Thief of Souls (Court of Dreams Book 2)

by Bec McMaster

  I tumble over it with another jagged cry, my fingers sinking into his hair. Too hard. Too fast.

  The entire room is whirling.

  “Gods, Mira.” He kisses his way up my thigh, his mouth wet with my juices. “I could spend forever worshipping you like this.”

  “Maybe it’s not worship I want.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Punishment.

  He sees it in my eyes, and his own darken. His thumb drags over my mouth, his gaze following the teasing trace of it. “No. Not that either. Though I can make you beg for mercy. Is that what you want?” He thrusts his thumb inside my mouth, where I suck on it. Hard. “Do you want to beg me, Mira? Do you want pain? Will it make it easier for you to submit to me?” Those two fingers slide over my lips until I can taste the musk of my own body. “Because let me assure you, by the time the sun rises, you will submit. I’m done with this fucking game. Mine, Mira. Mine. I’m going to claim you so hard you’ll feel the bruises for weeks.”

  My heart erupts like a flock of birds taking flight. Panic. I haul him toward me with a fistful of hair, our mouths clashing even as I lick the taste of myself off him. I want him inside me. Now.

  I want him to still all the doubts.

  Getting a hand around his cock, I urge him toward me, but he smiles against my mouth. The brutish head of his erection dips into me, then it’s gone again, like a tease.

  “Are you ready for me?” he whispers.

  “I’ve been ready forever,” I gasp.

  There’s something savage and possessive about the look he gives me. “So be it.”

  Flipping me onto my hands and knees, he drives inside me with one smooth thrust.

  If I’d thought him a barbarian before, then I knew nothing. The savage way he takes me is wild and desperate. Teeth sink into my shoulder, even as he knots my hair around his fist. Harsh, sharp thrusts hammer into me. It’s an assault on all my senses, but it’s not until he pushes my face down into the pillow and slides those fingers over my clit that I realize I knew nothing of fucking until I met this prince.

  Am you ready? he asked, and I didn’t understand what he meant until I was moaning into the pillow.

  “Come, Mira,” he commands, his fingers doing their damage.

  I cry out, fingers curling in the sheets as I shatter.

  Body clenching around his, I ride him through each and every mind shattering thrust. “Mine.” His teeth sink into my neck. I’ll be painted with bruises on the morrow. “Forever, mine. Say it. Say it.”

  “Yours. Oh, Gods,” I gasp. “Yours.”

  And then his thrusts slow, his fingers digging into my hips as he grinds within me.

  A roar escapes him, and then we’re both spilling onto the mattress, his body still sheathed in mine. I gasp and pant, every inch of me trembling with aftershock. I want to keep him inside me forever. He’s relentless, both in and out of bed, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Breathing hard, I try to seek some sort of equilibrium. It was just sex—just pleasure—and yet, in some ways, it was so much more than that.

  Keir rolls to the side, drawing me into his arms as his cock slips from my body. His seed paints my thighs, leaving me milky-wet and aching. Every inch of me is tender and trembling. Maybe I’ll be able to walk on the morrow. Maybe not.

  I can’t resist a laugh.

  Good luck getting the horn out of here. I can barely move.

  He’s ruined all my plans simply by fucking me into oblivion.

  “What is it?” His brusque whisper stirs the sweat-formed curls at the base of my neck.

  Oh gods. Instantly, the laughter dies, choked off and brittle. I grind the heels of my palms against my eyes. I have the stupid urge to cry again, and I never cry.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

  Relentless.

  I tear my face away and bury it against his throat. “Nothing.”

  Keir arches back, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I will have all of you or I will have none of you.”

  It bursts from me in a whisper. “Then you will have none of me.”

  Frustration darkens his brow. He kisses my mouth, chasing after my lips as he draws me into another caress. He’s inside me with another smooth glide, hard already. I whimper and arch, still shattered by the throes of our last orgasm.

