by Callie Hart
I do laugh this time. Her skin feels like velvet as I cup the side of her face in my hand. “You’re not going anywhere for a long time yet, Con. I’m afraid I’m going to be needing you for the foreseeable.”
“What the hell for?” she grouses.
“I don’t know. Cooking? Story telling?”
A cheeky glint brightens her eyes even further. “Babysitting?”
I nearly choke on my own tongue. “Might be a little early to be thinking about that.”
“Eh.” Connie waves me off with a flick of her wrist. “All right. Well, you just let me know.” She trundles off, and, to my utter surprise and disbelief, four more people add a stone to the small collection I have going on my hands before anyone else votes for Shelta.
Patrin’s turn comes around, and he growls incoherently as he dumps a rock into my hands. “Better not fuck this up,” he mutters. “Shelta’s going to skin me alive if she wins this thing. I hope you know that, Rom Baro.”
And it’s as if Patrin uttering these words opens a flood gate within the camp. Each clan member who steps forward steps to me instead of my mother’s bowl, and the same words are uttered each time.
“For you, Rom Baro.”
“Baksheesh, Rom Baro.”
“Blessings, Rom Baro.”
“Luck, Rom Baro.”
Cleo openly weeps as she places her vote in my hands and kisses me on the cheek. The line begins to dwindle, and something fucking terrifying happens. Suddenly, my hands are fucking full.
Every time someone new steps forward, they have to precariously balance their rock on top of the pile I’m struggling to contain in my cupped hands, and…and I don’t know how to fucking deal with it. I feel like my chest is being cracked open. After all of it. After me leaving, and not looking back…
Here they are, still willing to take a chance on me.
The last person to gingerly place their rock on top of the others in my hands is Archie. He winks, wagging his index finger at me the way a co-conspirator would. “That girl’s smarter than you. Just you remember that. Women like her are dangerous to men like us. It’s the hair. Redder than murder. Redder than passion. It confuddles our minds.”
Once he’s gone, I look down at my hands, and then I take a look at Shelta’s bowl, which contains barely a quarter of the votes that are currently tumbling from in between my fingers. There’s no need to count. No need to trouble ourselves with the math. Some part of me would like to revel in the exact number, to know precisely how many votes I beat her by, but a larger part of me doesn’t give a flying fuck.
It’s over.
It’s done.
I won.
Sarah’s going to be safe, and I…
I really am going to be king.
When I recover from the shock and look up, Shelta’s disappeared.
Slowly, the sound of chanting floods the night. “Rom Baro, Rom Baro, Rom Baro, Rom Baro.” There is no deafening applause. No shouting and cheering. There are only these two words, over and over again, rising higher and higher, louder and louder with each repetition.
She’s been giving the clan their distance, but now Zara skirts around the fire and joins me. She looks so alive with her cheeks stained red from the cold and from the excitement that’s so evident on her face. God, she’s so fucking beautiful. She throws her arms around my neck, kissing me deeply, and the snow-clad world falls silent for a second. Dozens and dozens of small rocks bounce off the tops of our shoes as I tip my hands and circle my arms around my Firefly, hugging her to me.
“Is that it, then?” she whispers. “Are you their king now?”
I shake my head. “There’ll be a super obnoxious ceremony. The other clans will need to be invited.”
A flash of worry passes over her. “But…will this be enough? Will this be enough to appease Lazlo?”
“He said I needed to accept my role, and I’ve accepted it. He can’t object.” I hate the motherfucker for hurting that little boy. I hate him even more for kidnapping Sarah. Or Kezia. Whatever. I have no fucking idea how I’m supposed to think of my aunt anymore. But I hate Lazlo the most for causing so much worry and distress to Zara. If I could wear her pain for her, I would. I’d take it all from her and shoulder the burden of it gladly, if only she could be worry-free and happy. Once I’ve dealt with Lazlo, no one will ever dare to cause her pain again. They won’t even risk souring her mood for fear of what I’ll fucking do to them.
