By the Light of the Moon

by Blake, Laila

  “No!” she exhaled, pushing herself in front of the barrel, eyes wide and trembling. Her whole body seemed to seize with the effort, the fear and the mental images of what was to come. She couldn’t breathe, could barely cough out the word. “Please.”

  Deagan looked at her, confusion written all over his face.

  “Moira, my love, it’s in pain.”

  She trembled and shook her head until she felt her father at her side, pulling her off the ground and out of Deagan Fairester’s line of fire.

  “No … no, please.” She got out but then the deafening shot made her press her hands to her eyes and she slumped in her father’s arms, weeping and shaking. It was too much; too much noise, too much shouting, too many people watching, speaking, shooting. Too many sights, too much blood that she didn’t want to see.

  Finally, she stumbled away from her father. Her hand against a tree, she emptied the contents of her stomach over its roots, heaving, hiccupping and sobbing as her forehead hit the rough bark. She didn’t feel the pain there; it didn’t even register against the agony that was spreading all through her body and all over skin. It hurt. Like blinding fire and knifes and bullets. It hurt so much, she thought her head would explode any second.

  Finally, she couldn’t have said how many eternities later, she felt a hand on her shoulder and she didn’t want to shake it off. The pain was still there, but it didn’t inhabit her entire soul, there was a bit of room to notice the hand and wonder.

  “Here, take my flask, wash out your mouth,” a gentle and familiar voice urged. She looked up to see Owain’s worried face looking down at her. The pain receded more. When she tried to reach for the offered flask though, her hand shook so much, she spilled half its content and with a concerned smile, Owain took it back. He helped her lean her head back and gently fed her some water.

  “Wash out your mouth and spit,” he murmured. The instructions helped. She swished the water through her mouth, tasting the vile contents of her stomach again and quickly spit it out over the same roots. It cleared her head some more. Enough to, when he offered her his handkerchief, take it and carefully wipe at her cheeks and mouth and chin.

  “I can take her back to the castle, milord,” Owain said, turning away from her. She had almost forgotten they weren’t alone for a blissful few moments. “It doesn’t look like she’s in any condition to ride. I can carry her.”

  For a long time, there was no answer until her father came up on her other side.

  “Is that what you need, darling?” he asked carefully, not utterly unaware of her plights and her needs. He was embarrassed for her display in front of her would-be husband but he could see she was hurting, panicking. In the end, she was his daughter more than a commodity.

  She managed a nod, anything to get away from the sounds and the blood and the shooting and so her father nodded as well.

  “Take her back. I will wait a while to send back the … horse.”

  Her stomach contracted again, just once and she was grateful when she felt herself lifted into two strong arms and her cheek collapsed against Owain’s chest. He was warm and safe like none other had ever been for her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Moira couldn’t remember the last time she had been carried like this, in two strong arms and curled against someone’s chest. She assumed it had to have been when she was a child sometime; but even then, touch hadn’t soothed her the way most people expected it would, not that a young noblewoman like her was hugged and cuddled anyway. She had seen it in the children of the village, though, the way they were kissed and doted upon. She’d seen a father throw his daughter in the air, to her delighted giggling, and then flopped her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. It had looked so alien and yet sweet, like something she read in a fairy tale; beautiful but not real.

  Yet, she was being carried now; and again, there was that intense feeling of reality slipping away, fading into a dream state. She knew she had panicked, she remembered it in parts. It wasn’t the first time. There was something about the sight of blood that unsettled her deeply, and she knew she shouldn’t have gone on the hunt in the first place. But she had kissed the wrong man and had felt guilty; like she was supposed to play her role better in the future. It had been too much, the noise, the shouting, the shooting — and then her horse; the crack of broken bone, the panic in her eyes, the sweat. The shot. Blood and brain matter splattering across the clearing, tinting the little stream red.

  She remembered it in images, flashes of memory that still hurt, but were soothed slowly. It didn’t seem possible that she could be carried the way Owain carried her; there should have been more effort. There was hardly any, he just kept breathing normally, carrying her back through the forest, evading trees and undergrowth. He didn’t make her want to push him away, and scream and cry. He didn’t make it impossible to breathe. Owain just was. He was there and she welcomed his presence, especially now that she was too tired and too hurt to think of the consequences.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice a quiet murmur that was enough to reach her ear as close as they were.

  “Why?” Moira got out. She was still shaky, still only half rooted in the present and her body but she was intensely aware of him and the careful note in his voice, the warmth of his breath on her ear.

  “It was my fault,” he answered. Breathing out audibly, she could feel his shoulders slumping a little bit even if he didn’t waver in his safe hold on her body. “I got too close to you, Blaidyn can spook horses, I’m sorry. I didn’t pay enough attention.”

  Moira finally looked up. She was tired and emotional, but she shook her head. Whatever had happened that day, she didn’t want it to be his fault, but she was too exhausted to come up with a reason why it wasn’t.

  Smiling gently, his thumb rubbed over her back and he kissed her hair at the top of her head.