  Keir laces his fingers through mine, pressing them to the bed as he rocks against me. There’s something heated about this long, slow kiss. His lips chase their way down my throat, but it’s the sensation of his palms against mine that undoes me.

  There’s an entirely different tone to this moment.

  It’s no longer fucking.

  I can see the possession in his eyes. I can taste it on his tongue. And I can feel it as he fucks me with slow, gentle, torturous thrusts that would threaten to steal my soul if I still had it.

  “All of you, Mira. I’m taking it all,” he promises, as I cry out again and surrender to the pleasure. “And this time, I’m not asking.”

  I slip from the bed hours later, leaving Keir lying on his side, the breath easing in and out of his massive lungs. For a second, I pause beside the bed and simply drink in the sight of him. The faint lamplight gilds his olive skin, and the sheet barely covers the muscular globes of his ass. I’d like to say I could spend forever staring at that ass, but it’s his lips that draw my attention. His lips and his hands.

  Soft lips.

  Gentle hands.

  Unless he’s using them to unleash ruin upon me.

  But even then, there’s a certain sort of devastation they wreak.

  Because I yearn for the taste of his mouth and the touch of his hands.

  Not merely for sex, but in those quiet moments where he draws me into his arms.

  It’s the single most brutal realization of my life.

  I could love him. I could love him.

  Suddenly, there’s a gaping chasm beneath my feet. My heart plunges into freefall, but this time there are no shadows to catch me. Digging my nails into my palm to ground myself, I turn and grab the glass of water on the nightstand, gulping it down.

  By the time I lower my hand, it’s easier to breathe. Easier to think.

  I’m only going to get him killed. If Father knew the truth about him… he wouldn’t stop until he was cutting Keir’s heart from his chest. He’d let the truth get out to the fae courts. He’d try and back Keir into a corner and come at him from the shadows. He’d use me against him, if he had any idea of what Keir feels for me. Of what I feel for him.

  This fucking curse…. I half wish it would end us all.

  But I promised him.

  No more lies.

  Together.

  Trust.

  I know what I have to do now.

  Brushing a kiss against his temples, I turn and head for the horn.

  I have to give him the horn.

  Drawing my robe over my naked body, I clean up as best I can in the wash chambers, dress in my leathers, and then Sift out into the night to where I’ve hidden it.

  The grotto is silent and dark now the wedding is over and I doubt any of the revelers will linger here. Not while Malechus is dead. Not while Mistmark’s prognosis is so uncertain. I know he’s going to survive, but no one else knows that.

  I light the torch that guards the heavy stone sarcophagus that Soraya was trapped in, staring at the carvings on the tomb. It was the safest place to leave it. The stone lid’s too heavy to shift by mortal hands, and Falion—the only other fae who might be able to Sift through the stone and retrieve the box—told me the horn is mine now.

  “The weight of its being rests on your shoulders now,” he’d said. “Mistmark and I are done with it.”

  I don’t know what that means, but I’m fairly certain he never wants to see it again.

  I Sift through the stone, releasing a sigh of relief when I find the box untouched. The second I reform, I dart a glance around the room, but there’s no one here. The hairs down the back of my spi
ne lift, but that’s not unusual, nor is the pounding of my heart.

  Time to get out of here….

  Except that whispering sensation that filled my chest is gone. No disciplined thief would ever take the time to check the loot right in the middle of a heist, but doubt pools through me like fermented wine.

  Just one little look…. When the fate of the world lies in your hands it pays to be—

  The chest is empty.

  Empty.

  “What the fuck?” I blurt, scrubbing my hand over the insides of the box I found. No horn.

  The breath explodes out of me. No. How did this happen? Who took it?

  I jerk the lid down sharply, but a sound behind me steals my attention.

  There’s a shadow rippling across the walls.

  Kicking the box out of the way, I turn to face the intruder, both knives slipping into my hands. “Show yourself.”

