Court of Shadows

by Miranda Honfleur

  His lips were soft against hers, his tongue delicate in its playful probing. They kissed for what felt like hours, and she just enjoyed the simple pleasure, the desire simmering in every part of her body as his tantalizing hands explored further and further. Her hips lightly rocked against him, and when he finally reached down and touched her where she ached for him, she gasped, pulling the air from his mouth.

  “I need you inside me,” she pleaded, tightening her hold, wriggling closer to him. “Please.” She reached down between them, her fingers brushing against him. In all the years she’d seen his nakedness, it had only even been like this once, in Xir, powerful, magnetic, and it had never quit her mind.

  “Not yet.” He teased her tender flesh, made her shiver, made pleasure softly bloom and little moans tremble from her lips between kisses. She tried to angle her hips against his hand impatiently, but he smiled against her mouth and took his time, intensified her need, built it to intolerable height, made anxious tears well in her eyes. “Not. Yet.”

  “You're too cruel, Brennan Karandis Marcel,” she whispered.

  A quiet half-laugh rumbled in his throat as he gazed down at her, his eyes hooded and serene, a corner of his mouth turned up.

  “Am I?” he asked, at last drawing his fingertips where she wanted him, his touch silken and firming, perfect, making her back arch as she leaned into him and moaned: the man knew what he was doing.

  The immense pressure rose and rose and rose, the exquisite ache unendurable, making her weep, making her writhe, twist, scream—“Now,” he said—and then it broke, overflowing in powerful quakes, pounding through her like ancient music, possessing every inch of her consumed body with living, breathing heat that only demanded, demanded, demanded as her hips bucked against his touch.

  “Tell me how it feels when I touch you,” he rasped in her ear. “Tell me.” His voice turned rougher, deeper.

  “Like dying,” she whimpered, as shudders of pleasure rocked through her, “and being… reborn—”

  His mouth devoured her next words, seducing her tongue in slow, soft kisses that deepened, mounting in urgency. She moved, pushing against him, but to no avail.

  A wicked laugh vibrated into her mouth, and she had time only to gasp when he lunged to loop his arm under her leg, hoisting it over his shoulder, her backside in his lap.

  Through her dreamy haze, she watched him on his knees and absorbed every inch. His body appeared designed for pleasure, rippling muscle, broad shoulders, and large, skillful hands… Her gaze traveled lower, over gleaming dark skin, his sculpted abdomen, and—her head swam at the prospect of becoming one with him.

  An amused huff directed her gaze up to his face, refined strength, powerful lines with sinful curves; and his eyes, Great Divine, his eyes were sex personified, passionate hazel darkened with desire, laughing at her, teasing her, with a predatory gleam.

  “Brennan,” she heard herself say again, a short-winded whine, exhausted but craving.

  “Again,” he said, his blazing heat pressed against her, just there, close, so close—

  “Brennan,” she whimpered, breaking off into a gasp as he drove into her at last, slow and deep, a ripple of pleasure cascading through her body, leaving her gaping, reluctant to even breathe for fear of diluting the feel.

  His eyes flashed amber, but he blinked it away. A low hiss fell from his lips, and holding her gaze, he rolled his hips against her, a deep grind that made her belly contract.

  A shaky exhalation was all she could manage. This was what it meant to be his lover, his fiancée, his soon-to-be bride. This was what it meant to belong to him.

  It was the promise of that sultry night in House Hazael, never lingering too far in her memory, at long last fulfilled.

  His gaze never left hers as he thrust a slow, powerful rhythm, using his hold on her hip to guide her to him each time. Need contracted her body, rattled her, his every movement making her quiver, and with a raging intensity, he watched her, tautness walling his body, holding something at bay, something that threatened to escape, and to dominate.

  She reached up, shaky palms worshipping his damp, hard abdomen, the solid muscle of his chest—

  Still kneeling, he captured her other thigh, positioned them both against his abdomen, her backside still on his lap as he stroked her legs up to her ankles on either side of his head. He kissed her calf before seizing her wrists and, leaning forward, locking her hands down on either side of her.

