Our mouths connect. My tongue entwines with his, parting and licking.
His length stiffens along my rear, a wave of pleasure coursing up my spine. At the contact, our lips separate. We grimace, frustrated, agitated.
Cerulean secures his arm across my belly and his other hand on my hip. I veer backward, and we meet halfway. He pitches up—a long, firm shaft of heat gliding into me. Our bodies fit, Cerulean seating himself to the hilt, me encapsulating him.
We move so damn slowly, the overlapping groans filtering across the park. With precision, he thrusts into the wet clutch of my center. I hear myself whimper, and I hear him rasp, and we sound less experienced than we should.
We fucked passionately on that boulder. Now we make love.
We teach each other how it’s done. We learn every exploratory motion and curious taste.
My back arches. He grips me from behind, fixing me in place, making me feel each swipe of his hips, his cock jutting into me. His pelvis tweaks forward, and I snap my ass back, the languid pace excruciating.
I want this to be difficult, like we’ve gotta work for it—like that’ll excuse us.
My insides stretch around him, moisture coating his prick. Pressure builds, the impending release held together by strings.
Cerulean escalates the tempo. My thighs go slack, and my mouth hangs open, sending cry after cry into the atmosphere. His releases a guttural moan, his body lancing within mine until we’re one figure.
His wings curl in around us, the screens pulling taut. He slams in and out of me, and I catch every inch of it.
We go tense—and then burst into a million pieces, a single bellow renting the air.
We go limp—and sag into one another, a single sigh floating into the abyss.
Cerulean’s forehead lands on my shoulder, and my scalp thunks against his. Again, we find our way to each other, our tired lips meeting in a kiss. The setting flares back to life, a congregation of torch poles and wild safari calls.
My mouth chants, blurting out a word I fail to catch.
Cerulean goes still. After a moment, he releases a staggered breath.
His length slips from inside my body. He pulls me around, examining my face like he’s never seen a human before, scanning my jaw, then my eyelids, then my ears. His brows crinkle with something akin to turmoil.
What…did I say?
I peer at him, not liking his expression. “What’s the matter?”
He gives me another tender kiss, which ends on a forced smile. “I need to tell you something, but not here.”
Cerulean’s wings pleat into his back before he exits the gazebo and collects our scattered clothing. I hesitate before following him. Since he’d ripped his own shirt, he goes without it, letting me dress him in the trousers and coat. I set the bronze wing caps onto his ears, and he coasts the teal gown up my limbs, fastening the bodice with endearing concentration. Lastly, he steps into his boots, and I slide my feet into the slipper heels.
Then he takes my hand. He weaves our fingers together and ushers me from the park to the tower’s promontory. There, he walks ahead of me and halts at the overhang, his hands fisted on his hips as he glances at the vista.
A scarf of wind laps across the valley, its texture visible now that he’s taught me how to see it. At least, when I’m looking closer.
A moment later, Tímien materializes from the clouds. He lands on the lawn, his regal eye reflecting…pity?
Cerulean ducks his forehead and presses it to the owl’s in silent communication. During my walk with Cerulean last night, he told me while fauna comprehend bits of his language, Faeries and animals talk instinctively, some interacting through signals in the wind, too. I remember being right jealous of that skill.
Maybe his intentions had been scribbled on the air. Either way, whatever he’s about to say to me, the raptor’s been informed.
Instantly, I don’t want to hear it. Moments ago in the park, I recognized the slant of Cerulean’s voice. I’d spoken with the same bereft tone once, back when we were little, when I had no choice.
Cerulean releases the avian. Then he strides toward me, brackets my face, and pushes the word out. “Go.”
29
Go. That single word rings familiar.
He stands there, creases engraved into his face, piebald in torchlight. Did I hear him right? I retreat a step, dumbfounded. Because yeah, I did hear him right, and what I heard was tenderness, defiance, and resignation. I recognize the coarse, burlap texture of those emotions, because it had scratched up my throat nine years ago when I told him the same thing.
He’s setting me free.
