by Layla Harper
Her breath hitches, hips arching, rocking against me. She cries out in pleasure, her core spasming around my cock.
Mine. “You are mine.”
“God, yes. I’m yours. Always yours.”
I come undone.
10
Kyra
“Tell me about Nagir.”
We’re lying together, Rogar propped against the wall and me in his arms. His finger runs a circular path on my left arm. He sighs.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“I do, and you should know the truth.”
For a minute, I regret asking. After a few bouts of amazing sex with the guy I love, I should be basking in the afterglow, not dredging the past into our bed.
Our bed.
I love the sound of those words.
“Early in my reign, a winter prince was taken during one of the skirmishes between autumn and winter.”
Wait, winter? “Princess Daenestra has a brother?”
“Aye, Tirian. He was captured as a boy and held for several years. Ours was not the first attempt to free him. Because of the treaty between the houses and the high queen, she could not be directly involved. These matters were normally left for the courts to resolve.”
“Not to mention, if she picked one house over the other, she’d be showing favoritism. Next thing you know, Alfhemir’s in an all-out war. Am I right?”
He grunts and strokes my hair, bringing a lock to his nose. “Wise to our ways. You make a formidable queen, my love.”
My love.
This guy makes my toes curl. How could I have ever doubted his feelings for me, or mine for him. My eyes well. I can’t lose this. I will fight with everything I have to get back to him. To get the beginning we both deserve.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “Queen Menora arranged a secret mission to rescue him?”
He makes an affirmative noise in his throat. “It was not the first time she meddled in court business. I was chosen to lead the unit. The others were handpicked by the queen. Except for Gauron. I pushed for his spot.”
His eyes darken.
With guilt?
“We infiltrated the castle and rescued the prince, but on withdrawal, we were met with resistance. It was then I began to suspect a spy in our ranks. We had taken an auxiliary route out of the castle—one I knew would not be guarded because of my years there.”
“Aelinor?”
“No. She held a position in her mother’s court, and as far as we knew, she was unaware of our efforts to rescue the prince.” He shifts beneath me, his muscles stiffening.
I turn around and straddle his hips. “Hey, we really don’t have to talk about this if it’s too painful.”
“I have held this guilt for much too long.” He sucks in a long breath, his chest inflating. The exhale is rough. “Caspian is the reason Aelinor took you. He was her lover. He was appointed as autumn’s ambassador to the high queen’s court. And he was a member of my team.”
“Wait. If this guy is an ambassador for autumn, then why on Earth would the high queen put him on a task force whose sole purpose was to break a prisoner out of an autumn dungeon?”
“Caspian and I were never friends. He resented my standing. My mixed blood. But he had been opposed to the boy’s imprisonment. He gained us entry into the castle.”
Rogar scrubs a hand over his face. “We fought our way out of Regnir and headed for Nagir, a small village located where autumn, Drengskador, and winter converge. There is a secret tunnel under the mountains that leads directly to winter. Daenestra and her forces were waiting for us on the other side. I told no one but Gauron about this part of my plan.”
His gaze drops to my arm, where he rubs small circles with his thumb. “I made the decision to split my team in two. My goal was to draw attention away from Tirian and give the second unit enough of a lead to make it into Forvarra unharmed. I knew autumn would expect me to stay with the boy. So upon our approach to Nagir, I gave the order. Our unit separated, and I went west as originally planned with Caspian disguised as the prince, and the other team went east through the tunnel.”
Rogar squeezes his eyes shut and leans the back of his head against the wall. “I should have pulled back, taken another route. Forced autumn to give chase. But I was young, filled with pride. I did not expect the numbers we faced. They had been waiting. In the fray, Caspian was killed. And Gauron… My decision nearly cost him his life.”
I wrap my arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Rogar.”
He squeezes me back. “Aelinor took Caspian’s death hard. They were betrothed. To be joined at the turn of the next moon. To save face, Queen Lyra placed the blame squarely on Caspian, labeling him a traitor to the crown. He was stripped of his titles, his family shamed. She made no mention of the high queen’s involvement, or my role in the mission. Relations between autumn and Drengskador have been strained ever since.”
My heart breaks for my guy. In the process of saving this prince, he lost what little family he had. “Do you think Aelinor knows the truth?”
“She does. She has not spoken to her mother in centuries and…” He lets out a breath. “I believed she had forgiven me my role in her mate’s death.”
Aelinor had told me this whole vendetta started out as a way to right a wrong before she decided to take Alfhemir for herself. Now I know why.
I press a kiss to his face. “You did nothing wrong. You did your job the best you could. You saved a boy’s life.”
“And my silence condemns a male to a fate worse than death. Caspian does not deserve to be remembered as a traitor. Aelinor has every right to avenge his memory. But none of that matters now. She has gone too far. There is no saving her.”
The room flickers.
“Rogar?”
He kisses me, a desperate kiss. “I love you, my mate. I come for you. I come for you.”
I reach for him.
His body wavers before me, thinning into air.
“No,” I scream. “No.”
I wake with a gasp, metal clanging in my ears.