  “It was.” His voice was quiet, the kind of voice that only travelled the short distance to her ear and nowhere else, a voice that belonged to her alone. “And now I’m carrying you; it’s almost as if I’m being rewarded for ruining your day.”

  This time, she smiled and shook her head again. She could feel the tingling in her stomach, the one she knew from that night on the battlements and almost every time afterwards when her eyes chanced upon his. This time, it was stronger; much, much stronger.

  “You saved my day,” she whispered finally. They were the first words she had spoken since her troubles and they sounded raw, just like she hadn’t used her throat in a long time. “Hunt ruined it, not you.” Never Owain.

  He didn’t speak again, not for a long time. His steps grew more sure-footed the closer they got to the edge of the forest and they fell in a gentle rhythm, like a heartbeat, lulling her to safety. She closed her eyes again, cheek against his chest, the woolen shirt he wore. It was warm, heated by his body and it in turn heated her cheek. The thought felt surprisingly good and a little smile edged its way onto her face again.

  She hadn’t forgotten about the part she had to play, nor about their resolve to stay away from each other but if there had been one exception on the battlements, why couldn’t there be another? It was certainly an extraordinary situation. She couldn’t have walked home and would have had trouble getting on another horse. His arms were arguably and objectively the best place for her. She liked this thought, too.

  Finally, as he wound himself through thinner trees, the crackling under his feet grew quieter. Around them, she could no longer hear the woodpecker or the hooting of the screech owl, but the softer songs of meadow birds. The light changed too, sunlight streaming against her face again. It made her nose itch and she rubbed it against Owain’s chest to stop herself from sneezing. In the end, it made him chuckle and he ducked his lips over her crown of red hair again.

  “Are you feeling a little better?” he asked finally as they fo
und the path past the village and eventually up toward the Keep. It was a long walk, but Moira couldn’t say that she ever wanted to arrive there.

  “I do,” she answered at length, nodding so that her cheek rubbed against him again. It was a glorious sensation, touching someone. Touching Owain. The novelty of it — or rather, the novelty of loving it, of feeling addicted to it — made her want to catch her breath or cry or stay in his arms forever. There, she could inhale his scent with every breath and her body was always warmed by his. It had to be the pinnacle of existence to her exhaustion-addled mind.

  “You’re beginning to look a little better, too,” he agreed and she could hear the smile in his tone. “I was afraid for you.”

  There was something he didn’t say; even Moira could tell but the moment was too nice and too soft to worry about it. She didn’t even mind that he worried, that he watched her; Owain seemed to defy many of her deeply rooted issues and circumvent them with ease now. She could feel the wolf deep in his chest, could smell him and his worry, his desire to protect her and make her feel better. For a moment, she longed for the full moon where she might pet the beast and repay its kindness and care.

  It only took her a moment to close her eyes as though that would stop the thought. She wasn’t supposed to be that close to Owain or his wolf. Not even now. She supposed it meant that she was feeling better, but that didn’t make her chest ache less.

  The path was easy to tread and Owain didn’t have to concentrate on anything other than her anymore. It was a beautiful day, the cool late autumn sun still high in the sky made the mountain peaks glitter and show off their newly fallen snowy caps. Except for the crows, picking over the field mice who were still diligently gathering what they could find remaining of the last harvest, the valley seemed almost lifeless. The farmers were tending to their animals and the stock of their crop. It was one of the last beautifully sunny days left in the season before the winter would come down from the mountains and cover them all in its white coat.

  They had chosen it well for their hunt, but Owain couldn’t help but think that the sun was shining purely for him and Moira. In the heat of summer, the sun made him feel weak and tired — like it did most Blaidyn — but in spring and autumn it was far enough away to allow him to simply appreciate its beauty, shining over the land and onto Moira’s flaming hair. Some of the strands had come loose from the intricately braided style her maid had formed it in. Now, they were spread over his shoulder, glinting in the light like living copper, like the blood of the earth. He could have carried her for hours, just to feel her heartbeat under her skin and bone, just to smell her slowly calming and to hear the tiniest noise of pleasure and comfort she exhaled from time to time against his chest. He hadn’t heard it in a while, though.

  “Are you all right?” Owain finally asked. He could feel something off about her; not the smell of panic or exhaustion but something new. There was a note of tension in the set of her forehead and her jaw and her body wasn’t as relaxed as it had been a few minutes ago.

  Moira nodded and Owain brushed his scruffy chin over hair reddish crown of hair until it snagged against a pearl ornament. It didn’t seem at home there, utterly misplaced like a jewel on a flower.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Maybe you should put me down,” she said quietly, nudging her forehead harder against his chest and Owain, trying to interpret those seemingly opposing signals, tucked in his chin to look down at her.

  “I’m mostly all right now, I could walk … and I must be getting heavy.”

  He could hear the untruth in her voice. She was a special human, but she was human and he was not. There were always things humans did that would baffle him and for a moment it pained him that it was true for Moira, too.

  “You’re not heavy. But I can put you down if you want.” He stopped in his steps and his arms slackened a little to allow her to get down on her own two feet. After a moment’s hesitation, she did. He could tell that she was still feeling shaky but not enough to warrant being carried, maybe.