The Horizon underestimated him when it claimed he wouldn’t let me go. I underestimated him, too, not because I didn’t think he cared about me enough to do this, but because I thought he cared about this land more.
“You can’t be serious,” I belt out.
“No, I shouldn’t be serious,” he replies quietly, then attempts to grin. “Yet I’m rarely reasonable when it comes to you.”
“Dammit, don’t say that. You’ve got kin to save! You’ve got a mountain to preserve!”
“And I’ve got a mortal to love.”
My chest contracts, crushing to smithereens what I’d been about to say. The wind spirals around us. It disturbs the leaves and stirs up panels of mist.
Love. Now there’s a word.
We haven’t tackled that kernel. I’ve been uprooting more questions than answers about him, about myself, about the past versus the present, about fate and magic, about what’s real and not real between us. In spite of this dreamscape setting, in spite of these precious hours, I hadn’t known where we’d go from here. I hadn’t cared, surrendering to the unknown in exchange for one fleeting night.
“We Folk are fickle beings,” Cerulean says, his outline rippling over blades of grass. “You’re my exception. You always have been.” He clasps the sides of my face and leans in. “You’re my weakness, inspiring me to break my own rules. You’re my strength, granting me the fortitude to endure without you. Oh, but it’s a cruel paradox, yet there we are. You’re worth…” He sucks in a tremulous breath. “…every crack in my soul. You’re worth the loss and longing.”
Loss and longing. What he says pulls water from my eyes, beads swelling at the rims and threatening to spill. I speak against his mouth, “Which me are you talking about? Who I was or who I’ve become?”
Cerulean startles, taking stock of my expression. He looks incredulous, hurt staining his reply. “What makes you believe those females aren’t one and the same?”
“Because I’ve changed.”
“As have I, but my heart still beats in the same direction.”
“Which is?”
“Fables help me. Do you honestly believe I care less for you now, when I know you better than before? The woman who swept chimneys yet found the courage to change her fate? The woman who loves coffee and nightingale song? The woman who gives a tongue-lashing as persuasive, potent, powerful as her whip? The woman who battles poachers and rescues animals? The woman who donned a feisty teal gown and disarmed a ballroom of Fae? The woman who pretended to be glamoured, thus glamouring them in kind? The woman who flayed me alive with her unyielding spirit?” His thumbs skate across my jaw. “That’s the woman I respect. That’s the unprecedented creature whom I adore. It has nothing to do with idolizing the past.” He quirks a brow. “Nor to do with being your mate.”
I tense. “How did you know…?”
But my tongue stutters. In the gazebo, I’d moaned something indecipherable, something that stumped our lovemaking.
Mates. I’d called us mates.
Cerulean tucks a white lock behind my ear, his expression bending in two directions: mesmerized and indignant. “At first, it was an inkling. A magnetic, unfathomable pull distracted me while around you, though it wasn’t the intrinsic sensations of a bond.”
“Same with me.”
He nods. “Yet when you spoke the word,
I believed it to the marrow. Did you find out at the Horizon? Is that one of the details you neglected to mention? Hmm?”
I duck my head. “Seems our kiss in the glassblower’s forge did more than make us blush.”
“Yes, that. It’s uncommon, but it does unite mates in lieu of a natural force. I’ve never forgotten that kiss.”
Neither have I. But there’s one thing the Horizon clammed up about. “Why didn’t we feel the link straight away? Why don’t we feel that bond?”
“Because you’re not a Fae. As such, the only way to elevate that connection is if you willingly make the choice to become one of us.”
I flinch, and Cerulean grins sadly, already knowing my opinion about that. “Despite the flashes of connection, our origins created a barrier, preventing us from having a more acute union. That’s why I never smelled it on you or felt your heartbeat’s tempo as I would my own. We could assume that’s the reason I aged quickly, that I was maturing to your equivalent, but it wouldn’t explain Puck and Elixir’s growth. In any event, magic bonded us, and the disconnect was its price. I suspect that’s why it was seamless for us to become enemies instead of lovers.”
“Also explains why I resisted your flute,” I say. “And why I held my own when we brawled on those ramps. My whip shouldn’t have rivaled a Fae’s javelin, but it did.”