Ilearis holds our food tray in her hands, slamming it against fingers grasped around the cage’s metal grid. Another goblin dangles on the other side, a foot or two away from me. I kick the heel of my boot against his knuckles with all the strength I have and delight in the crack I hear.
The goblin bellows and jumps to the ground.
Below us, the glass floor sways, the surface turning red with blood. The demons work in tandem to get the crowd under control.
When I turn around, Ilearis’s expression, normally blank, looks a bit livelier than normal.
“What?”
“You are healed.”
I look down at my arms. My previously blistered skin is a healthy shade of white.
Oh shit.
The bond.
My stomach wobbles, and it’s not from the swinging cage.
How the fuck am I going to explain this to the ice queen?
11
Rogar
“Here.”
Frinhol hands me a clump of leafy herbs. “Talti said if you plan to immerse yourself in water to eat these first. I would say jumping off a cliff into the river below qualifies as immersion, don’t you?”
I grunt. “That female is more witch than healer.”
“She also said, ‘Do as you are told’ and you might live long enough to see her bless your ‘wriggly orc spawns.’” He shrugs. “Her words, not mine.”
Babes.
My chest tightens. I swallow the dryness gathering in my throat. “You have my gratitude, Frinhol. Your healer too. Whatever happens with the ceasg, do not engage. You are my eyes and ears. If I do not emerge from the river, return to camp and await Khao. Join your army with mine. Find victory in Azgagh.”
Frinhol’s face goes tight, and he looks off to the distance. “You make a half-decent king.” A corner of his mouth kicks up. “For an orc.”
Bloody goblin. I wipe my mouth
to hide my grin.
“Enough babbling. Go wrangle this male-eating, soul-shedding goddess so we can move on and defeat the monster sitting upon your ancestor’s throne. I am itching to slaughter. It has been too long.”
“Wrangle?” Smiling, I shake my head and inspect the leaves in my hand. I will not question the old healer’s motives. After the blessing Kyra and I received yesterday, Talti has earned my trust.
“I am to eat them all?”
“Every last vein including the stems.”
Shoving the plants in my mouth, I reach for the flask he offers. The weeds taste bitter, causing my eyes to water. Nothing a mouthful of brew cannot cure. I look over the cliff’s edge and swallow the last of the greens. We are farther north than we were yesterday. Broken rock fragments accumulate near the cliff’s base, and the current rushes over debris and rock on its trek to the estuary.
I should be able to enter the river undetected, and, if the goblin’s math holds true and we have not miscalculated the river’s depth, I should survive the drop.
I tighten the cap and pass the flask back to Frinhol. “Whatever happens, do not engage. Follow the plan.”
Dressed in his goblin camouflage, I can barely detect the outline of his body against the rock face. “You have my word.”
“Good. And I give you mine.” Frinhol and his subjects will have a place in Drengskador.
He gives me a clipped nod and then turns and heads back to the surveillance point we used yesterday to monitor the ceasg.
I secure my dagger, ease out a breath, and jump. A count and a half later, my feet breach the cool water. The river pushes me back. Fighting the pull, I rise to the surface and swim, each stroke propelling my body forward. Filtering through the sounds—rushing water, wind, the chirping of creatures in the sand—I keep my senses attuned. If the ceasg did not ward the riverbed, it is because she had other protections at work.
I would be a booshlung to think otherwise.
Despite the cool, choppy water, my cock twitches at the memory of Kyra uttering the unflattering term while teasing her sweet tongue across my chest. Bed play with my precious mate will never be dull. Thank the ancestors.
I am grinning from ear to ear when my senses flare.
I halt and submerge beneath the water’s surface, scanning the riverbed below for threats. A blur of color catches my eye, and somehow, I whip around in time to twist my body from the jaws of a krocosuchus.
The beast swims past and circles around, long snout aimed in my direction. Its powerful tail lashes side to side, cutting through the current. Thick silver-blotted skin blends in with the background in a similar fashion to Frinhol’s mirrored armor. Lengthwise, the beast is easily three times my height, outweighing me sevenfold.
And where there is one kroc, there will be another.
Jatta.
What in Surtr’s fires is a krocosuchus doing in the River of Tears?
The ceasg?
Of course. It explains the coolness of a river that should run warm. If there had been any doubt about the hag’s true nature, the appearance of the kroc confirms my suspicions.
Treading water, I keep the beast in view and slowly reach for my dagger. When it attacks, because it will, my best course of action is to latch onto its back. If those powerful jaws lock onto any part of my body, the beast will launch into a spin and drop to the depths of the river until one of us stops moving.
And it will not be the kroc.
As an orc, I have better lung capacity than most fae, but I am not of the fin folk. I cannot exist submerged in water for hours on end without rising for air.
The kroc’s head jerks.
It is all the warning I receive before the creature attacks.
I wrench away, kicking the snout with the heel of my boot, and grab hold of its spine. Jaws snap and one of its upper tusks pierces the outside of my left arm, ripping flesh. My blood clouds the water, leaving a murky trail.
The creature spins and twists wildly, attempting to shake me off. As it slashes its tail, we descend twenty or thirty feet. My focus shifts from holding on to preventing the kroc’s jaws from snapping my arms in two as it spirals to the bottom.
