t think you want to be here for the hunt.”
Aisling watched the blood drain from Bran’s face. He turned and wrapped an arm around her waist, hurrying her through the ballroom as quickly as he could without running.
“Bran?” she asked. “What is the hunt?”
“The duchess’s twisted version of an evening out. The duke will not come to such a party, but he always expects pieces to be delivered back to him.”
“Pieces?” She twisted in his arms to see the first splatter of blood whipped across the Duchess’s face.
Aisling had never seen such joy in the pain of others. The first scream didn’t start until they reached the door. Then it was a symphony of voices raised to the rafters of the ballroom, all crying out for help.
They ran down the halls as if the Wild Hunt pursued them. Aisling’s breath turned ragged, her shoulders ached from running and, bound by a corset, her ribs protested the movement. The thorns dug into her neck. Each breath sank the metal deeper into her throat.
Finally, they reached the door to her room. Bran set his shoulder against it mid-run, banging the worn wood against the door, whipping her through it with a well-placed hand.
She careened past him. Her gasp echoed in the room, but neither of them reacted to her startled sound. There would be time for that, but not just now. She pressed her hand against her mouth to silence her loud breaths, and he remained with his ear against the door, listening for any who might have followed them from the cursed ballroom.
He let out a half chuckle. “Well, that’s something you don’t see at every ball.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, laughing softly and staring down at the floor. “You missed your opportunity to try and convince me all Unseelie balls end with a sacrifice.”
“Why would I do that?”
There was something different about his voice, a smooth quality that was like velvet sliding across her skin. Aisling shivered.
Don’t look up, she told herself. He doesn’t know how to handle the emotions that come with this new face. He thinks you were given the face of your sister to torment him. Don’t look up.
But she looked.
He was leaning against the door, arms crossed over his broad chest and ankles linked. A lock of his hair fell like a waterfall and obscured part of his face. His feathers were nearly grown in on the side of his head, lying flat, reflecting blue in the dim light of fire and moonlight.
He
stared at the ground for a few moments before glancing up at her with a hooded gaze. When he bit his lip, she was certain death would strike her down where she stood.
She reminded herself that he saw her sister. That he had loved her sister. But it was a look she recognized, only amplified by thousands.
“Witch,” he murmured, “tell me you don’t want this.”
She shook her head. What else could she say? She was a woman who knew what she wanted. She desired the man in front of her so much she could barely breathe.
Bran pushed himself away from the door and strode toward her with slow, purposeful steps. “Tell me that I’m good enough for you.”
“I can’t.”
Was that her voice? That breathless, wondrous tone had never escaped before.
He circled her, a great black raven, surveying the battlefield and choosing the fallen warrior upon which he would feast.
“Tell me you’re frightened of me.”
“I’m not.”
He paused in front of her, then slowly reached out to touch her exposed collarbone with the back of his knuckles. “Last chance, little witch. I won’t stop after this.”
Could he hear her heartbeat? It thundered in her chest, an insistent sound clamoring for his attention. “I am not afraid of you, and I do not want this to stop.” She swallowed her nerves and met his heated stare. “But if you think I couldn’t prevent you from touching me after this moment, you do not know me as well as you think.”
His knuckles dragged down her front. Gentle and ever so slow, they scraped between her breasts and then paused at the delicate skin between her ribs. “You are in the presence of an Unseelie prince.” He leaned forward until his breath fanned across her neck. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
The air disappeared from her lungs. Unbidden, she remained frozen in the center of the room. He circled her again, slow, stalking steps in time with her heartbeat.
“Close your eyes, little witch,” he breathed in the shell of her ear. “Feel. Don’t see.”
For the first time in her life, Aisling closed her eyes and gave all control up to another person. She was not afraid, but elated. She trusted him.
His hands skimmed over her shoulders, stroking muscle and delicate bone. He lifted the weight of her hair off her one shoulder and placed it in a silken slide across the other. He dragged claws down the nape of her neck, following the bumps of bones through the fabric of her dress.
Leaning forward, his calm voice echoed in her ear, “Do you know what I thought when I first saw you?”
“Now that is a foolish girl?”
“No.” Amusement warmed his tone. “I thought, there is a woman with a raging storm inside her. The fire won’t burn her. It wouldn’t dare insult a goddess.”
When he popped the first catch of her dress, she rocked forward with a gasp.
“Steady,” he soothed, then released another catch. “I thought, they don’t know how strong she is.”
Another button, then another, each releasing with a sudden snap. Down he went until his knuckles pressed firm between the dimples of her hips.
“I thought, they don’t know how powerful she is.”
The button parted, fabric gaping open, and the tips of his fingers stroked the small of her back.
“They thought they could burn you.” A slow hiss feathered across her ribs. “They didn’t remember something born in a bonfire would only thrive inside its heat.”
It was too much. The brush of his fingers, the appreciative sounds he made, the words he was saying.
“Bran—”
“Sh,” he hushed. “I have all night with you, little witch. And I intend to use every hour.”
“I have to tell you something first.”
“In the morning. We’ll tell each other everything in the morning.”
Did he have more secrets? Were they both lying to each other in their own way?