  “Thank you,” she uttered quietly and didn’t meet his eyes. She breathed in deeply and Owain could almost feel the crackling pain in her ribs at the motion. Then she started to walk. He could see her carefully placing one shaky foot in front of the other, keeping herself upright and regal despite her disheveled hair and her tearstained face. He admired it, as much as he missed her soft curves in his arms. In a way, he thought she was far more beautiful like this; her eyes glittering and red, her hair no longer tamed and styled.

  As if she’d been reading his mind, she raised her hands to tug at the jewelry in her hair. One by one, she removed pearl-encrusted pins and ribbons, uncoiled braids and knots as she walked until her hair lay free across her back, wild and curly. Owain was walking a step behind her, giving her that moment of breathing of getting away from him. He wasn’t completely blind to her motivation, and knew she was right, however much it pained him.

  “I missed you,” he could finally hear her say, quietly, almost too quiet to pick up with normal senses. “I wanted to go out and find you every night but … ” she shook her head and then reached up to rub her fingers over her cheeks. Owain could feel her fingernails scraping over her skin and his brow furrowed.

  “If I did that then … then the next day would be even harder, wouldn’t it? And then the next day? And the next day?” Once she had started to speak, she didn’t seem able to stop and now, her lower arms were once again the target of her nails. “And then the rest of my life with Deagan or someone just like him. Just an endless series of next days with … without you.”

  Owain stood, locked in place by the force of her words and when she stopped hearing him behind her, she came to a halt as well but she didn’t turn around. He could see her breathing shakily, deep enough to expand her chest a little bit with each inhale, even from the back. It was beautiful and alive, fragile and stunning. His eyes caught on the nape of her neck that shimmered white through her hair.

  “Turn around,” he told her, voice low, almost a growl, almost a command. As though she had received those from him for a lifetime, her body turned on its axis. She looked back at him, wide-eyed and wanting. Did he imagine it or did her lips look redder than before? Wetter, too, begging to be kissed and bitten. His legs pulled him forward, almost more than his head or any conscious decision. Similarly, it was his hand that cupped her cheek. Eyes locking, he gently smoothed his thumb over the faint pink lines her fingernails had left there and he shook his head maybe an inch from side to side.

  “I want to kiss you again, Moira,” he whispered. Where her insecurity, her worries and her fragility was transported in a shiver and a higher pitch, his voice went lower, rougher, with a raw quality that made her stomach clench with excitement. “I want you aching for me tomorrow … I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

  For a moment, she didn’t know if she was still standing upright or whether she had already started floating, anchored only by his hand on her cheek. Her body seemed to have gone numb except for the few centers that exploded in sensations; her cheek, her neck, her spine, her stomach, the little nub between her legs.

  “I can smell that,” he exhaled again and Moira went scarlet. When she tried to look down and avert her gaze, he held her in place, fingers slipping under her chin. “Don’t be embarrassed. Not you.”

  Shaking his head ever so slightly, he inhaled deeply through his nose and when he exhaled again, his smile looked almost painfully beautiful.

  Moira didn’t answer. Not at first, not while she was trying to feel her feet, trying not to faint on the spot while the little nub was pulsing under his gaze. He was shaking, too, ever so slightly and before she knew it, her fingers touched his chest. His smile deepened. His fingers, though, tightened under her chin, pulled her upwards until her body was stretched straight and she slid on her toes. Still he was far taller but his lips see
med closer now. She remembered them well, too well … warm and soft.

  When she remembered to breathe, it was in a loud gasp that made him lean in closer. Their lips just a few inches apart, she could feel his breath on her face, the warmth of his body.

  “Please … ?” She exhaled, when she couldn’t bear it anymore, her body strung tight as a bow ready to release in an explosion of need.

  “Even if it will be worse the next day? And the next day?” he asked, still in that hoarse whisper that made something twinge painfully, tenderly, inside her. And then she nodded. Yes.

  His lips touched hers only a moment later, softly at first, reacquainting themselves with the taste and the feel of her. The side of her nose touched the side of his, her forehead leaned against his brow and slowly they deepened their connection. Their mouths opened further, finally crashing against each other with the need pent and piled up for days and days and nights without end.

  When her knees gave in and she stumbled against his chest, he walked her backward, smiling against her lips, until they hit a tree that lined the path. The smell of bark and wood invaded her nostrils in an interesting contrast to his smell. A leaf, shaken loose by her back hitting the trunk sailed lazily toward the ground. She could see it in the corner of her eyes for only a moment before his lips were on hers again but the deep red hue burned itself into her memory. It was forever connected with his lips and his tongue and the way his hand found her hip, pressing her against that tree unashamedly.

  They broke apart, out of breath, and her eyes were shining up at him. So green and sparkling, Owain felt mesmerized for a long moment, wanted to get drunk on her, lost in her.

  “Momo … ” he whispered without thinking, smiling down at her tenderly. When she raised her brows in a careful inquiry, he just nodded and repeated it. “Momo. That’s you. My Momo … ”