by Chant, Zoe
Not bothering to find a shirt, he stretched briefly, then summoned his swords. The hilts materialized in his hands, cool and familiar. He murmured the traditional ritual invocation to the Shining Ones, and began the formal movements of his sword drill.
He was keenly aware of Tamsin’s gaze following him as he cut and parried at shadows. He’d noticed that she never missed an opportunity to watch him, especially when he was partially unclothed. It was flattering…and also bittersweet.
For he knew that she studied him for the same reason that he did her.
He watched her too, every moment they were together, hoarding each second like a mock-dragon gathering jewels. Sometimes he even woke in the night to trace her sleeping face with his fingertips, desperate to memorize every precious curve.
This is but a fleeting dream. Sooner or later she will be gone, back to her own world.
Though as the days stretched on, he couldn’t help hoping that maybe it would be later rather than sooner. It had been five days, and Aodhan was still no closer to finding a way to break Tamsin free of the tithe-curse.
It was making the alicorn even grumpier than usual. The last time they’d visited his tree, he’d refused to even open the door.
“If I’d found something, I would have told you!” he’d yelled down at them from a tower window. “How do you expect me to work with these constant interruptions? Go away!”
Apparently, one visit every three days counted as ‘constant interruptions’. Cuan hadn’t tried to check on Aodhan’s progress—or lack of it—since then. He had faith that the alicorn genuinely was devoting every waking minute to freeing Tamsin.
But if even Aodhan’s razor-sharp mind is struggling to slice through this knot…perhaps Tamsin’s unknown ally will not be able to free her either.
He still didn’t know Tamsin’s secret plan. From the way he’d seen her murmuring with Motley a few times, he guessed that the raven shifter had helped her contact someone in the human world. But clearly this had not yet born fruit. She was still here, after all.
Cuan had been careful to make sure that he did not overhear Tamsin and Motley’s whispered conversations. He truly did not want to know. And not just due to the risk that he might be forced to betray the secret to Lady Maeve.
He could not lie to others. But he could lie to himself.
As long as he didn’t know the details of Tamsin’s plan, he could pretend that it had no chance of success. That there was no way for her to leave.
It wasn’t that he wanted Tamsin to be trapped in the fae realms. But with no one in Maeve’s court willing to risk challenging him…she was no longer in mortal peril.
The court respects me now. We have a place here. All has been well now for half a span of days. We could continue like this, together, for longer. A span, a moon, a season…
Perhaps even years.
“How do you pull the swords out of nowhere like that?” Tamsin’s question jerked him out of his introspection. “Are the weapons magic, or is it something that you do?”
He realized that he’d been slowing, distracted from his exercise by his churning thoughts. He picked up his pace, concentrating on executing each motion with speed as well as precision.
“Both, in a way.” The sword drill was burned into his muscles by decades of practice, requiring no conscious thought. It was easy to hold a conversation at the same time. “They are ether blades, formed from my power, shaped by my will. I learned to manifest them as part of my training. All high sidhe warriors do.”
Tamsin rested her chin on her folded arms, lying on her front on the bed. “So they’re kind of a part of you?”
“Exactly. They are created from my very soul. That’s why they disappear if they get too far from me.”
He demonstrated by tossing a sword to her. Tamsin squeaked, ducking—but the blade disappeared in a sparkle of light before it was halfway across the room. He held out a hand, and the scimitar reappeared, hilt slapping into his palm.
“It requires some energy to materialize them.” He pivoted into a spinning strike as he spoke, continuing his exercise. “Novices start by learning to draw a small knife out of the ether. It takes both experience and innate power to be able to manifest larger weapons.”
Tamsin’s eyebrows rose. “You’re saying size does matter?”
He chuckled. “In this, at least. A warrior’s weapon provides an excellent indication of their prowess. Any high sidhe armed with more than a longsword commands instant respect.”
“You’ve got two swords,” Tamsin pointed out.