She shook her head. “Just…know that I understand. That this face is not the one you wanted to see, and if I could change it, I would.”
He reached in front of her, slid a hand over her jaw, and tilted her face to stare back at him.
“You captivated me without a face, Aisling. What makes you think this one would deter me?”
She breathed out a ragged sigh that quickly turned into a gasp when he untied the laces of her corset. She was still fully clothed, and yet she felt him everywhere.
Her ribs expanded with much needed air. Every eyelet released more string and bared more of her skin to his gaze. It took time, enough time that her fervor cooled and she was able to think straight again.
At least until he pressed a kiss against her shoulder and hummed out a breath. “I’ve always hated these things.”
“I prefer wearing a man’s shirt.”
“I’ll see you in nothing more than mine tonight.”
“Silk?” She leaned her head against his shoulder, letting it loll to the side so she could inhale the scent of poppy and wine. “Unseelie, I think you’re spoiling me.”
She couldn’t think as his hands slipped beneath the corset and curved over her belly. He parted the stiff fabric and let it drop to the ground with a muffled thud. There was still her sleeved slip and undergarments between them, but she felt every inch of his touch.
“Allow me,” he begged.
“Please.”
With a slow, languishing slide, he pulled his hands from her torso and snuck them into the gaping back of the slip. Inch by inch, he dragged the fabric down her arms. Carefully, he tugged her hands free then lifted one to press against his cheek.
Feathers tickled her fingertips.
He turned her palm and pressed a kiss to the center, only to released her to smooth his hands down her hips and nudge her dress to the floor.
She stood naked as the day she was born, cold air brushing over her hip and belly. The wall of heat behind her disappeared as he rounded her. His eyes took in every detail, every curve, and every valley.
Aisling refused to be self-conscious. She knew her body. Understood that it was desirable, the same reason why she’d hidden it for so long. Yet the blatant admiration in his gaze still heated her.
He stepped forward, pausing only when she lifted a hand.
“I am bare while you are fully clothed.”
He arched a brow, waiting until she continued.
“Remove your clothing, Unseelie.” The order was firm, far more confident than she felt.
“Let me worship you first, my goddess.” He swept into a mock bow. “Then I shall bare all you desire to see.”
A censuring retort fizzled on her tongue as he lunged forward and took her mouth in a searing kiss. He pried her lips open with teeth and tongue, devouring her breath and pouring himself into her until she had no idea which way was up.
He backed her toward the bed, step by step, enchanting her with the strength of his body, the heat of his attentions, and the desire he stoked within her.
At the slightest of shoves, she fell back onto the pillows. Dust plumed around them and was banished with a wave of his hand. Magic sizzled from the top of her head to her toes.
She wanted to ask what spell he used, but he was on her again. His teeth worried her bottom lip, pulling and plucking until she was certain it was swollen, yet she couldn’t bring herself to care. He was an enchantment, and she the thoroughly cursed.
He stroked down her thigh, tucking a hand under her knee and drawing it up so that he could seat himself between her legs. He rocked against her, then pulled back to gasp in air.
The cords of his neck stood out as he fought against himself. He growled, “I have single-handedly ended battles, worn blood like armor, made kings tremble at the mention of my name, and no one has brought me to my knees until you.”
She slid the palm of her calloused, tattooed hand under the gaping fabric his shirt, feeling the finely sculpted muscles of his chest. She lingered on the hollow where neck met shoulder, stroking the artery pulsing
against her fingers, then cupped the back of his head and pulled him back down to her.
They paused, lips barely touching, breath mingling in a heated mist.
“The stories always say the cruelest of all creatures are wrapped in sin and pleasure,” she breathed. “And you are the most dangerous enemy I have ever battled.”
“Do you think I’m going to destroy you?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes, I think you will.”
And then there were no words.
She closed her eyes and focused on the ragged sound of his breathing and the sensation of his knuckles, the callouses on the backs from fist fights.
Her eyes snapped open to devour the sight of him. He arched back, whipping his jacket and shirt off in one swift movement. Lethal, he was barely contained energy vibrating in a body that pulsed with power.
Shadows danced across a lean but strong body. Moonlight smoothed the planes of his chest and the ripples of his stomach into carved alabaster. The fire behind him gilded the edges of his form and sent copper strands dancing through his hair.
He was beautiful. A man with wings of a raven, the strength of a lion, and the eyes of a god.
His ribs expanded, muscles rippling with tension as he stared back at her. He traced the outline of her body with his gaze, and she felt it as sure as a touch.
Bran reached out, nothing else moving but his hand, and gently stroked her shoulder, the curve of her waist, the outline of her hip. He blew out a breath and shook his head.
Aisling didn’t ask what he was thinking; she knew. He stretched forward, stripping himself of any lingering fabric, and pressed skin to skin. She gasped when he ran his fingers over her from top to bottom, again and again.
He pressed his lips to the hollow at her collarbone. Dragged teeth and tongue over the peaks of her breasts, followed the line of her body to the dip of her belly button. He nipped her hipbone, licked the back of her knee.
Over and over again, he discovered new mysteries she hadn’t even known her body had hidden. He branded himself to her until all she could think, feel, know…
