by Emma Hamm
Eamonn did not look at her. He turned the scarred half of his face away from her as if she might be insulted by the mere sight of him.
Sorcha reached out and sunk her fingers into the hollows of his cheek. She whispered fierce and hoarse, “How dare you hide from me, my king.”
“Your king?”
“You hide from no one.”
The words struck a fire deep within her belly. She would tear apart anyone who dared say this man was not a king. She had met the imposter who wore a stolen crown. No man could ever live up to the goliath who hovered above her and dimmed the lights for fear his face would lessen her passion.
Her heart beat like a pounding drum. She gentled her grip on his face, sliding down the well-known dip of throat and collarbone. Her fingers curled around the edge of his shirt and lifted it.
All the while, Eamonn’s eyes watched her movements. So many emotions played across his face. Shame. Embarrassment. Wonder.
“What manner of creature are you?” he asked. “Fearless in your ability to see past this gruesome figure, and so selfless that you would allow a beast to lay hands upon you.”
“You are not a beast,” she said as she flung his shirt to the floor.
The caverns of geodes followed the lines of his ribs. She traced their edges, daring to dip into the crevices until crystals bit at her fingers. Sorcha outlined each wound, each grievous injury until she was certain she had marked each with her scent and her touch.
She sat up, pressing her chest against his and her mouth against his shoulder. She traced the mangled flesh and stone with lips and tongue.
“I claim you as mine, rightful king of the Seelie Fae.” Sorcha sank her teeth into his skin, biting through flesh until the harsh edge of stone cracked her lips.
Blood smeared his shoulder. Marking him for all eternity.
He roared out in anger, or perhaps something far more dangerous. His hand flexed beneath the fabric of her dress and ripped. Crystals and warm skin traced the delicate line of her spine in apology.
“You toy with fire,” he growled. “Once wounded, I never heal.”
“Good. Perhaps any other woman who dares touch you will think twice.”
The feral grin on his face beckoned the creature inside her, the woman who wanted to feast upon the Fae. “And you say you are not a druid.”
“I like you better with your mouth shut.”
“Shall I find something to keep it busy then?”
Sorcha couldn’t respond. A fire burned in her blood, and need swelled until it crashed over her mind. She straddled his waist and arched her spine, offering her body as a banquet upon which he could feast.
Candlelight made her skin glow. He lifted shaking hands, gliding over the bumps of her ribs until he could take her in hand. She tilted her head back, unable to maintain eye contact when the crystals flared to life. Violet glowed behind her closed eyes.
She gasped as crystals slid over the tips of her breasts, cold and strangely hard. Her spine curved further, and she pressed into his hand. A long sigh hollowed her belly as he teased the silken tip between his fingers.
He followed the line of her throat with his nose. Teeth closed around her ear, his hot breath vibrating in her ear. She clenched her legs against his sides as wet heat rushed through her.
“Lie down,” he drawled.
“No.”
“Sorcha.”
“I said no.”
“Now is not the time to argue with me.”
“What did I say about keeping your mouth shut?” she asked.
Sorcha locked her ankles and twisted her body. His brows drew down in surprise, but he obliged her request. Eamonn rolled.
He stretched his body across the bed and settled her hips over his. Cocking his head to the side, he asked “What now?”
A wicked grin spread across her lips. Sorcha smoothed her hands over his shoulders, pushing his arms away from her and onto the bed. She stroked across the bulges of his biceps, over the crystals on his forearms, and locked her fingers with his.
Her hips rocked, playing back and forth across his hardness. He was incredibly large, far more than a human man could ever dream of being. A small moment of worry made her wonder if he would fit.
She’d have to make him.
Sorcha whispered her lips over the mangled mess of his shoulder. The crystals scratched into the surface of his chest nipped at her mouth. She danced her fingers across his ribs, smiling at his gasp as she trailed her fingers across his stomach.
She lingered at the band of muscles arching over his hip bone. Tiny nibbles sent gooseflesh raising before her eyes.
“Sorcha,” he moaned. “Have pity on a man.”
Hardly. She looked up at him, flicking a brow before biting down hard.
He clenched his fists in the sheets and threw his head to the side.
“Pity is for the weak,” she whispered, “and you underestimated the woman you took to bed.”
She slid her fingers beneath his breeches, brushing her cheek over his throbbing heat. The sheets whispered as he arched against her touch. He lifted himself so she might free him from the confines of clothing.
He was glorious. Sorcha was thoroughly pleased to see that faeries were built entirely similarly to men.
She pressed a kiss against his shaft and made her way back up his body. She straddled his waist and took hold of his hands.
“You have been on this isle for a long time. It would be careless if I did not ask how long it has been.”
Blue eyes blistered with heat as she tucked his fingers under the long length of her skirt. “Too long.”
“How long is that?”
“Long enough that I’m not putting a number to it.”
“Then I’ll be gentle this time,” she whispered.
In truth, she wasn’t certain she could wait. Her wet heat already slicked across him, and she couldn’t stop the rhythmic canting of her hips. His arms flexed, and he pulled the dress over her shoulders.