I plan on being a good leader. Honest. Kind. Fair in all things. But if anyone even dreams of fucking with my woman, I’m gonna gut them and hang their entrails from a tree like they’re goddamn Christmas decorations.
The warmth of her body and the sweet smell of her—floral and bright, intensified by the cold—eases such dark thoughts from my mind. All my adult life, along with a considerable part of my teenage years, the inside of my head has been a dark and angry place. I started dreaming of a woman with red hair, such gleaming, shiny, luminous dreams, and the darkness lifted a little. Now, it’s happening when I’m awake; Zara has somehow mastered the ability to erase the darkness during my conscious hours, even under such stressful, nightmare circumstances, and I have no idea how.
I have no idea how any of this has happened. All I know is that, two weeks ago, I was fighting every night at the flower market, tattooing clients as and when I felt like it, happy in the knowledge that the clan was far, far away. Fast forward a mere fourteen days, and here I am, cradling a fierce, strong, brave and amazingly beautiful woman to my chest, and I’m a fucking king.
The sound of a throat being cleared interrupts us. When I look up, Patrin’s standing a foot away, holding up a bottle of whiskey. Most of the clan members who left after they voted have returned and many of them have grabbed an extra coat and a bottle of liquor, just as Patrin has, which they’re now passing around between them to ward off the cold.
Zara gasps, looking up at the sky. “It’s starting to snow again.”
Sure enough, huge, fat flakes of snow are floating down from the sky, silent and ghostly; one lands on Zara’s eyelash, a brilliant white against the dark, almost black lash that rims her eye.
“Are we gonna crack this or what?” Patrin grumbles. “I’m gonna freeze solid if I stand like this any longer.”
Taking the bottle from him, I break its seal and pop the cork cap, drinking deeply from it; the alcohol burns on its way down my throat, but it’s a pleasant burn, and a comforting warmth begins to spread out across my chest, flowing down into the pit of my stomach. Zara refuses the whiskey. When I offer it back to Patrin, he grabs the bottle by the neck, but I keep a hold of it for a moment.
“Where is she? Where’d she go, Pat?”
He knows who I’m talking about. Frowning, he points with his chin over my shoulder. “In the Airstream. Probably packing.”
Something hard, cold, and uncomfortable snags at the back of my mind.
“Shelta? What, she has to leave?” Zara asks. “Because she lost?”
Both Patrin and I shake our heads at the same time. I’m the one who says it, though—the truth that my cousin and I both know with a certainty. “It doesn’t matter. She could stay here if she wanted to. She’s a part of the family. An elder. She’d always be welcome here, and be highly respected with it. She won’t stay, though. She’s too proud. Too angry. Too humiliated. She’ll be gone before the morning breaks.”
“And the van right along with her,” Patrin adds sourly.
“Let her take it. We can get another one up here when it’s time for you all to leave. If it means we’ll be rid of her, then it’s a small price to pay.”
The three of us move closer to the fire, and this time, when Patrin casually offers the whiskey bottle to Zara, she accepts it. “Fuck it,” she says, her teeth chattering together. “It’s freezing. Why not. Mmm.” She holds up her index finger while she drinks. When she lowers the bottle, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, wincing, and says, “I have a question. What does that
word mean? The one everyone was just chanting. Rombarrow?”
I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh. “Literally? It means ‘big man.’ It’s not important.”
“You lying shite,” Patrin growls under his breath. He throws his arm around my shoulders, groaning like he’s unwillingly giving in to something he’s been putting off for a very long time. “Rom Baro as good as means ‘king,’ Zara Llewelyn. We all did it. We all called him King. And now we’re stuck with the bastard until he keels over and dies.” He looks at me and scowls. “It is gonna be a long fucking lifetime, ain’t it, brother.”
Sixteen
ZARA
His hands are all over me before the door to the vardo is even closed. I have no idea how we made it back to the wagon without ripping each other’s clothes off, but somehow we did. I scramble to hit a light, but Pasha growls into my ear. “Leave it. Leave it. Just take your clothes off, Firefly. I need your body on me right fucking now.”
