by Evie Kent
With my surrender, Silas’s dark god had returned to these lands. This was the first ritual of the season, but it would hardly be the last. Fortunately, none that followed required a bride of spring, a queen of summer.
Inhaling deeply, the warlock finally eased his weight away, no longer pinning me in place as he withdrew. My hips arched along with him, one last stuttering breath drawn when he left me. Along with the twinge in my wrists came the prickle of guilt in my gut, the self-loathing, the disappointment.
Until he pinched my inner thigh and chuckled when I squeaked. A rush of interest flooded in, washing over the guilt and the disappointment. Scowling, I swatted the smirking warlock away with my foot. Naked, glistening, spent, Silas strolled to the head of the altar, snatching his ceremonial blade from his pile of neatly folded clothes along the way. Within moments, he had me freed, slicing through my restraints and tossing the dagger aside. It landed with a heavy thud on the rocky earth.
I rolled my wrists with a wince, a few of my fingertips numb, then slowly brought my arms down and over my chest. Beside me came the flutter of Silas getting dressed—a belt buckling, a zipper hissing. My attire was completely ruined. I could sew it, sure, stitch the honeysuckle back together, but my mending skills would do me no good here and now.
Gingerly, I rolled onto my side, then pushed up into a seated position. Everything ached. My shoulders. My wrists. My hips. My sex. Some of the pain had a pleasant edge to it, a bite that I enjoyed, while the rest was just a nuisance. With a soft sigh, I swung my legs over the altar, feet dangling above the ground, and cast a shy glance Silas’s way beneath my lashes. The warlock’s fingers expertly buttoned his dress shirt, flying up the center with the same mastery with which they had tormented me. On the final one, juniper green snapped to me, and his smile turned wicked.
“Such fire tonight, Ríona,” he mused, running a hand over his hair, smoothing away the wildness. “It gives me great pleasure to break you.”
My gaze narrowed at him as I massaged my wrist. “I’m not broken.”
“No…” He studied me for a moment, contemplative, perhaps even a touch serious while he buttoned his cuffs. “Not yet.” Then the seriousness fell away, his expression annoyingly familiar and sinfully handsome. “Perhaps next year.”
“Perhaps never.” Had I something to throw at him, I would. My withering glare only made his lips spread wider, his laughter ringing through the clearing. Its gravelly rasp brought back the gooseflesh along my arms, but I had the cooling breeze to blame it on now, the first breath of winter rustling through the trees. I rubbed my arms all the same, fighting a shiver, and watched as Silas snagged his jacket by the collar on one finger, scooping it up and folding it over his arm. He gave me a quick appraisal, lingering on my pebbled nipples—nipples that I hastily covered, which earned me a strangely relaxed grin.
Affectionate, almost.
I straightened when he suddenly approached me, unsure of his intentions. He always left after. He never returned. He—
Without a word, Silas wrapped his jacket around my shoulders, drowning me in smooth, soft, cool black fabric. That and his scent, so rich and musky, masculine and addictive. I fed my arms through the sleeves and jerked the too-long material up to my elbows, then stilled once more as he adjusted the fit. Pulled at the lapels, covering more of my naked figure. Smoothed his large hands along my shoulders. Fixed me. Dressed me. Coddled me.
A flicker of fear returned. Warlocks were hardly gentle creatures, and yet the way he handled me now…
“Thank you, bride of spring,” he murmured, carefully removing my mass of wild waves from beneath the fabric. He arranged it so that it spilled down my back like silk. Unsure how to respond, my gaze darted everywhere but him, even when he tucked my hair behind my ears. “Queen of summer.”
His breath warmed my lips, which parted with a soft inhale, followed swiftly by a gasp when he caught me under the chin and forced me to look at him. Silas trailed a lone finger across my heated flesh. Our eyes met as he cupped my cheek, a snare squeezing around my heart.
“Thank you for your sacrifice,” he whispered. Sacrifice. The word wrought conflict inside me, worse than the storm of feeling already swirling about in my chest. Before I had arrived, before I had even been charged as shepherd of Harper’s Grove, this night was a sacrifice. With human girls. Virgins plucked from the village to the east. Doused in blood. Stolen. Taken. Seduced. Ruined. Silas ascended to his position as high priest and chief warlock a year after I’d first witnessed it.
This new high priest had met my fury with open arms, and as we fae were prone to do, a deal had been struck. No more virgin girls. No more humans whisked away at sunset.
Take me. Force me. Seduce me. I would stand in their stead.
For almost a full century, I had done just that.