  His thrusts turned deep, hard, forcing moans from her open mouth, and they only became deeper, harder as he grabbed her hands and pinned them behind her head, his body bearing down on her, the pressure mounting, heat flooding her core.

  Unable to move, she’d been given the ultimate freedom. No thought but this, no feeling but this, and her body could do anything, move in any way, and she could give herself over to pleasure entirely, knowing he would keep her from going too far, keep her grounded, keep her safe.

  He anchored her wrists in the grip of one palm, and his rhythm merciless and controlled, he covered her moaning mouth with the other.

  She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the ceaseless sensation between her legs, screamed into his hand, let the pleasure tear from her throat, as loud as it needed, but the sound muffled into his palm, bottled within her.

  He huffed a quavering breath, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he thrust faster, rougher, and she lost herself in his rhythm, writhing on the blanket as the throbbing in her lower body intensified, built and built, its pulse pounding deeper, heavier, harder, until his palm released her and the pleasure fled her mouth in tremulous breaths.

  She looked at him through a blurry haze; amber burned in his eyes, a warm glow in the dark, otherworldly and yet familiar. Brennan.

  Brennan, who Changed with the moon. Brennan, who’d saved her more times than she could count. Brennan, who loved her. “Brennan,” she breathed, more of a sob than a word as she squeezed her eyes shut and ground her hips against his. “I love you.”

  With a blink, he drew away, and her backside met the blanket, her thighs a sprawled, exhausted, quivering heap.

  His mouth crashed against hers, and when he finally took her anew, she exhaled sharply, her hands climbing his rigid arms, traveling his taut back, greedy for every part of him with a need that only wanted and wanted, despite the satisfaction and pleasant ache of her spent body. She could spend hours like this, days like this, weeks, and it would never be enough, never be enough of him.

  With an eager tongue, he plundered her mouth as the throbbing in her core mounted again, making her breathe shakily between his hungry kisses.

  She locked her arms around his neck, breathing raggedly as she slid a trembling hand along his back, fanned out her fingers to firmly press them into his flesh, wrapping her legs around him. His mouth broke away only to descend to her neck, the feel of his lips, his tongue making her close her eyes and pull him closer.

  His teeth grazed her tender skin, a soft bite, the shivery caress a rippling drop on the surface of her overflowing pleasure, veering dangerously into too much sensation until he pulled back, moving one of her legs before him to roll her onto her belly.

  “On your knees,” he whispered.

  Great Divine, yes. Her palms found the blanket, and her head spinning, she attempted to comply, but her legs didn’t feel like her legs anymore. He snaked an arm under her belly and raised her backside to his level.

  She pushed against him, arched her spine, and he grabbed her hips, then took her mercilessly, powerfully, pulling her toward him with every thrust, maddened, wild, rough, one palm leaving her hip only to seize a thick fistful of her hair at the base of her neck. His every breath scintillated her ears, forceful exhalations that lengthened, deepened, crescendoed. He dragged her closer, tighter, lengthening and deepening his thrusts as he pulsed inside her. He was about to—

  With a gasp, she spasmed, contracting as pleasure pounded inside her, weeping and panting and screaming, tea
rs warming down her face to her chin.

  Raw moans tore through him as he shuddered; she rotated her hips, her mouth falling open at the sensation until she found her pleasure again, whimpering. He curled over her, the heat of his full body pressed against her back, his chest to her shoulder blades, his face to her neck, and he held her through the shaking, whispered soft words in her ear she couldn’t discern, and kissed her neck until the pulsing in her blood subsided.

  Blissful quiet claimed the glade, only his breaths and hers marking the silence, his hold the only thing keeping her together as his strong body rested against her back, the press of an inhale, the release of an exhale, his hair feathering against her neck, a soft kiss revering her bare skin.