My head is pickled in whiskey from last night, but I can still think well enough to obey his direction. Taking my clothes off, on the other hand…
“Here. Let me.” Pasha stills my hands, then grabs the hem of my shirt, ripping it over my head. He makes quick work of the hideous thermals I’m wearing, and then he disposes of my bra and panties as well. Next thing I know, I’m naked, shivering against the cold despite the alcohol buzzing in my veins, and Pasha is lifting me off the wooden floorboards and sitting me down on the counter. He quickly strips, kicking out of his clothes, and I watch the show, pretending to be unaffected by his insanely ripped body.
It’s not completely dark in the vardo. The light from the moon pours in through the little porthole windows, casting shadows across Pasha’s face and his chest, and I feel the need to pinch myself. He is so fucking beautiful. Sexy. Handsome. God, there isn’t an adequate word to describe how good looking this man is. Every time I catch sight of him, clothed or otherwise, I feel like I’ve won the goddamn lottery.
“What are you looking at?” he says teasingly.
“You. Your skin. Your body. Your tattoos. You told me you were going to explain what they all meant.”
“I know...”
“You promised.”
“I know. Which one do you like the best?” He laughs, ducking away from me as I pretend to throw a punch at his head. “Seriously. Where d’you want me to start?” he says. “I’ll explain every single one.”
“There. That one.” I poke my finger a little too roughly into his shoulder. Man, being drunk makes even the simplest things far more complicated than they should be. Pasha pulls a face, holding a hand over the point where I stabbed him, feigning injury. “Ahh, quit, you big baby,” I groan. “Do you think anyone would have voted for you tonight if they knew you were such a wuss?”
“That actually really hurt,” he argues.
“Just get on with it.”
“Okay. Fine.” He looks down at his own shoulder, checking which tattoo I’ve indicated to. “That’s a lightning bolt. Develeskri Jak. God’s Fire. A child of King Fire.”
“King fire?”
“Mmm hmm. The lightning loves to play in the sky, but King Fire pushes him back toward the Earth, his mother. If he gets lost on his way to the ground, he petrifies, transforming into a thunder stone.”
“Fire is a person? A king, no less?”
“Yep. Raj Yag. The youngest son of all the kings. He lives in the center of the Earth.”
“Are there more kings? Besides you and Raj Yag, of course?”
“Naturally. King Moon, Raj Shon,” he says, pointing to a round icon on his lower abdomen. “King Serpent, Raj Zap.” He points out the winding, subtle snake that weaves its way through the sleeve on his left arm. Next, he taps his index finger against the blazing sun over his right pec. “O Kham,” he says. “You can probably guess which king he is.”
“King Sun?”
He nods. “This is Raj Vátola, King Mist,” he says, tapping a stooped figure, standing in front of a tree, inked with stunning detail onto his ribcage. “His tree bears three apples. The fruit’s guarded by creatures that are half man, half dog. The first apple makes a man wealthy. The second makes him happy. The third brings him eternal health.”
“Sounds like a pretty rad tree.”
Pasha nods sagely. “And this is O Bavol, King Wind.” He takes my hand and places it on the other side of his ribcage, over what looks like a range of mountains with jagged peaks. “He owns an iron flute that he’ll give to you if you help him.”
I scan Pasha’s ink, feeling a little awed. He’s covered in folklore, decorated beautifully in his people’s history. “So many kings,” I say, gently tracing my finger over the mountains on his side. “Seems a little sexist, if you ask me.”
“Why? The entire Earth is a woman. A mother. The most important thing of all.”
“And where is she, amongst all of your royal men?” I ask, pinching his side.
He takes my hand and places it around the base of his throat, on top of what looks like a sprawling chain of flowers, wrapped around the blades of knives. He slides our hands over his right shoulder, passing over an intricate depiction of a pair or birds, circling around one another, one diving down into the sleeve that covers his right arm. He moves me down further, over a number of beautifully drawn animals—a fish, a bear, a horse, a raven—then down again, where the roots of trees form an intricate woven design that cuffs his wrist.
