“Maeve,” he said again, and she sensed, more than saw, him reach for her, a current of air brushing her shoulder.
She jerked forward, stumbled, and grasped the door. She flung it open, pushed through it, and then slammed it shut.
She slid down the wood, curling her body around her raised knees. She had tried to hold the tears back for the last two and a half weeks. A part of her was comfortable, almost protected, as though she could share anything with Rodan, anything at all. The feeling only grew when they slept side by side. She would not trust it. No one protects you in the end.
Maeve’s chin trembled, and her lips peeled back from her teeth as she pushed her forehead against her knees. Her whole body flushed, a pressure built in her chest and in her head.
The floodgates opened.
She sobbed enough to be heard, but she did not care. So long as he could not see her, she would pretend that he could not hear her, either.
Echoes of the harsh words of her foster parents kept rising in her mind. You’ll never amount to anything, they said. You’re a stupid slut. A cheap whore. You don’t deserve what we give you. This is why you don’t have friends. Maeve thought she found friends in Sebastian, Troy, and Pike, but they were all gone. Gone, or changed. Had she ever really known them at all?
Stupid, stupid, stupid girl, she screamed at herself. What did you expect? What did you really think was going to happen when you came back here? That everything would remain as it was, that this would be your home? You don’t belong here, like you don’t belong anywhere. You’re alone. You’ll always be alone.
She choked and wiped at her face with the heel of her hand, hiccupping. The spiraling thoughts quieted themselves until they were their usual background hum, present but not overwhelming. Maeve scrubbed at her eyes and sniffed, blinking to clear her fogged vision.
Pressed against the door, trembling with exertion, she did not have time to react when it opened behind her. She fell backwards, rolling on her shoulder blades, looking up at Rodan. He loomed over her, a steaming mug in one fist. He blinked and, without a word, knelt and offered his gloved hand.
Maeve took it without hesitation, not breaking eye contact with him as he helped lift her off the floor and to her feet. “Come,” he said. “You need your rest.”
Her body tensed as she prepared for some comment over what just transpired. He was not blind. Anyone who saw her would see that she had finished crying only a moment ago. Instead he stood there, mug in hand, giving a nod toward her bed.
Already dressed in her sleeping clothes, anticipating that the meal would bring exhaustion on its heels, Maeve let him lead her there. These days she imagined herself in a hamster wheel of waking, traveling, training, eating, sleeping. Rinse, repeat. The only things that punctuated the days, made them more bearable, were the growing sense of magic from this world and the conversations she held with Rodan.
Maeve sat on the edge of the bed, and he passed her the tea, its heady aroma making her close her eyes in bliss. He pulled down the edge of her covers and moved to the lanterns on the walls, lowering the wick until all the lights went out, save the one nearest her bed.
She drank deep of the herbal tea—just the right temperature—and set the cup on the table by the bed. She was wrung out. Empty, yet light. As though she might float away.
Rodan came to stand in front of her and held his hand out again. “Time for bed,” he said, the words soft.
She peered up at him, at a face half hidden in shadow, and let her hand rest in his. He didn’t pull at her. He did not close his fingers around her palm. He looked at her and waited.
Maeve rose off the bed, her fingers coiling over his, and brought the back of his hand to her breastbone. While she looked at him, she saw his one eye begin to change, a swirling chaos of color that ranged from lilac to copper, and everything in between.
That place between her heart and stomach trembled. “Why do your eyes do that? Why is it only sometimes?”
He searched her face with his eyes, and then gave the slightest of nods, as though deciding on something. His voice was a low rumble, deep enough that she felt it in her chest. “Among the Fae, there is something we call the bond. It only happens once in a lifetime.” He pulled at the hand that she held, holding it up between them. “I wear these gloves to prevent the bond from taking place. A moment’s touch, palm to palm, is all that it needs.”
Maeve shook her head. “That doesn’t explain your eyes.”
His lips curled, and his hair slipped forward as his head leaned down, that whirlpool of color clearer now. “You are the reason they’re doing this, Maeve. My body senses you.” He breathed against her, his face close enough that only a small movement would bring them together. Her heart pounded in her chest, pulse jumping in her throat. She licked her lips. His smile widened. “Because I desire you.”
Her heart stuttered, and she wavered a little on her feet, pressing against his chest. His other hand cupped her elbow, steadying her, and a little rush exploded from the place where he touched her. Maeve took a deep breath, inhaling that sandalwood and smoke scent, and that intake of air went all the way through her. She had cried out everything. She was hollow.
She lifted her free hand, tentative at first, and touched her fingers to the line of Rodan’s jaw. The warm skin jumped beneath her fingertips, and she pulled away. When his expression darkened, she touched him again, running the back of her hand along the edge of his jaw before she sank her hand into his hair. She had wanted to touch it for weeks but forced herself to hold back. Now, the strands flowed between her fingers, as slippery as water weeds.
“Rodan,” she said. “We can’t—”
His hands tightened a little on her elbow. The motion stopped her words. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he said. “I’ll stop.” His hand moved up her arm, a trail of gooseflesh rising in its wake. His thumb brushed the side of her neck and then his hand circled the back of her head, tilting her face up. “Tell me, Maeve.”