Hands roamed down her shoulders, lingering upon the curves of her breasts and sliding across her thighs.
“Gentle?” he asked. “When have I ever asked for gentle?”
She had never felt like this before. He willingly gave her full control over the situation, and she wanted to devour him. She wanted to mark him for all eternity. To shred him until all he could do was whisper her name.
The newly discovered part of herself, the animal, the beast, wanted to see him on his knees. She understood what men felt like when they came to the brothel. She could order him to do whatever she wanted.
Sorcha leaned forward, sank her teeth into the lobe of his ear, then soothed the ache with her tongue. “What do you want, Eamonn?”
He growled and lifted his hips.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Is that all?”
She reached between them and wrapped her hand around his hard length. He pulsed between her fingers, eager and wanting. As a reward, she slid her hand up and down until he was breathing so fast that he rocked the bed.
But not yet. She wasn’t done with him yet. She paused, waited for him to catch his breath, then notched him at her opening. He was broad, too large, too thick, and far too enticing.
She wanted to see him as he entered her. She wanted to watch his eyes and brand herself into his soul.
“Eamonn,” she whispered, knowing how much he liked to hear his name on her lips.
“Now, Sorcha.”
A rush of heat tensed her belly, and she groaned. Throwing herself down, she seated him all the way to her core.
They both gasped, arched, ached for each other as two became one. The candles blew out as a gust of magic rushed through the room.
He filled her to the brink of pain. She stung, but the needles of sensation were agreeable. Erotic tingles danced down her spine, multiplying as he groaned in appreciation.
Sorcha leaned forward. His breath feathered over her lips, and she couldn’t bring herself to move. Not yet. She w
anted to savor each moment that passed. Each clench of muscle that dragged him ever deeper.
A drop of sweat dripped down his temple.
“You feel like coming home,” he whispered. The words tasted sweet against her lips.
She knew how long it had been since he felt like he had a home. He’d been the outcast for centuries. And now, he admitted that sliding into her heat filled that piece of himself.
The earth could have split open, and Sorcha would not have been able to stop. She lifted up and drove back down. She gasped, clenching hard as she set a rhythm that made him grip the sheets again.
He didn’t touch her until she picked his hands back up. He gave her all the power, all the freedom to use his body as she saw fit. She pressed his palms against her breasts, dragged his hands to her mound and encouraged him to touch, to learn her body as she learned his.
Slow movements became frustrating. She braced her hands on his chest and sped up but her thighs were quivering and her mind fractured.
He growled and lifted her away. She spread across the bed, her hair a wildfire of curls, as he plunged back into her.
The time for tenderness had passed. The animals inside them clawed to the forefront. They fought beneath the sheets, twisting for power and control. She sank her teeth into his shoulder again, fitting them into the marks she had already left. The howling in her soul grew louder as he reached between them and slid his thumb across her molten heat.
“Eamonn!” she shouted.
She tensed, her whole body reaching for the stars. Higher and higher he brought her, forcing her further than she had ever gone until she arched her back and cried out in release.
Her eyes opened wide to watch as he threw his head back and groaned. The crystals that wrapped around his throat pulsed, his arms shook, and his hips stilled.
They had battled, drawn blood, and in the end, they lifted each other towards the stars and emerged victorious. Both alive, and undone.
Eamonn fell onto the bed neck to her, chest heaving.
He tucked her against him, a wide hand spread across her spine. Sorcha hid the smile blooming across her lips. It was strange how easily he lost the self-conscious way he carried himself. First, he stopped wearing the hooded cloak, then he grew comfortable with her seeing his scars, and now he didn’t flinch when they were pressed against her skin.
A woman could get used to this. Even the stones on his hands didn’t bother her, they had heated in their passions and warmed her back. She was cocooned—safe within his arms.
The sheets rustled as he shifted his legs closer to hers. His lips pressed against her brow, gentle so that he did not break her skin with the crystals. “Stay with me.”
Sorcha shivered. “There’s far too many meanings for me to guess what you mean.”
“Stay with me here on Hy-brasil, for as long as you live.”
“It’s a bold question for a faerie. Your kind despise humans.”
“You aren’t human. You’re druid, and beyond that, you are mine. They will love you, or I will bring them to their knees.”
She sighed and pressed her lips against his collarbone. “You can’t force people to accept change. And as much as I love this place, the faeries, this world you’ve shown me, I have to go back.”
“Why? To save the small amount of people who care for you?”
“It’s not just about my family, but everyone. The blood beetle plague is horrific, and I will not allow it to spread any further.”
“And they promised to give you a cure, if you brought me back,” he grunted. “They twisted the truth, Sorcha. They’ll send you on another impossible quest as soon as we return to your land. And another after that. Faeries, especially the MacNara twins, cannot be trusted.”
She rose onto an elbow, searching his gaze for the truth of his words. “You don’t think they have the cure.”
“I think they know of the cure, but they have been trying to meet with me for centuries. They toy with their puppets, force them to dance, and they do not care whether they snap the strings.”
“I will break those strings,” Sorcha growled. “How am I to save my people?”