“She’s right there,” he says softly. “My right hand. But the most important tattoo of all is, and will always be, this one.” He stacks our hands together over his heart, over the firefly tattoo that’s already inked there. “This one’s yours, Firefly.”
He stares at me, the moon turning his skin to silver and his hair the color of coal, and I battle against the urge to turn away from him. He’s looking at me like he’s somehow seeing more of me than anyone else ever has, and he’s fascinated by what he’s found. The weight of a gaze that potent is difficult to bear, especially when you’re three sheets to the wind. In the end, I poke my tongue out at him like a fucking five-year-old, hurling his own playful barb back at him. “What are you looking at?”
He cracks a smile, but there’s a heavy, almost sad quality to it. “A beautiful, naked woman, sitting on a kitchen counter,” he says quietly.
“No, Pasha. What are you really looking at?”
He places both his hands on top of my thighs, hanging his head. “I’m not sure. The future? Something good? Hope?”
Fuck. How? How can he just use so few words, and mean so much? I feel like it’s him who has his hand at my throat now, and I’m not even slightly worried by the possibility that he has the ability to crush me at any given moment.
Does he know how badly I fucking love him?
“Pasha?”
He looks up at me, steady, calm, his eyes piercing me down to my soul.
“Touch me. Kiss me. Fuck me,” I whisper. “Make me lose myself in you. I want to forget where you end and I begin.”
He doesn’t need telling twice. I’m readying myself for him to pick me up and throw me down on the bed, but he doesn’t do it. Instead, he drops down to his knees, spreading my legs, and ho…holy fucking shit, his tongue is on me beforeIcaneventhinkand….
I bury my hand the thickness of his hair, and I let myself sink into the sensation of his tongue on my pussy. “Ahh! Shit, Pasha! Oh my god.”
He growls, winding his arms around my thighs so he can get a better purchase on me, and my whole body spasms when he flicks my clit with his tongue. I arch my spine and immediately crack the back of my head against the cupboard door behind me, but I barely even notice the pain. Pasha doesn’t surface for air to find out what the loud bang was, so I let him continue on his mission. I angle my hips forward, tightening my legs around his head, and Pasha moans into me, his breath hot, skating over my sensitive skin.
“You like this,” he pants. “You like having me bury my face in your wet pussy?”
&n
bsp; Let’s face it, I’m drunk. This is only reinforced when I grab his head and I shove it back down between my legs. “Yeah, I like it. Back to work, Pasha Rivin. You’re not allowed back up until I say so.”
If he minds, I’ll never know. He doesn’t say a word. That could have something to do with the fact that he’s using his tongue for a purpose other than speech, but fuck.
Fuckfuckfuck…
“Shit! Pasha!”
He’s too fucking good. I rock my hips, grinding myself into his face, unashamed, and he digs his fingers into my skin, letting out another dark, possessive growl. Even if he was able to speak at the moment, I doubt he’d be capable of anything other than the guttural, urgent sounds he’s already making.
A fire sweeps over us, consuming us. It steals all of the oxygen out of the vardo, leaving us both gasping, swallowing the air like we’re fucking drowning. I claw at his back as he slips his fingers inside me, and it’s too much, I can’t take it, and…
Pasha rips free from my hold. He staggers back, steadying himself against the opposite wall of the vardo, and our eyes lock across the cramped space. Suddenly, my fight or flight response kicks in, and I’m wondering how I’m going to get by him to flee the vardo.
“Zara,” he says in a warning tone. “Don’t you do it.”
Fuck knows how he has any clue what’s going on in my head, but he must be able to tell that I’m planning on bolting. It’s the look in his eyes. The mischievous, nefarious twinkle he’s got going on. I know he’s planning all kinds of dirty shit for me, and some animal part of me thinks I should sprint out of here before he can get his hands on me. I’m not afraid of him. I don’t want to escape him, but my drunk mind is leaning on some very basic instincts. Jeez, he looks like he’s about to devour me.
“Pasha, wait.” I try not to laugh. “I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you up for air.”