“Because we’re evenly matched,” he finishes. “It’s not that you gained otherworldly strength or that I lost mine. We simply met in the middle.” His fingers trail down my hair, rubbing the strands between his digits. “You didn’t tell me because you thought it would influence my feelings, didn’t you?”
“I needed to know what’s real.”
He drops my hair. “And what have you concluded? That what we shared in the park was meaningless fucking on my part? Or the result of a forced bond? Go on and indulge me,” he bites out. “You’ve failed to share your feelings on the matter.”
“Cerulean, don’t do this. You can’t let me go.”
“On the contrary, I can. Our bond is hardly solidified, as it would be if you were a Fae. That barrier enables us to separate. Yet that’s…not what you meant,” Cerulean realizes, cocking his head. And when I make no reply, he mutters what I think is an oath in Faeish and frames my face once more. “You mutinous one! Since when did you start thirsting for death? The higher you progress, the worse it will get. If I could tell you what lies ahead. If you knew—”
Shoving away from him hurts, but I do it. “I’ve never known. That’s the whole gist of this labyrinth!”
“Brave, infuriating woman! You cannot assume I’ll stand aside and watch you suffer!”
“That’s not your call!” I scream, my finger stabbing in his direction. “Don’t put this on me, Cerulean. I’m not responsible for your redemption!”
He blanches, stumbling backward as if I’d slapped him. A gust batters the single reed of blue dangling over his chest.
Shit. That came out wrong. I hadn’t meant to accuse him of being insincere with his feelings…or had I?
I don’t know, I don’t fucking know. This bond is morphing every sweet second I’ve spent with him, snarling them into a right jumbled mess.
Shadows trickle from the sidelines. The animals take up residence across the lawn, the grass etched in beams of starlight. The cougar sprawls and peers in our direction, the antelope blinks through marble eyes, and the canary hunkers beneath a tree. The fauna sense our tension, and they may be attentive to it, but they’re not picking sides. Not even the wizened owl who waits for a decision to be made, his quills tucked in.
I can’t believe I’m talking Cerulean out of this, that I’m arguing to continue this game, but my reasons should be obvious, because they’ve got green and teal hair, they wear spectacles and speak with a lisp, and I grew up with them, and they’re my family.
Cerulean inspects my features, then understanding dawns. “Your sisters.”
I nod, my voice losing steam. “The rules.”
In an instant, humility loosens his jaw, and his eyes brighten with anguish. Maybe he thought to handle Puck and Elixir himself, to get my sisters out of their clutches even if that means compromising his vow. Knowing Cerulean, he thought to make a deal.
But that’s impossible. He’s so anxious to protect his mate that he actually forgot a critical truth about me and my sisters. All of us win—or none of us win. Our games have already begun, the bargains made, which means they’re cemented.
Just goes to show how desperation can override reason.
I shake my head. “You started this, disguising punishments as bargains. You gave me thirteen days, and I mean to use them.” A gut-wrenching thought pinches my ribs. “But what? You don’t think I can make it through?”
Cerulean looks torn between aghast and insulted. “Back to putting words in my mouth, are you? Heed this: I don’t doubt your strength, and I never shall, nor will I ever stand to see you doubt yourself. That’s not what this is about. I know what’s in store. I know victory will hurt along the way, to the point where…”
He breaks off, unwilling to say it. I’ll hurt to the point where I might not recover, either physically or mentally. That’s when he means.
I unroll my fists, a sour lump swelling in my gullet. This is Faerie, and its scars are made to last. But then, so are the ones made by humans. We both know that.
If I win, he’ll lose his future like the rest of these mountain dwellers.
If I fail, he’ll grieve over me, because I’ll be dead.
Either way, he loses me. Either way, I lose him.
Bond or no bond, our link isn’t solid enough because I’m not a Fae. That means we can still fight on opposite sides.
Tímien must know I’m not going anywhere with him. The avian departs, pitching off the lawn and flapping toward the spire.