  Blue skirts slip into the pool of light, and then a woman steps forward, her cheeks gaunt and her arms wrapped around her. I have several inches on her, and there’s no sign of a weapon, but that doesn’t still my suddenly racing heart.

  “Ismena?” What is she doing down here? How did she even get in? As far as I know, the grotto is locked and guarded.

  There’s something broken about her eyes. Something fractured. “I wish I’d never met you,” she hisses. “I wish she’d killed you and not Narcissa.”

  Calliope.

  “Look,” I start, lowering my knives. “Everyone wants to forget what happened at the Court of Dreams. You think I enjoyed it—?”

  “I think you’re a lying bitch,” she spits, “who ruined my life.”

  “I was inclined to be tolerant, because you don’t seem at all yourself right now, but I’ve had enough. It’s been a tremendously shitty day. I didn’t ruin your life. You think you had a chance with Keir? He didn’t even notice you. Even now the extent of his feelings toward you seem to be guilt. I never stole him from you. I didn’t ruin anything. Because it didn’t exist, except for whatever ridiculous notion is playing through your—”

  “You think this has anything to do with Keir?” she half screams.

  A glint of gold echoes in the torchlight. I get a glimpse of a tiny crossbow, and then she pulls the trigger.

  I go to Sift, but the tiny bolt slams into my hip just before I make the leap. It jolts me through the shadows, spitting me out on the floor by her feet.

  I yank the bolt out of my upper thigh, hissing at her through my teeth. “You think that little prick is going to bring me down?”

  “No.” She launches herself at me, the silk of her dress flying. “But this will.”

  She throws a handful of powder in my face, and my body reacts before I can think it through. I inhale sharply, even as I try to roll out of the cloud of drug.

  Because that’s what it is.

  The first acrid taste of the drug coats my tongue. Metallic. Metallic, shit. Snake root. I need to get out of here, get to Keir—

  I try to Sift, but the shadows bleed away from me even as my knees hit the marble floor. The entire room is spinning. I knew it worked within seconds, but I didn’t realize it was this potent.

  “Ismena.” Her face comes into focus as I sway. “Don’t. I saved… your life.”

  “And then you threw me to the wolves,” she says, tears streaming down her face as she withdraws something bright and shiny from her pocket.

  Light erupts within the room, searing my eyes.

  I try to shield them, but it only throws me off-balance, and I slam to the cold tiles. Ismena grabs my hand, locking that burning, searing band of light around my wrist.

  “A little gift from the Court of Dawn,” she says. “No more shadows for you.”

  Pure light.

  Rhea.

  I try to scream as she snaps both ends into place. Burning, burning, right through to my bones…. A hand clamps over my mouth, and then my eyes roll back in my head as I taste one last mouthful of snake root.

  The last thing I hear is a dragon bellowing before Ismena jerks a turnkey portal from her pocket.

  I swear I imagine it—did he somehow sense I was gone?—but then she throws her arms around me and activates the portal.

  The world sucks me into a pinprick point.

  And then it vanishes.

  30

  Don’t show a single hint of weakness.

  I stalk through the hallways of the Court of Shadows, every nerve in my body screaming at me as dozens of wraiths flock to see me make the long, silent walk toward the throne room. My whole body hurts after I came to in the dungeons nearly two days ago, but it’s the burning brand biting into the skin around my wrist that sets my teeth on edge.

  And the presence of my captor.

  I underestimated Ismena.

  Or maybe I underestimated just how far Ruhle would go.

  He prowls just behind me, his leather cloak flaring like bat like wings. “Not quite as mouthy now, little wraith,” he taunts.

  Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I try to ignore the burning manacles around my wrists. I tried to Sift out of the dungeon, but the light merely burned right through me, leaving me shaking and gasping on the floor. I can’t Sift right now, but I’ll get free. Somehow. Falion manipulated the light. That has to mean I might be able to do it too. And I’m too valuable to my father for him to break me and toss me to the scrap heap….

  It doesn’t still the nervous twisting in my stomach.