“I don’t know.” He lifted a hand and tucked her wild hair behind her ear. “I don’t know if it’s even possible for you to save them. Plagues come and go, but humanity always survives them.”
“People are in pain. I can’t stay knowing that they’re suffering and I might help.”
“You have too large a heart for your body,” he murmured.
She caught the hand he pressed against her chest, holding it tight enough that the crystals pricked her skin. “I can’t, Eamonn. They’re my family, my people, I can’t let them live a life they don’t deserve.”
“Every time you open your mouth, it’s as if you are plucking words from my soul. Promise to stay here, and I will return to your world with you. I will help you in your journey to find the cure for your people.”
“You will?” Sorcha hadn’t thought he would so readily agree. “Staying here is the easiest choice I have ever had to make. I will remain by your side gladly.”
“It stings that I have to bribe you to remain here.”
She had heard the words before. Men said to them to her sisters every day of the week. They paid women for favors and hoped that they loved them in return. Sorcha knew none of her sisters loved those men, but the way her heart hurt when she saw Eamonn told her this was a different situation.
Laying back down, Sorcha tucked her head into the hollow of his throat and breathed in his earthy scent. “I stay because I choose to, not because you have agreed to save my people with me. You spared me the difficulty of deciding between you and my people. For that, I thank you.”
He hesitantly wrapped his arms back around her. He pulled her closer to him until she couldn’t tell where he began and where she ended. “No one should have to choose between their people and those they love.”
“Speaking from experience?” She knew he was. She had seen the place he had grown up, the glistening palace walls and the silk draperies. His people needed him, missed him, desired to have a king worthy of their affection. Even the royals, Elva came to mind, wanted him to return.
“Yes.”
Someday she would convince him to go back to Seelie. She would convince him to take his stolen throne, to place a crown atop his head, and become the man she saw inside him. His people would rejoice and cheer out his name.
But not until she saved her people. Only then would she convince the Seelie prince to return. Perhaps it was selfish, and likely the wrong choice, but Sorcha couldn’t bear it any longer. Her people needed her. The guilt tore at her soul and their imagined screams of pain ate at her mind. This place, although beautiful, was not hers. She would willingly give up her old life if she knew that her family and people were happy.
Closing her eyes, she snuggled closer to his heat and resolved herself to sleep. He pressed a kiss against her head. She stayed awake until his breathing evened into the steady rhythm of dreams.
Sorcha rolled onto her side and reached for Eamonn. She hadn’t slept well—a new bed was always difficult the first night. She kept rolling over to find him, worried that he might disappear into the night.
The Wild Hunt was afoot, and she feared he would be taken by Cernunnos and his bride.
Her fingers smoothed over the empty bed, sheets cold from the absence of his body. The spike of fear made her breath catch in her throat. Where was he?
It couldn’t be the Wild Hunt. Moonlight filtered through the windows, mocking her thoughts. Surely no other Tuatha dé Danann would take him from this prison?
Mind catching up to the fear, Sorcha sat up and dragged her fingers through the tangled mass of her hair. She was thinking irrationally. This was the place they banished people. No one would remove them.
She took a took breath and forced her muscles to relax. She focused on the tips of her toes, willing relaxation to travel from the ends of her feet all the way up
her body. Once her muscles released their tension, she felt significantly better.
There was still no answer to what had happened to Eamonn. Where he was, she reminded herself, was the actual question. Perhaps he had gone to clean himself.
She couldn’t imagine why. A grin spread across her features in the twilight. He had proven himself quite a worthy man.
Her body ached in places she hadn’t realized she had. Each throb of muscle and quake of limb reminded her that she had been well and truly claimed, and that she had laid claim to him as well.
Sorcha bit her lip and pulled the blankets up to her chest. Curls fell across her naked body, slipping on the silken sheets.
“Where is he?” she muttered. “I would like to repeat last night.”
Clattering echoed from outside the door. On the stairs? She couldn’t imagine why Oona would bring food or tea up. It was far too late, and if Eamonn asked her to make the trek up those stairs in the middle of the night, then Sorcha had words to stay to him. The man wouldn’t learn a thing about his people.
Oona was an old woman! No matter that her body appeared young, she had enough years on her to deserve a bit more respect.
She slid her legs over the edge of the bed and hissed when her toes touched the cold stone.
“Eamonn,” she growled. “Everywhere else in the entire castle has sheepskin so we don’t freeze our toes off in the morning. Yet you insist upon punishing yourself even this early.”
Dim light made it difficult to find her dress. The yellow fabric was ruined, he had ripped all the buttons off the back. But it would have to do for now. Oona wouldn’t mind if a bit of her skin was showing.
The faerie had already seen every bit of Sorcha anyways.
She snorted. How strange it was to no longer worry about who or what saw her nudity. She had been frightened of revealing even the smallest bit of ankle when she first arrived. Now, she wasn’t worried about waltzing around with her entire back unclothed.
The mind was a strange and wondrous thing, she mused. She slid the fabric up and over her shoulders, pressing it against her chest and maneuvering a makeshift tie around her waist. As long as it stayed up when it was supposed to, she would call it a win.