“A fact which caused great consternation amongst Lady Maeve’s knights, when I finished my training and manifested them for the first time.” He snorted, remembering their expressions at that long-ago ceremony. “I believe that they were counting on me being unable to draw more than a sewing needle. Alas, I failed to provide them with an excuse to petition Lady Maeve to kick me out of the sidhean. They did, however, refuse to knight me. Which is why I am not a formal part of her war band.”
Tamsin’s feet kicked idly in the air. “That black knight you fought when I first arrived, sir what’s-his-face—”
“Sir Eogan.”
“Yeah, him. He had a huge sword. But you still beat him.”
He shrugged, giving her a wry look. “Size is not everything. Fortunately.”
Cuan finished the last lunge and straightened. Sweat dripped down his spine. He truly was growing soft, lounging around the court rather than patrolling Maeve’s lands.
“I must attend to my armor as well,” he said, letting his swords fade away. “Sadly I am not powerful enough to materialize that from the ether. It would save me a great deal of tedious oiling if I could.”
“I can help, if you’ll show me what to do.” Tamsin sat up, sliding off the bed. “Can some fae do that? Materialize armor as well as weapons, I mean.”
“Sometimes. I have met a few great champions who could manifest shields and helms. Being able to do more than that is truly rare. It makes one a prince, in fact.”
Worry clouded Tamsin’s face. “Are there any of those around here?”
He shook his head as he unhooked his armor from its stand. “Fret not. For all Lady Maeve’s airs, she is but the ruler of a rather provincial, backwater sidhean. The princes and princesses all belong to the Great Court of the Winter King, the lord of all the unseelie. Lady Maeve has no political influence there.”
“But she could still ask a prince for a favor, right?”
“She is far too proud to ever beg for aid. And also too wise, in her own sharp way. It is unwise to draw the attention of princes, let alone be in one’s debt.”
Tamsin did not look entirely reassured. It had been a few days since he had last seen that particular worried line in her forehead.
“As well worry that Lady Maeve might enlist the aid of a dragon as a prince, my heart.” He dropped the armor onto the bed, and kissed her brow. “Now, if that was a true offer of aid, I shall show you how to properly disassemble my armor. If only to prevent you from dumping it in a tangled heap the next time you have to prize it off my unconscious body.”
Tamsin poked him in the side, over the scar he’d earned in her defense. “There had better not be a next time.”
“From your mouth to the Shining Ones’ ears. But still, it is always wise to be prepared.”
They were halfway through cleaning his gear when a discrete cough at the door alerted him to the arrival of a servant. By the time he’d opened it, the little hobgoblin was already scurrying away, leaving behind an exquisitely-wrapped package on the doorstep.
Tamsin peered round his elbow. “What is it?”
“From the looks of things, a gift,” he said, somewhat bemused. “And from the lack of smell, not one of horse manure. My standing in court has improved.”
He picked it up. There was no note, but there could be no doubt who it was from. No one else in the sidhean would dare to wrap a gift in that particular shade of blood-red silk
. Black-thorned rose briars twisted around the parcel, holding it closed.
“Lady Maeve,” he murmured to Tamsin. Repressing a shiver of unease, he carried the parcel inside. “Well. I suppose we must see what she has sent us.”
Chapter 22
“Okay,” Tamsin said, holding up the tangle of jeweled leather straps. “Maeve definitely has a sex dungeon.”
Cuan shot her a reproving look. “It is formal court attire.”
“Cuan, it’s a bondage harness.”
“It is high fashion. Lady Maeve sets the style for her court, as is her privilege as ruler.”
Cuan took the barely-a-garment from her, laying it out neatly on the bed. He scratched the back of his head.
“Though I must admit,” he said. “I do not…fully understand why she favors this particular aesthetic.”
Tamsin smothered a giggle. “That’s because you’re a straight guy.”
The outfit certainly came with some very interesting accessories. Tamsin picked up a wide golden collar, engraved with roses and twining thorns. There were no iron studs—thankfully—but it did have a very obvious ring at the front.