That place, that deep place between her heart and stomach, seemed to throb at his words. The surrounding area, emptied by her tears, desperately wanted something to fill it. Something to make her forget. She parted her lips, but no sound escaped.
Maeve’s whole body trembled, and she did not know which voice in her mind she should heed. The one telling her to pull away, to run, or the one that wanted to press closer? Images blossomed in her mind of what it would be like to touch him, to kiss and caress and hold him in her arms. It had been a year, by her estimation, since last she lay with someone. Her body ached.
This is a bad idea, a vanishing part of her warned. He was our enemy, once.
The tip of his nose brushed against hers, and her eyes fluttered closed. Citrus and salt infused the air. “Speak, Maeve. Tell me what you want.”
She wanted to. She wanted to let the words hit the air, to spill out all that she felt over the years. All the questions. All the hopes. She wanted him to know that she dreamt of him, that her thoughts unfailingly flew to him countless times.
Her words were a breathless sigh, and her chest ached as she spoke the words. “You,” she said. “I want you.”
His mouth brushed hers, and every nerve in her body came alive. Just the barest hint of skin on skin, and her entire being rose to high alert. She gripped his hair as her heart thundered, her pulse jumping through the thin skin of her lips. His fingers on the back of her head caressed her hair and ran down the back of her neck, making her shudder.
Need coiled in her, tight as a spring, and a warmth began to grow low in her body. Still, his touch, gentle as moth wings, scraped over her skin. His one hand kept her in place while his other held her hand between them, fingers laced together.
New tears burned in Maeve’s eyes, and she made a sound of frustration low in her throat.
“What do you want of me?” Rodan murmured against her, so close she felt the movement of his lips as he spoke.
Her eyes opened enough that she beheld his
face and those wondrous eyes through the crisscross of her eyelashes. “Please,” she said, her voice a hoarse rasp from crying and need combined. She spoke the strongest desire of her heart, ripping it out of her depths despite the shaking terror in exposing this part of her. “I want to be wanted.”
His strong fingers tightened on her neck, and he released her hand to snake his arm around her back, palm pressing at the base of her spine.
Then his lips pressed hard against hers, and she felt something shift within her. Like something breaking. Or coming together.
Kissing Rodan, being kissed by Rodan, was like swallowing the strength of a summer storm. Never before had the razor-sharp focus of another being shone upon her like this. He kissed her as though memorizing every little gasp she made or twitch of her fingers as her hand fell down his chest, petting and then gripping his shirt.
Some distant part of her still railed against this, but larger than that cry was a cresting wave of need. She drank in his touches, and when the kiss deepened, she tasted citrus and salt on his tongue.
His chest rumbled beneath her hands like the beginning murmurs of a thunderclap, and she found herself being pushed back on the bed as he held her in a controlled fall. His hair slipped around them, creating a sheet that blocked out most of the light of the single lantern that remained. She smelled him all around her. Wood smoke. Sandalwood. Clean saltwater.
Half on the bed, Maeve scooched back, dragging him with her and wrapping her legs around his waist. Her arms circled his neck, keeping him in place as his lips continued to massage hers, sucking and pulling and nipping.
Heat pooled between her legs and she raised her hips against his, something unmistakable pressing down upon her.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought, and then, thank the gods I’m doing this.
Years of dreams, dreams in which this position had led to its inevitable conclusion. Since that long ago day of seeing him for the first time, of hearing his voice and his weighted words, Rodan haunted the corners of her mind. Not even, she admitted, did Sebastian appear so often.
Her head swam, and she gasped as the kiss broke and Rodan trailed hot kisses down her neck to her collarbone. His warm breath coiled out before his teeth grazed the soft flesh there, and one of his hands rose to skim along the side of her breast. “You’re so beautiful, Maeve,” he said against her chest, nuzzling between her breasts. “You are often in my mind. Ever since that day.” His head lifted, and his eyes pierced her, one still swirling and changing colors. “I often regret your answer that night. I wonder what might have been.”
Maeve reached for him, dragging his face back up to hers and capturing his lips once more. He smiled against her, elbows resting on either side of her head, and kissed her back with just as much passion, if not more. She ran her fingernails down his back and grasped his hips, pulling him closer. She felt his desire, and she wanted it. She wanted all of it.
Bad idea, that small part of her whispered. He’ll have you, and then he’ll never think of you this way again.
She knew, deep down, that if they finished what they had started, she would want it more. She pulled back from the kiss, breathing heavily, and caught his gaze. She searched those eyes for some indication of his intentions.
He brushed his thumb against her cheek. “What is it?”
She shook her head, tightening her legs around him. He pressed down on her, and she smothered a gasp. The words, on the tip of her tongue, seemed to burn in her mind.
Rodan cradled her face in his hands, “You can tell me, Maeve. What is it?”
The burn of tears pricked at her eyes. “If we do this—do you want to do this because you want me, or are you looking for a distraction?”
Rodan’s smile grew, slow and soothing. He pressed his lips to her forehead, dragging them down her nose to her lips. “How many ways can I tell you that I want you? I want you, Maeve. I’ve wanted you for years. Needed you.”