Rocks tear my tunic and gouge into my back as the creature drags me across the riverbed. I shift my weight, leveraging my balance so I can release one of the arms keeping the kroc’s mouth closed. One good stab to the underbelly is all I need.
And soon. Before the second makes an appearance.
The pressure building in my lungs spears into my ribs.
Shaking its neck violently, the kroc slams me against another rock. Pain explodes at the back of my head, the blows jarring. I clamp my legs tighter around its lower body, but cursed fates, if I do not subdue this monster, it will be a lungful of river water I take in next.
Spots dance before my eyes.
I do not have much time.
The creature stills. A brief moment where its muscles bunch beneath my thighs, and before it can throw us into another tailspin, I sink my dagger into its belly. The blade meets resistance.
Bubbles release from my nose.
The animal bucks. I slip and sink my claws into its rough hide, barely puncturing the skin. Digging my knees into the creature’s sides, I drive the dagger deeper into its thick, leathery skin. The burning in my lungs expands, pushing against my chest walls until I am sure a raging inferno lives inside my torso. My grip weakens, and against my will, my diaphragm contracts.
No.
No!
Water rushes into my mouth, drawing deep into my lungs.
I slip off the kroc’s back.
For a panicked moment, I struggle against the void in my throat. Gasp for the nonexistent air required for my survival. My body twitches, my limbs and movements no longer under my control. A strange coolness spreads across my center, extinguishing the fire that only moments ago ravaged my torso. Air freely enters my lungs, and when my mouth gapes open in shock, I breathe.
I breathe!
But how?
The weeds.
Talti.
I give the matter no further thought. I am living on borrowed time.
My eyes dart to the riverbed, to the kroc listing on its side, swimming toward a hole in the bank. Blood darkens the water behind it.
Kicking my feet, I cross the distance and grab the kroc’s tail, yanking it away from the opening. Wrapping my legs around its elongated body, I maneuver us into a spin I control and twist the dagger, dragging the blade down the center of the beast’s soft underbelly.
The kroc goes stiff. A glow releases from its skin, and the body beneath me morphs.
From beast to a tusked male.
A shapeshifter.
I watch him sink to the sandy bottom. My gut tells me he was a guardian. And if this is true, in his animal form, his instinct would be to protect, either the ceasg or the treasure he guarded.
I look around, my gaze snagging on the opening in the riverbank. Perhaps the ceasg’s soul is nearby? Which means the second kroc cannot be far behind.
With my dagger firmly gripped in hand, I swim through the hole. Several feet in, the tunnel widens into a small underwater cave. Even with my heightened senses, I struggle to see in the darkness. I push through and enter a second tunnel. This one winds for several hundred feet before the walls expand.
A faint flutter sparks in my chest, like a bubble of air caught in my lungs.
I kick faster, my arms sweeping water under my body with each stroke. I will not drown. Not in this cave. Not before I have captured the ceasg. Her soul is near. I feel it in my bones.
Ahead, a strange blue light comes from the cave floor, illuminating the interior.
I slow, searching the water.
A splash sounds. The second kroc drops from the ledge where the tunnel ends and disappears below the surface.
I brace myself for the bite, groaning when its jaws close around my arm. But I am prepared. I embed my dagger in the kroc’s heart, and by the time he register
s what I have done, it is too late. When the creature shifts from beast to male, I punch his jaw to release his lock on my flesh and finish him off.
I haul my body out of the water and immediately lurch over the edge, vomiting the gallons of water I had inhaled. When the cramps cease, I roll onto my back. Stalactites hang from the ceiling, giving off an eerie glow. It makes the water lapping the cave floor seem as black as night.
Small natural-looking granite shelves protrude from jagged walls. Ten, maybe twenty of them. I ease onto my elbows. Dozens of odd-shaped stones—or what I perceive as stones—sit on those shelves.
Could those be what the krocs died protecting?
I roll to my feet and notice the opening along the west wall. A small alcove connects this cave to another area. If an underground tunnel ran from the river inward, beneath the sand, I could be standing inside one of the three caves situated alongside the River of Tears.
It could explain why Frinhol and I did not see the ceasg go near the river. Not once.
I hear no sound from the other side, but that is not to say she is not aware of my presence. I sheath my dagger. Using the less injured of my two arms, I pull my tunic over my head and make quick work of wrapping my wounds as best I can.
Then I climb the wall to get an up-close view of these egg-shaped anomalies. Opaque in color, each egg is slightly smaller than my palm and identical in size. And solid, hard enough that I cannot break it with my claw. I lower my nose.
Death.
What are you?
I roll the rock in my hand, the surface failing to warm.
Why so many?
Why here?
I shove the rock into my rear pocket, dig my claws into the wall, and begin the climb. After the fortieth egg, I am weary. Probably from the blood spurting from the chunk of fleshing missing from my bicep.
I notice it then. A lack of scent from one of the stones. Odd this one would be devoid of the fetish odor when every other egg is coated in the identical scent.
Yet it is subtle. Something another fae might miss.
