Circle of Ashes (Wish Quartet Book 2)

by Elise Kova

  When she looked up, it was to find Snow gazing down at her in equal parts surprise and dark, hungry desire. It was an expression Jo planned to memorize and treasure, her confidence bolstered and the heat between her legs growing at the sight.

  She wanted to taste him, feel him heavy on her tongue. She wanted to make him moan around the syllables of her name and crumble beneath his own pleasure. In that moment, Jo couldn’t remember ever wanting something more.

  Once his trousers were pooled around his feet, the thrill of what she was about to do took over, a fresh wave of need leading her almost involuntarily forward. She mouthed briefly at the obvious bulge beneath his boxers, dampening the fabric, before sliding her fingers beneath the waistband and pulling down.

  There was the sound of her name, rough and desperate as it escaped past his lips, and then she was taking him in, swallowing him down as far as she could. Snow hissed, already breathing heavy, and when Jo looked up, cheeks hollowed and eyes dark with her own lust, she swore she felt the length of him twitch between her lips.

  He looked sinful like this, coming apart at the seams yet still ethereal; even with his own lips bitten and parted in pleasure, he seemed otherworldly in his beauty. Jo couldn’t help the swell of pride at being the one who got to see him like this, got to be responsible for the hungry look in his eyes and the fingers tightening in the long, knotted strands of her hair.

  Snow’s hips stuttered, not thrusting so much as desperately trying to hold himself back, and the need to watch him come, to swallow him down and milk every ounce of pleasure she could from him, was only outweighed by one thing.

  She needed him inside of her. Now.

  With a lewd sounding pop, Jo pulled away, panting softly against the spit-shiny head of him and admiring her job well done. When she got to her feet again, it wasn’t without a few good strokes along his now-throbbing length.

  “I want you,” she confessed, leaning in to whisper the words as her teeth grazed the shell of his ear; she hoped he could hear every layer of those words, every facet of what she meant but didn’t say. I want you near me, I want you inside me, I want everything you’re willing to give me. I want you, I want you, I want you.

  As if the words had spurned him on, Snow chased down her lips in another fierce kiss, tongue delving strong and wet against her own. They breathed each other’s heavy breaths, swallowed down each other’s desperate moans, and before Jo even really registered it, her knees were hitting the back of the bed.

  When she settled back into the plush comforter, Snow followed, barely willing to leave an inch of space or single moment between them untouched. He kissed her until she was dizzy and begging, soft words strung together in a barely coherent jumble. All she knew was that she wanted him, so much, more than anyone she’d ever wanted before.

  Somewhere in their passionate blur, Snow must have helped her remove the rest of her clothes, because the next moment of clarity was the feel of their naked bodies pressed flush. She could feel his erection between her thighs, not yet pushing in, but grinding against her wetness in subconscious impatience.

  Well. She was impatient too.

  So when he didn’t make the first move, she reached between them, captured his gaze, and guided him in. His eyes fluttering shut as he sheathed himself fully inside her was another expression she planned to commit to memory.

  Not that her mental functions had any hope of continuing properly once he started to move. His first thrust had her gasping out his name, back arching off the bed as he filled her completely. She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, locked her ankles at the small of his back. And when he picked up a rhythm, not fast and rough, but slow and deep and intimate, she swore she could feel every inch of him, sparks of pleasure building into a heat that would eventually set them both aflame.

  This was so, so much more than scratching an itch.

  Eventually his pace wasn’t enough, her whole body teetering on the edge of something mind-blowing without knowing how to topple over.

  “Faster, Snow, please. . .” She half-moaned, half-whined, into his neck, lips brushing against his pulse. He obliged, making her cry out and cling harder, so close it was like riding a constant wave of pleasure that refused to crash.

  But somehow, Snow seemed to know what to do, navigating that rising tide with a hand between them, fingers rubbing a quick rhythm between her thighs that had her whole body quaking. It was a rush of pleasure so profound, she swore she blipped out of existence for a second, her brain shutting off and rebooting under the pounding burst of pure ecstasy.