She squirmed under him, heat rushing to her face, and he nipped at her bottom lip. “Just,” she said, “you’re under pressure for the trials. I understand you wanting to forget about it for an evening.”
His low chuckle reverberated through her, “You’re overthinking this.” His gloved hand reached down to the bottom hem of her shirt and pushed the fabric up, exposing her belly button. “This is more than a one-night dalliance. Believe it.”
The voice of dissent went quiet, smothered on a rising tide of desire not just for his body, but his words. She ignored that press against her thighs no longer. Her skin throbbed with heat.
Their lips met again, and his hand smoothed up her stomach to cup her breast. She arched against him and pulled at his shirt, almost ripping it in her haste to tear it from his body. Then her fingers skimmed along the muscled plains and valleys of his chest, and the raised skin of his scar, his stomach twitching and jumping as her nails grazed him there. Then she followed the rippling muscles of his back and the curve of his spine down to the hem of his pants.
His fingers flew back down her body, pushing up her shirt still more before reversing directions and dipping beneath the band of her shorts.
Her heart racing, her breathing coming in quick, soft pants of anticipation, something seemed to slap her when there came a knock on the door.
Rodan went still above her, his fingers perilously close to greater pleasures, and the knock sounded again.
“My liege,” a voice called from the other side of the wooden door. Richard. “The magistrate is here. He wishes to speak with you on an urgent matter.”
Maeve watched anger wash over Rodan’s features, followed on its heels by a look of utter exhaustion. His head dipped and his forehead pressed against hers. He breathed deep and let it out in a gusty sigh. He pulled his hand away from her, cupping her cheek instead. “You smell of honeysuckle,” he said. “You taste of peaches.” He kissed her again, the movement only the slightest brushing of the lips.
“My liege?”
His eyes flicked up to the door, and disgust crossed his features. Maeve smiled. “Duty calls.”
He chuckled, low and soft, “If I were the villain you used to think me to be, I would blast that door apart and strangle the man on the other side for interrupting this.”
“Good thing you’re not.”
“Good for him,” Rodan said, rolling off her and sliding from the bed. He picked his shirt off the floor and slipped it over his head. “Not for me.”
Maeve could not help but agree.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rodan
DAMN IT ALL.
Close. He had been so close.
Rodan imagined that physical intimacy would be but the first step with Maeve. Yet to cross that barrier, to have her surrender a part of her to him, would be a victory. It would open the door to more.
“So, who is this man?” Maeve asked, running her hands through her hair to smooth it out. It looked delicious and tousled. He wanted to plunge his hands into it and inhale the sweet scent, to pull her head closer, to kiss her—
Get a hold of yourself, you’re acting like an infatuated youth. Though, there was not a time in his life that he behaved quite this way.
“Last time I was here, we stayed with one of the families in the farms outside the walls,” Maeve continued. “We never talked about a magistrate that I can remember.”
“The magistrate is an elected politician who represents the people of Nucifera. Like the council in Karst or Ishtem, except this is a single man or woman. They typically sail between Realmsgate and here, as a liaison between the crown and the local people. He’s treated with much the same dignity and respect as a lord or a sultan. I do not know who they recently elected. I never had the chance to check.”
Maeve’s cheeks darkened with a rush of blood, and he smiled to see it. She blushed so prettily. “It sounds a little like we’re going to meet the president.”
“The president? Is he the king of your world?”
She snorted, pull
ing on a pair of trousers over her shorts. The loose fabric disguised the second layer well. “He wishes.” At his curious look she elaborated, “I’m not particularly fond of the man.”
“You’ll have to tell me about him, sometime.”
Maeve raised her eyebrows. “Trust me. You don’t want to get me started.”
They left her room together, Rodan brushing her hand with his as they walked down the hall. I’ll touch her whenever I can, he thought, to remind her of what we’re building.
Rodan no longer ignored a growing sense that this need to touch her, to speak to her, grew bigger than the challenge. He had taken lovers before, had some practically thrust upon him by eager families wishing to create an alliance with his house. He took his pleasures with them, but the time had often been short-lived. The longest he remembered in all his years was perhaps a month, no more.
But Maeve? Three weeks he had been traveling with her, and the sight of her still stirred him. Thrilled him. He wanted to be closer to her. He wondered if it were that peculiar way of hers, that ability to gather people to her, that he sensed? Did she possess some magic that he did not yet understand?
They entered the great room and Rodan looked around for the magistrate. He caught the figure of Richard ducking back into the kitchens, perhaps flustered at having interrupted something. Rodan let his displeasure lace his voice as he talked through the door earlier.
A group of four men sat at the corner of the room, talking and laughing over pints of beer, but alone by the fire sat a man of perhaps fifty years. His dark beard grew down to his navel, shot through with streaks of white, and he held a goblet of wine in one hand as he stared into the fire. As they approached, he looked up. Eyes the same muddy blue as a tidal sea, resting above a reddened nose, lit upon Rodan’s face.
The man rose. “King Rodan,” he greeted, bowing from the waist, “it is an honor.”
Catching Pathways Page 12