  His hold on her loosened, and he moved only to lay down on the blanket and pull her to him, thread an arm under her neck, and nestle her against his chest in a close embrace. She rested her cheek on him, listening to his breath slow, enjoying the soft play of his fingers against her upper arm. Her nose itched, but too exhausted to move, she let it itch. As a yawn approached, she closed her eyes and let them stay closed.

  Brennan kissed her head, a soft press of his lips—once, twice, a third time, and then he lingered. “You said you love me.” A quiet rasp.

  She nodded. “I did.”

  He nuzzled her hair, breathing in deeply. “And now?” A grin rode his question.

  “I still love you.” A little laugh escaped her. “Maybe a little more, even, after that performance.”

  Nose buried in her hair, he inhaled lengthily, deeply several times. What was he doing?

  She blushed. “Are you—?”

  “If I suffocated and died in this intoxicating scent, it would be a good death.”

  She tried to wriggle away, but he held her tight. “Did you inhale all your other lovers?”

  “You’re not ‘other lovers.’” He moved away and rolled onto his side. When she opened her eyes, he smiled, gazing at her with warm hazel affection. He brushed a curl away from her face, cupped her cheek, leaned in and kissed her gently, stroking her shoulder and arm in that hypnotic back-and-forth motion she’d grown used to. “Was it all right?” he asked delicately between kisses.

  She moaned softly, happily. Certain things he’d done, demanded, had been new and unusual to her, but some part of her had expected the unexpected with him. He’d always had a need to control, a sensitivity to power, and yet an uncommon generosity that somehow all made sense tonight. And she’d loved every second. “More than all right.”

  “Nothing was too much?” Those fingertips of his lulled her into deeper relaxation.

  “It was perfect.” He was perfect.

  “I’ve waited for you all my life, Rielle,” he whispered, his fingers playing softly in her hair. He lowered his gaze for a moment. “There are things I can never give you—magic, resonance—but I want you to know that for the rest of our lives, I will gladly give and give and give until you are unable to take any more.”

  He’d already made good on that promise tonight.

  She reached for his face and urged him down to hers. His kiss, soft at first, slowly deepened as he stroked her with a gentle hand, gliding over her skin, cupping her breast, and whispering over her navel before grasping her hip and pulling her to him anew.

  She huffed against his lips, but couldn’t resist wrapping a leg around him anyway. “You’re not sleepy?”

  A laugh rumbled in his throat, low and rolling. “You shouldn’t plan on sleeping tonight, Rielle. Or any time soon. Or doing much during the day. As a matter of fact, just clear your schedule entirely.”

  Her face heated. “But aboard the ship—”

  “I will take you.”

  “And in close quarters—”

  “Every night.”

  “With no privacy—”

  “Hard.”

  She grinned up at him, at the sinful gleam in his eyes.

  “Does that please you?”

  She threaded her fingers through his hair and urged his mouth down to hers. It pleased her. It pleased her very much.

  Chapter 10

  Jon opened his eyes to Derric’s nudging at his shoulder. The earliest glow of dawn filtered into the Trèstellan chapel.

  “It’s time, my son,” Derric said softly, flanked by a group of Terran priests.

  Jon rubbed his eyes. The morning of the coronation. He’d observed a night of vigil before the Sacre, spent in prayer, and it was finally time.

  They escorted him to his quarters, where after he washed and shaved, they assisted in dressing him. The vigil had been a night of reflection and prayer, and he’d spent the night thinking about his dreams. As a boy, he’d wanted nothing more than to be a paladin and serve others. He’d never wanted anything for himself, really, until her.

  After they’d left the Tower together, he’d slowly allowed himself to want a future. And then, once they’d reached Melain, to hope for it. A life lived together, honest with her, sharing an unbreakable trust, making her happy for as long as he lived. Having children if she wanted them, watching them grow up. Growing old with her. Dying hand in hand, surrounded by family and love, having lived well and long.

  Dreams, idyllic as they were, could be cruel when they were unattainable. Like dreams of water to a sun-parched man who would die of thirst.

  He’d decided that, when the time came to open his eyes from his vigil, he’d open his eyes from his dreams.