Tamsin snorted, caught somewhere between amusement and irritation. “At least she didn’t include a leash.”
Cuan winced. “Please do not give her any ideas.”
“Oh, I think she’s got enough ideas already.” Tamsin tossed the collar back onto the bed. “Are you really going to wear this?”
Cuan grimaced down at the outfit. “Sadly, I must. From the gift, it seems that there is to be a formal ball. I cannot turn up to such an event dressed in armor. And it would be a grave insult to Lady Maeve if I did not wear the outfit that she has picked out for me.”
Tamsin had decidedly mixed emotions about that. On one hand, she hated to give Maeve the satisfaction of seeing Cuan bend to her will.
On the other hand…Cuan in a bondage harness.
Maeve may be a malicious, evil elf…but damn, she has good taste.
She shook her head. “At least tell me I don’t have to dress up in thigh-high boots and a couple of strategically placed leather thongs.”
“Arresting as that mental image is, this is male court attire. No doubt Lady Maeve has chosen an appropriate outfit for you as well.” Cuan delved into the parcel again. “Ah. Hm.”
“Not good sounds, Cuan.”
“It seems that she has sent you a gown. Technically.”
“Technically?”
Cuan held something up in response. Dark silk flowed like smoke through his hands. Tiny, brilliant white gems twinkled like stars. From what Tamsin knew about fairyland, she was betting they were real diamonds.
The dress did technically cover more than the male version of fae formalwear. It was designed to drape softly from shoulder to ankle, shrouding the wearer in fluttering layers of dark blue and purple, like hazy twilight skies.
It was also almost completely transparent.
“I’m not wearing that,” Tamsin said flatly.
From Cuan’s expression, he was torn between deeply conflicting emotions. “You would look extremely fetching in it.”
“And also extremely naked.”
A deep, appreciative growl rumbled through Cuan’s chest. “Yes.”
“Cuan.”
He lowered the dress and sighed. “I fear that if you were to wear this in public, I would be forced to kill a great many people. Though we unseelie pride ourselves on celebrating beauty in all forms, there are certain sights I am not willing to share.”
Tamsin fingered the sheer fabric. “Do high sidhe ladies really wear this sort of thing, or is Maeve insulting me again?”
“Both.” Cuan’s mouth quirked ruefully. “A high sidhe lady would wear this over a layer of glamour to obscure her body. Or strategically reveal it, depending on who was watching. Lady Maeve is making a rather pointed comment on your lack of magic.”
“Why am I not surprised.” Tamsin folded her arms. “I’m not wearing that thing. No matter how much of a snub it is to Maeve.”
Cuan gazed thoughtfully down at the dress.
“It occurs to me,” he said slowly, “that you will look extremely lovely in this gown. So much that were you to try it on, the sight might well madden me beyond all reason.”
Tamsin could feel an evil grin spreading over her face. “You mean, you might rip the fabric from my body?”
His faemarks gleamed with a ripple of blue-green fire. “I am a beast. Notoriously so.”
“What a pity it would be if the dress was damaged beyond repair. Particularly if it meant there wasn’t time for Maeve to send me a new one.”
“Truly tragic,” Cuan agreed solemnly.
“You know…” Tamsin glanced at the gold and leather harness Maeve had sent Cuan. “I think we should both try our outfits on. Just to make sure they fit.”
Cuan picked up the gold collar, running it through his fingers. His glowing faemarks brightened.
“You never did explain what use such an item would be during…certain activities,” he said, his voice dropping back to that bone-deep growl.
Tamsin took the collar from him. She stretched up on her toes, nipples brushing against his chest, and felt Cuan catch his breath. Her own body was already thrumming with anticipation as she buckled the collar around his neck.
“Got any rope?” she murmured into his ear.
Chapter 23
Well, this is…interesting.
Cuan had never thought to find himself voluntarily tied spread-eagled to a bed. It was a very odd sensation. He was acutely aware of how naked and exposed he was, and yet, and yet…
Somehow, it was not entirely unpleasant.