Cerulean regroups and swings his head toward the range. His profile contorts, then he wheels and holds my gaze. “You’re right. I’m not thinking straight. If it were my wild family at risk, or if it were my brothers, or if it were Moth, or if it were you, I’d tear this land to pieces. I would scale this mountain a thousand times over. Luckily, you only have to do it once.” His mouth lifts slightly. “And that, you shall.”
“Cerulean,” I croak.
“Middle Moon will end in an hour, and the servants will arrive by then. The Wild Peak’s not much farther from here. If you take the haven’s west lawn baring a trail in the hedges, it shall return you to the apex of The Mistral Ropes.”
“Cerulean.”
“From there, do what you’ve been doing. Stay focused. Stay true. Quail before no one, cower to no one, submit to no one. And remember to do one other thing.”
Follow the wind.
But I don’t budge, not until I’ve committed him to memory, because this time I’ve got the chance. His cheeks, pale scythes framed in errant layers. That single tail of hair, the shade of nightfall, with its tip sprouting into a quill. The daggers of his ears and the murky shade of his mouth. The frayed lashes.
I used to dream about him, and then I lived that dream, but dreams are hoaxes.
I should tell Cerulean how I feel before I go. But if I do that, one of us will do something stupid like change our minds. My feet carry me backward, the slipper heels knocking through the green. At last, I turn.
And I yelp as he swings me back around. Cerulean’s straps his arms around my midriff, and his mouth crashes onto mine. My cry curls between his lips as we open to each other, our tongues sweeping in. My fingers dive into his hair and latch on to the back of his scalp, and his palms span my rear, hauling me close, closer, so much closer.
I kiss him because this is all we have left, all we’ve really ever had, and all we’ll ever have. Bond or no bond, this can’t go anywhere. Not with our realms, our kin, my humanity, and his immortality at odds.
My tongue flexes for more, but he tears himself away with a gasp. His eyes chart my gown, then labor to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry
, Lark.”
Then he evaporates, his body seeping into thin air. For the second time in my life, he leaves me. And for the last time, I let him go.
***
I bolt into the tower, my heels clacking onto the tiles. My nose sniffs, and my eyes withhold tears, because sobbing won’t solve this maze.
My feather skirt rustles around my hips, flouncing as I hustle past ivy walls and flaring curtains. At the stairway, I scrunch the skirt in my fists, hike the garment off the floor, and sprint up the steps to the guest chamber. As long as I’m moving, I won’t be tempted to stop myself.
Yet…the second I smash through the drapery, my limbs buckle. My scarred knees hit the floor, and I crack, bawling until my eyes turn into dry pits. I don’t know how much time lapses, but when I’m done, dawn trickles through the window.
A gentle breeze waves through the room and brushes my wet lashes. I want to hug that sheet of air. Instead, the motions coax me to my feet.
Middle Moon is about to end. Any minute, the household will return from the masquerade. They’ll stumble through these halls, hungover on cream, wine, music, and sex.
A fresh platter sits on the table, laden with buttery biscuits and cheese, a meat pie, those fig-like fruits, a pot of coffee, and a flagon of water. With the servants gone all night, this has got to be from him. I stuff half of the meal into my mouth but fail to taste it; the biscuit dough disintegrates, the flaky crumbs stale on my pallet. The rest goes into my pack along with the waterskin, refilled from the flagon.
I don’t have time to get sentimental that he equipped me with supplies. My heart’s already a disaster. I need the rations, and that’s that.
I peel off the teal gown and drape it over the bed. After jumping into my navy dress, cloak, and boots, I snatch my whip, harness my pack, and haul my ass from the room. Mantras stack in my head that I can’t stay, I can’t stay, I can’t stay.
Juniper. Cove. Juniper. Cove. Juniper. Cove.
Papa Thorne. The sanctuary. Home.
“Wait,” an obnoxious voice calls out.
My heels skid beside the landing. Moth flutters from a passage leading to the third level, her tissue wings fanning. Her groggy, topaz eyes suggest she’s been here a while, her masquerade gown rumpled around her figure, her combs chomping on the tumbleweed of hair.
Kiss the Fae (Dark Fables: Vicious Faeries Book 1) Page 29