  And he’d opened them. Once he was crowned, he wouldn’t go back to dreaming of water, even as he died of thirst. He’d lost Rielle, and he needed to let go of his dreams of the life he’d wanted with her—a life that now could never be. His time with her had been about what he’d wanted, but now he needed to return to service over self.

  He could still be who he’d always been: the paladin, but made king. Emaurria’s blade. Terra’s justice. And champion of right.

  That he could do.

  While they put on his coronation robes, he chose who would participate in the coronation.

  It was a formality, nothing more, as the nobles had all been chosen already.

  The Duke of Maerleth Tainn and Brennan’s father, Faolan Auvray Marcel, despite his duplicity, was to carry the royal crown, gird Faithkeeper, and give him the order of chivalry. The Duchess of Melain, Rielle’s great-grandmother, would carry the first square banner, and her son, the Marquis of Sauveterre, Marquis Sébastien Duclos Auvray, would carry the second square banner.

  The duchess’s brother, Marquis Auguste Vignon Duclos of Montvilliers would carry the spurs, while Marquis Jean Vignon Armel of Quatrebeaux would carry Faithkeeper. It would be his first time meeting the late queen’s—his mother’s—father. My grandfather.

  And finally, Marquis Perceval Auvray Amadour of Villecourt, Rielle’s great uncle, would carry the banner of war.

  Olivia would bear the Sacred Ampoule, containing the myrrh used in the anointing oil used during the coronation of the first Farallan king, and the Sacred Chalice.

  When he was finally dressed, he had a moment to himself. In the mirror, the sapphire-blue coronation robe had a six-foot train and was completely lined in white satin, trimmed in a half a foot of ermine fur around the entire perimeter, with a large foot-and-a-half ermine caplet about his shoulders. Two dragons’ heads anchor medallions secured a heavy, golden closure chain.

  Beneath, he wore well-tailored white trousers, black riding boots, and a fitted military coat of the finest black wool, adorned with the king’s sash. He fingered a shiny gold button, perfectly matched to the rest, all in a straight, neat line. Here he stood, in royal finery, in the royal apartment. The extravagance was appalling, but it was tradition.

  With this, he’d be sworn. He’d quell all threats to the succession. While he’d been fighting in the heartland, Princess Sandrine had sent a covert force to Emaurria that had gotten as far as Costechelle before the paladins had routed them. After his coronation, her odds of success would plummet.

  Just before
the doors to the hallway, he rested a palm on the upholstered wall—he’d pressed Rielle against this wall the night of Veris. His fingers brushed the corded silk where her head had rested, then her cheek.

  It was a dream.

  He turned back and crossed the dining room, where he’d carried her, through and to the study, to his desk, where he’d laid her on the purple-heartwood surface. He braced over it, heaving a deep breath. She’d whispered in his ear, Please. I need you, Jon. Now. A fluttering plea. And he’d kissed her, made love to her, right here.

  No more than a dream.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, slowly straightened, and headed back to the bedchamber. He could leave all that behind. He could. When these moments came upon him, he didn’t have to give in to them.

  His hands on his hips, he stood in the doorway. The bed, and everything in the center of the room, had burned, and new furniture and textiles took their place. How long had that bed kept kings and queens before he, Rielle, and Shadow had destroyed it?

  But this new one—a purple-heartwood four-poster canopied bed—would be a symbol, a sign of a change in the line.

  The end of the line, a wayward thought stabbed.

  After this, he was expected to wed, to produce heirs, to secure the line. None of them expectations he intended to meet. Even if he could bring himself to do what needed to be done, leaving a queen and a child unprotected was cruel. If Faolan wished to usurp him, with the Order of Terra at his back, what would he do to a child with a dead father?

  For a year or two, he’d ignore talk of marriage and heirs due to his constant travel, protecting the kingdom with his forces, and then a successor would have to take over. Someone the people would accept, the nobles would accept, the world would accept. And the Farallan tree had withered.