Tamsin finished tying the last knot, and sat back on her heels. “Is that okay? Not too tight?”
Cuan cautiously tested his bonds. He had a little slack around his wrists and ankles, but not enough to allow him to slip free.
“I am comfortable enough,” he said. “And certainly…secure.”
Tamsin ran her fingers down the soft, smooth surface of the rope, looking a little dubious. “You’re sure this stuff won’t break? It’s a bit thin.”
“I am certain. This is moth-silk, harvested and woven by the southern wood-sidhe. I have trusted my entire weight to it many times. Though, ah, under very different circumstances.”
Tamsin grinned, her eyes shining with anticipation. “Just in case this turns out not to be your thing, we need to establish a safe word. If you say it, I’ll stop immediately, okay?”
He frowned. “Something like…‘stop’? Or ‘mercy’?”
She trailed a finger down the rope and along the taut line of his arm. She brushed the edge of his faemarks, and his breath caught.
“Sometimes,” she murmured, bending over him, “begging for mercy is part of the fun.”
Her tongue swirled over his bicep. The ropes bit into his wrist.
“Shining Ones.” His voice was already ragged, and she’d barely touched him. “I believe I am beginning to understand the appeal. It needs to be an odd word, then? Something unrelated to, ah, what is occurring?”
“That’s right. A safe word needs to be something that you wouldn’t say accidentally. Something that will get my attention.”
He struggled to think of something appropriate. With her mouth nipping lightly at his brightening faemarks, it was becoming difficult to think of any words. Except perhaps more, and harder, and now.
“Angus,” he managed to get out.
Tamsin sat up, looking down at him with one eyebrow raised. “Angus?”
“It is a name I am unlikely to shout in the throes of passion.”
Tamsin giggled. “Angus it is, then. And tell me if I’m doing anything you don’t like, okay? We’ll take this slowly.”
He gasped as she bent over him again, turning her attention to his shoulder. “Not too slowly, I beg you.”
“Ah.” Her warm breath whispered across his glowing faemarks, making his skin prickle with electric sparks. �
�Now you’re getting the idea.”
All thought dissolved under the hot press of her tongue. She traced every line, working her way across his torso with maddening slowness, while he panted and clenched his teeth and tried very hard not to swear.
“Tamsin,” he gasped as her tongue taunted his taut nipple. “Sweet gods, woman!”
She paused, meeting his eyes. Her own were dark and languid, filled with sly pleasure, even though he had yet to touch her in return.
“Safe word?” she murmured.
Shining Ones, he was tempted. His whole body screamed with the need to set her alight, as she had him. She was the one who should be shaking with need, on the verge of release.
But that look in her eyes…
She was enjoying this. In some strange way, tormenting him with pleasure was arousing to her as well. Although she was still fully dressed, he could scent the liquid desire beading her flushed, secret folds.
She is in control. And she has had so little control over anything, recently…
He bit back the safe word, and shook his head.
Her mouth curved in a catlike smile. “Good. Then you get a reward.”
Her mouth closed over his nipple, as her nails raked down his flanks. He arched up off the bed, helplessly, near blinded by the shock of sensation. His whole being seemed to rush down to his groin, tightening.
“Shh.” She bit at him, just a tiny shock of pain, bringing him back from the brink. “Not yet. Not yet.”
She slipped off him, and he could have wept for the loss. The air felt cold against his burning faemarks. He tried to lift his head, but she’d tied his bonds too well. The cords fastened to his collar kept him from following her with his gaze.
All he could do was stare at the ceiling, nails biting into his palms, straining every sense. Her scent, elusive and intoxicating, fading a little as she moved away. The soft rustle of cloth. Her bare feet on the stones, padding back…
She straddled his chest again, and all the air rushed out of his lungs.
Her curves showed through the barely-there silk, ripe and succulent. Stars spangled her dark skin. Swathed in those gauzy layers of indigo and deepest purple, she could have been the Mother of Night herself, come down from the heavens.