And would again.
But he had never held me after. Never wrapped me in his clothes, his scent. Never looked at me as he did now. Never stroked my cheek, brought his forehead to mine—
Never kissed me.
His mouth found mine roughly, possessively, taking full advantage of my parted lips to claim me—and not for all to see. There was no one left but the trees and the altar and the hellfire. And the storm. As he snaked an arm around my waist and stepped between my thighs, as my nails raked up his bristly cheeks and into his hair, the sky splintered. Down came the light foreboding mist, a warning of what was yet to come. Still he kissed me.
And still I kissed him.
Until the thunder roused us, harsh and violent. I withdrew first, a hand on his chest, trembling, fighting for air, and Silas stepped back stiffly, lips twitching, expression painfully unreadable.
“Until we meet again, Ríona.” Ree-in-ock. It was back, and he was gone—and for the first time, I so hated to watch him leave. I stared at his back for a few beats, blinking the rain away, then hopped off the altar. My bare feet padded nimbly across the clearing, and I caught him by the crook of his arm just before the wedding arch. The warlock faced me with a frown, black brows furrowed, mouth in a thin line.
“You owe me a kingdom,” I told him breathlessly. Brilliant white light streaked overhead, illuminating his surprise. Darkness fell once more, and I waited, tensed, lightning in my veins and thunder in my heart. Clutching at him. Offering something to him.
My titles, perhaps. Bride of spring. Queen of summer.
Maybe, I could be the lady of autumn too.
The goddess of winter.
“I owe you a kingdom,” Silas rumbled back at long last, his words rough, thick, strained. “Are you finally ready to claim it, Ríona?”
Licking the rainwater from my lips, I urged him beneath the wedding arch. “Yes…”
And with a dark chuckle and a dangerous smile, he threw me over his shoulder and carried me into the night.
I’d no idea what lay ahead, not tonight, not tomorrow. Not even an inkling. No premonitions of the future.
But I knew one thing for certain.
In the twilight hours of summer, Silas would come for me, and I would go with him…
Always.
Dearest Dark Darling,
Thank you so much for reading my dark little freebie. Surrender has been floating around my mind for years, and I’m so excited that I finally have a place to share it in. It was a thrill to write, and I’m looking forward to exploring more of the Lily of the Valley series with you. Each book will be a full-length standalone set in the same universe, and you can expect the same soft dark paranormal romance you experienced with Silas and Ríona.
If you want to stay in the loop for all my upcoming releases, I encourage you to join my mailing list so you never miss out!
Are you craving more dark warlock action? Stay tuned for the full-length dark paranormal romance novel The Warlock’s Vessel, live fall 2020.
In the meantime, get ready for Evie Kent’s dark debut in May 2020. For a sneak peak at To Love a God, turn the page and read the blurb…
xoxoxo
Coming Soon…
To Love a God (Lily of the Valley, #1)
To love a god is to court death…
For the crime of unleashing Ragnarok upon the Aesir, a witch binds trickster Loki to a cave, doomed to live out the rest of his immortal days in painful solitude. Five long centuries pass before believers of the old ways happen upon him, but they are unable—perhaps a little unwilling—to break the curse.
With his powers muted inside his magical prison, Loki does what he does best: he brokers a deal in his benefit. In exchange for village health, wealth, and prosperity, the god demands sacrifice. Material goods. Modern trinkets. Blood. And, in time, companionship.
Three hundred years later, the god’s tastes have become quite singular: women who look like his long-dead wife Sigyn. Raven black hair. Startling blue eyes. Delicate features and full lips and a voice like a songbird. Demure. Submissive. Sweet.
It’s been nearly sixty years since the village’s scouts found a woman who met the trickster’s rigid criteria.
Until she falls right in their laps.
Nora Olsen. Orphan. American. Ballerina. Firecracker.
The spitting image of Sigyn, on a solo backpacking trip across Scandinavia…
Loki must have her.
But unlike all who came before her, Nora isn’t demure. She isn’t submissive. And for Loki, the terrifyingly radiant deity holding her captive, she sure as hell isn’t sweet.
Trapped together in that cave, the game is afoot. A game of wits, survival, lust, love…
And death.
About the Author
Evie Kent is a dark paranormal romance author who loves a possessive anti-hero and a strong-willed heroine. She has been #teamvillain for as long as she can remember, and thinks the dark side definitely has more fun.
Her work errs toward soft dark, and features soulmate-level romances with dubious beginnings, along with a dash of angst and a dollop of kink.
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