  He doesn’t need me whole, after all, and there are many tortures I can survive.

  Ruhle reaches for my arm as we reach the throne room doors, and I yank free with a hiss. “Keep your hands off me.”

  He gives a menacing laugh. “I’m enjoying every second of this.” His eyes flash with dark fire. “I’ll make you beg for mercy before this is done, Zemira. You killed my brothers. I’m going to cut their deaths out of your hide.”

  I lean close enough to see the glint of rage in his eyes. “I don’t think he’ll let you. You might play at being the wolf here at court, but the truth remains: You’re just one of Father’s hounds like the rest of us.”

  There’s no point struggling or trying to run. Facing Father is inevitable—it’s merely a matter of whether I do it on my own two feet or not.

  So I don’t give him the satisfaction of having the last word. Instead, I turn and stride toward the doors as if they’ll part before me. The guards jerk them open just in time, and my breath catches as I catch a glimpse of the enormous throne in front of me.

  An eerie figure waits in silence.

  Torchlight flickers behind the king—a ploy I know is intended to make him appear more foreboding—but despite that knowledge, I can’t help feeling the weight of his gaze upon me.

  “Father.” I go to one knee before the dais, my fingers curled into fists and my heart thundering in my chest.

  I failed.

  The horn is gone. I don’t even know who took it.

  And there is only one answer for failure.

  Boots crunch across the cold slate tiles. I steel myself, teeth clenched against the blow—

  Instead, a hand slides through my hair. “You have done well, child.”

  What? My head jerks up, but I’m not imagining the smirk on the king’s lips.

  “You succeeded beyond my wildest imaginings,” he purrs, capturing my chin in a brutal grip. “And played your part to perfection.”

  I don’t know why, but my stomach drops through my heels. Never trust his smile. “What do you mean? I failed,” I whisper. “I had the horn in my hands, and I lost it.”

  “We no longer need the horn.” He reaches within his cloak and produces a letter. “I found this on my throne this morning.”

  And with that, he tosses it at my feet, looking strangely ecstatic over the fact someone clearly slipped past his personal security.

  I flip the envelope open with my thumbnail. The envelope was sealed with red wax, and my heart starts to flutter when I see the im
pression of the broken seal. A dragon rampant.

  Keir’s mark.

  And his words, direct and to the point.

  You have something I want.

  I have something you want.

  Meet me at the Easternwick ruins to make the trade by sundown and bring your daughter.

  Keir

  The heat drains out of my face as I lower the letter. “I… don’t understand.”

  “Simple,” my father replies, sinking back onto his throne. He snaps his fingers and Ruhle appears from the shadows behind the throne, dragging a young fae woman.

  Ruhle throws her at my feet, and Ismena scrambles upright, panting with fright. Her skirts are torn and tattered. “I did everything you asked,” she blurted. “You promised you would let me go if I told you everything.”

  I surge to my feet. Ismena. Here? It makes no sense….

  Or does it?

  Blood slides from my extremities with a clammy touch. My father’s spies are excellent, but not even they can penetrate the Court of Dreams.

  If Father wanted to truly know what happened within the court three months ago, then he would have needed an eyewitness.

  Ruhle offers me the faintest of smiles—and the edge of his teeth. “I did tell you I wasn’t in exile among the border forts. I was setting up the play.” He drags his gloves off, then captures Ismena’s chin. “My play. This pretty little princess hates you, did you know? She hates you for having what she wants… a prince’s heart—”

  “I don’t have his heart.”

  “That’s not what she says.” He shoves her aside as if she’s merely collateral damage, and it’s only then that I see the bruises she’s been hiding beneath the silk of her gown.

  I wish I’d never met you….

  My heart goes still.

  I understand what she meant now. If Ruhle got to her….

  It doesn’t matter if she hated me. I know how he works. I know who he idolizes. Even if she wanted to tell him everything she knew about me, it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d have hurt her. Violated her. Perhaps even worse.