  She might have screamed his name.

  Even as she came down from her high, that same pleasure thrummed like a second skin beneath every inch of her, made only more prominent as she felt Snow’s thrusts lose rhythm, his hips stuttering in the aftermath of his own release.

  He whispered something into her neck as he came, something she didn’t catch over the ringing her ears, but by the way he continued to hold her tight, she figured it was something good.

  The echo of his climax rang through her ears as he breathed, his weight on top of her heavy as his breath. She trailed her fingers up his spine, to his shoulders, and back down to just above the firm curve of his rear. He seemed in no haste to move and she was in even less to push him away.

  His fingers were the first to find life, tangling in her hair, catching the side of her face in gentle caresses. They unwound, releasing her as he pulled away. The fullness was quickly disappearing as he went soft within her. But they shared an unspoken agreement to savor every last moment of that connection, every tingling, shivering sensation that there was to be felt until the very last second.

  When Snow finally lay beside her, Jo could feel the floaty high of post-orgasmic bliss starting to fade. But she didn’t want it to. She wasn’t ready for it to end, for any of it to end. So she curled up against Snow’s chest and closed her eyes, holding him just as tightly as he seemed determined to do to her. She felt his heart slow and listened to him catch his breath, and she pressed kisses against his collarbone, his shoulder, his jaw.

  Neither of them spoke, too afraid of popping the bubble they’d managed to temporarily hide themselves inside. And when they eventually managed to drift off to sleep, it was to nothing more than the sound of each other’s breathing, and the millions of things neither of them could bring themselves to say.

  Chapter 31

  Their Last Meal

  MORNING CAME TOO soon.

  Though perhaps it wasn’t the morning—merely the aftermath. It was the calm not before, or after, but between the storms.

  Jo rested in that eye, clinging to the stability she’d found in the man who was still curled naked next to her. She pressed her forehead into the center of his chest, her nose crushed against his breastbone, and she breathed him in as if to absorb his essence, commit it to memory, and store it for whatever was to come.

  She could’ve asked him then, what awaited them all the moment the clocks ran out. But Jo couldn’t find the words. She would wait, and tolerate the unknown, if it meant the preservation of the space that they had collapsed into together and made their own.

  Eventually, the tension in his arms increased and then lessened. Whether he had been asleep until now or just mindlessly drifting in a similar twilight haze, Jo didn’t know. But he shifted now, alerting to his consciousness, accepting—however reluctantly—the passage of time. The deadline of some unforeseen consequence loomed overhead like a guillotine. Wordlessly, he pulled away, enough to look at her and enough for Jo to breathe. She searched his face, waiting for whatever he had to say next.

  “We should return to them,” Snow whispered, punctuating it with a long press of his lips to her temple. “They need you now.”

  “They need you as well,” Jo insisted. “They need their leader, Snow.”

  “I’m not one for support. . .” He wavered, tipping his head to nuzzle her cheek with his nose. “I’ve always kept my distance, I’ve had
to.”

  “Not with me.”

  “You’re different.”

  “Why?” The question flew from her lips like an arrow from the bow. Pointed, poignant, fired to kill. It struck true; Snow stiffened a moment.

  “You just are.” He sighed softly and curled into her once more.

  Jo wanted to tell him it wasn’t good enough. She needed more from him. She needed a better explanation. She needed answers to something, anything.

  But there were no more arrows in her quiver. Jo merely closed her eyes and leaned into him as well, savoring the last moments before Snow pulled away; she’d seen it coming, felt the rift before it had even begun to grow, but awareness made it hurt no less. He shifted to the edge of the bed, his agonizingly perfect, chiseled back to her, his head hung.

  She sat as well, then was the first to stand and start scooping up her clothes. Jo was completely dressed and Snow still hadn’t moved. She held a brief debate with his back, before saying, “Come with me.”

  It wasn’t a command but not quite a request either. A strong suggestion, perhaps, one that had Snow rising to full height. Jo kept her eyes locked on his face, chin set.

  “Come with me, Snow,” she repeated. And then, far more lightly, “Samson makes a great breakfast, you know.”

  “I do know.” Snow looked around his room and Jo wondered if he saw a safe-haven or a tomb. “And it has been far too long since I’ve enjoyed it.”

  Jo felt her face relax into a smile, her shoulders sink toward the floor as relief tugged happily on her palms. Snow finally stood, strolling over to a wide wardrobe, carefully picking out an outfit. His selection process gave Jo an opportunity to wander the room, her curiosity nothing more than an excuse to hide her shameless glances at him. That was, until something caught her eye.

  Jo paused at a low table just beneath a window, one she’d overlooked on her first assessment of the room. It was obsidian, the only bit of furniture that wasn’t made of wood. At its center stood a small box, crafted of gold and silver. The ornate designs, patterns of no particular logic, glinted in the sunlight. The whole of her attention was on it and, as if in a trance, Jo reached out a hand.

  Snow’s fingers wrapped around hers, stopping her before her skin could make contact with the box. Jo’s gaze flew to his and they locked eyes for several long moments. His face was passive, void of expression.

  “Do you know what it is?” he asked softly.

  She shouldn’t. “I recognize it.” Why?

  “From where?” His voice was little more than a husky whisper. But it was not sensuality that put the gravel under his words. It was. . . fear? Had she read that flash of emotion correctly?

  Jo looked back at the box, trying to place it. “The room you took me to.” She remembered suddenly. “Where you grant the wishes. You had it there. Inside is the magic you use to destroy worlds.”

  His fingers tensed on hers, drawing Jo’s eyes back to him. Snow’s brow furrowed. His lips pursed. Whatever internal battle was raging, he wasn’t about to give it voice.

  “Yes.” His tone had changed again to something gentler, more tender. He brought her hand, still encapsulated in his, to his lips and planted a soft kiss on her fingertips. “Do not touch it, Josephina.”

  “Why?” It should be obvious: the power to destroy worlds was inside. But something in the way he said it—

  “That is a great power, Destruction. One that should not meet with you.” And with that, Snow walked away, fussing with a cufflink.

  Jo took one more look at the box, turned to stare back at him, then followed. She would allow him this secret without a fight. She was too tired for fighting and, even if she wasn’t, this was his secret to keep. It was his magic, after all.

  “Should we stagger ourselves?” she asked, thinking of Wayne’s warning.

  “No point. I’ve no doubt they already have surmised the situation.” He adjusted the collar of his shirt, looking positively regal. Well, he was a royal demigod at one point, after all. For as much as she wasn’t exactly surprised, it was still a realization that floored her.

  “I guess you’re right,” she admitted to herself as much as him, and led the way toward the common room.

  Most of the rest of the team was there. Samson stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking at the oven as if willing it to cook something for him so that he would not have to put forth the effort. Eslar sat at the chess table with a book, though it didn’t seem he was reading or playing. Wayne and Takako were at the couch, silently staring at the blank screen of the television.

  Nico was nowhere to be found; his watch was still sitting on the recreation room shelf, Jo had noticed as they’d passed, so it was safe to say he hadn’t yet left.

  “What’s for breakfast?” Jo asked softly to Samson.

  He seemed to startle at her voice, then startle again when he saw Snow. “I-I haven’t decided yet. . .”

  “You made sweet cinnamon toast once and it was divine. . . if I may make a suggestion,” Snow said in a soothing tone. For a long moment, Samson didn’t seem to know how to respond, unblinking eyes locked on Snow and set wide. But before it could get awkward, Samson shook his head and let out a soft breath of laughter.

  “You remember that, huh?” He was suddenly moving, picking out a skillet and gathering ingredients. “When was that?”

  “Not long after the fall of the Age of Magic.”

  The little discussion had drawn the attention of the others in the room. Eslar was the first to come over, sitting on Snow’s other side.

  “That morning was a while ago, just the three of us.” Eslar folded his hands, still looking at nothing and no one in particular. “How many breakfasts have we shared since? How many wishes granted?”

  “Both are numbers too great to count.” Snow shared a small smile of camaraderie with the elf, one that was quickly abandoned.

  Wayne and Takako eventually came over as well, though Jo couldn’t remember when or why. They didn’t say anything, just sort of appeared. Samson cooked, the skillet sizzled, and the room was heavy with silence.

  But for the first time, she didn’t want the weight alleviated, because if—when—it was, there would be no turning back.

  The food was delicious, as expected of Samson’s incredible skill, but that didn’t diminish the looming sensation that they were consuming a “last meal.” Regardless, they shared it in quiet solidarity, no small talk brave enough or bold enough to fill the gap of wordlessness.

  Jo pushed herself away from the counter, dismounting from her stool. There was someone missing, she realized. Someone else who needed to share this last, silent display of unity. She turned toward the hall, ready to hunt the missing teammate down, and nearly jumped from her skin.

  “Well, isn’t this somber?” Pan lounged in the doorframe. For the first time since Jo had met the mysterious not-quite-woman, Pan appeared muted. Her hair was done in a natural blonde, strands stick straight and hanging just past her shoulders. Also unlike her usually eccentric appearance, she wore nothing more than a simple, tailored suit, cloth sitting snug around her petite frame. A thin, red ribbon accompanied the high-collared button-up, shockingly bright against the black layers of fabric.

  “When did you get here?” Jo asked, the memory of Pan appearing out of nowhere right before the wish jolting back to the forefront of her mind.

  Pan merely shrugged. “We should get started.”

  “Pan—” Snow began to say.

  “It’s time, Snow.” Time for what? Jo wanted to scream. But she could barely find air enough to breathe. “They’ve run out of hours on the clock and the gap is still too wide. Call the meeting.”

  All eyes pivoted back to Snow. He stared at Pan, and Pan only, as if waging silent war against the woman herself. Through gritted teeth, Snow finally spoke: “Everyone. To the briefing room.”

  Everyone stood silently, obediently, pulled along by an unknown thread.

  “I’ll go get Nico,” Jo offered, sprinting
ahead of the rest. She slowed just long enough to give a long, hard look at Pan. But the other woman just smiled on, turning to saunter ahead of the pack toward the briefing room.

  Jo got to Nico’s recreation room and had a long debate with the door. She waited for courage to find her, and when none came, she pretended just long enough to give a solid knock.

  The door cracked open, revealing a sliver of face and a bright red eye.

  “Jo. . .” Nico said softly, pulling open the door the rest of the way. The man disappeared behind the door itself, leaving that as her only invitation to walk in. She took it with painfully hesitant steps.

  A canvas stood on the easel. Paint was smeared and splattered on it in a pattern Jo needed no magic to interpret. Rage, pain, hurt—it was all there, plain as day. If she could see it, then it didn’t bode well for anything else working on any sort of deeper level.

  Nico leaned against the wall behind the door, staring at her listlessly.

  “There’s a meeting.”

  That was all it took. He crumpled, burying his eyes in the heels of his hands and resting his elbows on his knees as he sank to the floor. She heard the tears before she saw them and was instantly at his side, holding him once more.

  “I tried, I tried!” he repeated, over and over with agonizing repetition.

  “I know. . .” she whispered, smoothing her hands over his shoulders and back. “No one blames you.”

  “How can they not? I was the last line of defense, our last hope, and I—”

  “I failed from the start.” She’d put a stop to that line of thinking then and there. “We all failed. This is our collective failure, and we’ll all stand together for whatever comes next.”

  Nico’s hands reached for her, clinging to her in a way even Snow hadn’t. Jo hoped no one would ever cling to her in this way ever again.

  “I’ll be there,” she whispered, as if that meant anything, as if it could solve anything.