This will be fun, p.30
This Will Be Fun, page 30
He had gone still, listening closely. Only the fragility of her voice now was capable of distracting him from her warm figure under his hands. He’d rarely ever heard her sound vulnerable in this way.
“I felt like I’d saved the realm or survived some impossible odds,” she went on. “But when I saw you, I realized I’d won nothing. Everything I feared could still happen. It was . . . too much to face.”
In his embrace, she seemed to shrink. It was quietly devastating, watching the strongest-hearted woman he knew collapsing under the weight of the shadows stalking her soul. He needed to help her—not out of heroism or chivalry or obligation. No, he needed to. Desperation consumed him whole.
“Perhaps I’m a coward,” she confessed. “I probably am. When it comes to you, I’ve been the greatest coward for ten years.”
With her final words, his path illuminated. Hearing in them the naked purity of honesty, he knew he did not need to encourage her, or inspire her, or flatter her.
He need speak only the truth.
“Then kiss me,” he implored her, “and see what I do. See where this will lead.”
Her eyes rose. How he loved what he found in them. Yes. Loved. Defiant pride lit her perfect features, moonlight meeting firelight now. Her response was exactly what he’d hoped, and counted on. For while she could chasten herself like no one else in Mythria could, he knew she was no coward.
Slowly, she slid her hands down his chest. To his belt.
No coward indeed.
He pressed into her, meeting her vigor, feeding her fire. In kind, she leaned forward, her lips inches from his. The precarious proximity was enrapturing, nearly hallucinatory. He felt himself on the edge not only of consciousness now. He was on the very edge of sanity.
When she kissed him, he lost himself entirely.
With how hard he pressed her into the wall, he would fear hurting her—except she was strong, he knew. She was his warrior, his champion. His general, his crown, his realm.
Desire drove her forth. She pushed back, warring with him, each of them fighting the other for the lead in the kiss. Feeling her insistence, he opened his mouth to hers. Yet wanting to win something for himself, he grasped under her, hiking her onto the railing inside the lift so her legs could wrap around him.
Higher and higher they rose, the view outside ever more magnificent. The entirety of Vermillion Vale playing host to their passion.
He placed his hands on either side of her, pinning her possessively. She kissed him hard until he wrenched himself from her, needing to speak. “I think it’s pretty obvious,” he murmured, “I’m not fucking laughing. Or rejecting you. I’ll say yes to . . . whatever you want.”
She raised an eyebrow, evidently intrigued by the suggestion.
Then the lift doors slid open once more.
He groaned, pretending his heart was not hammering. How in the realm could this keep happening at the worst possible times? What would he do if poor lift logistics pulled her from him? How would he survive? “Ignore it,” he implored. “Ghosts above, Beatrice, ignore it.”
In reply, she—no. She smirked. He’d shown weakness. He’d demanded mercy from his fellow fighter, his kissing duelist, his devoted opponent.
She pushed him away, walking past him. In defeat, he gripped the railing, his knuckles white.
“Our room is this way.”
He looked up, finding her where she’d spoken. In the hallway, watching him. Expectant. Waiting for him. Her smirk was more smile now, less sly.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked.
Her meaning was unambiguous.
Clare was not ashamed to stumble out of the lift after her.
30
Beatrice
Beatrice’s heart pounded. Her head felt full of lightwings, glimmering radiant on summer nights, their colors iridescent. Her every step lifted with eagerness.
Clare followed her.
When she entered the group’s suite, she found Vandra and Elowen’s door shut. Hugh slept soundly on the couch. In the inn’s luxury, Beatrice noted how unlike questing her present circumstances felt. The finery of their lodgings was the farthest imaginable contrast from the caves where they’d camped, the isolated intimacy nothing like the constant closeness of one’s companions.
It wasn’t just the rooms that differed, either. She was unfamiliar to herself. Her nervous joy held the intensity of walking into combat, yet the exact opposite emotion. Her only fear was how excited she felt.
Of course, she was aware of what remained ahead of them. They still needed to plan their strategy for stopping the Order now that Beatrice knew where and when their enemies would hold the resurrection. They would need to weigh approaches, consider risks, evaluate options . . . But those things could wait, her heart decided for her. When one had saved the realm once, one did not necessarily expect to survive a second time.
Right now was for living.
She continued to the bedroom the footman had delivered her baggage to when they checked in. The enchanted fire rose to life on her entry. This was, however, Vermillion Vale, so the fire was spelled to stay romantically low, smoldering in promise of occupants’ eyes doing the same. The bed was ridiculous, velvet and heart-shaped.
It did not matter.
When Clare entered after her, he closed the door. He passed his hand over the rune magicked to prevent sound from emanating out of the room.
Delicious anticipation clenched in Beatrice. Clare’s breathing was heavy. His eyes were dark in the firelight.
She found herself shaking. She’d not removed one item of clothing, yet the hushed room made her feel incredibly exposed. Nervousness and anticipation danced in her, setting every fiber of her soul to singing.
She’d promised herself for so long she could never forgive Clare Grandhart. Taking this step with him—it would mean more than forgiveness. It would mean giving herself to him once more, knowing where desire would likely lead.
Twice now, they’d let the walls down between them on the eve of peril, thinking they wouldn’t survive. Would tonight be just one more passionate prelude to danger and sacrifice? Or would it be the beginning of something new? Which thought frightened her more?
She fought her misgivings. Her reeducation in wanting consumed her. Oh, how she wanted.
Right now was for living.
Clare showed no such fraught nerves. “Where?” he demanded, his voice rough. “The bed?” When she hesitated, he strode forth. “Don’t say you’ve changed your mind already. I knew we should’ve never left the lift.”
She managed to shake her head. “I’ve been trying to change my mind for ten years. It hasn’t worked yet,” she replied. “It’s not going to happen now.”
“Are you saying you’ve lusted after me all these years?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes, charmed as she always was by him. “If we do this,” she replied, ignoring his question, “be warned. Your room is across the hall, so while you could sneak out in the morning, you wouldn’t get very far.”
She wondered whether he heard the strain under the joke. How the remark hid real fear. Not of him fleeing in the morning, obviously. Of—losing him, in one way or another. Of passion and joy crumbling once more into resentment and pain.
His expression said he did. He responded not with nonchalance, not even humor. Instead, sincerity etched over his features—his ruggedly gorgeous features, she could freely admit now. He stepped one step closer, right up to her.
“I’ll be by your side as long as you’ll have me. I know your magic lets you relive the past . . .” he started to say, then looked down.
In his silence, she glimpsed what she nearly never could in Clare—the weight of years. Of carrying himself without help. She’d learned pieces of his life when they first grew closer. She knew he did not have parents he could speak of. She knew his first venture into the Grimauld Mines ended in the slaughter of his companions. She knew he’d lost his best friend when Elowen lost her brother. He lost the rest of them when Galwell’s funeral splintered the Four.
She’d learned more in recent days. How he’d never expected to return from his second journey into Grimauld. She’d come to understand how much rested on the formidable shoulders of the man in front of her. How much loneliness. How much loss. Like the rest of them, he’d carried the feelings for years. Unlike the rest of them, he’d somehow done so smiling.
“We all relive what’s happened to us. Over and over,” he whispered. “No amount of revisiting our memories will change the past. We can’t return there, not really. All we have is right now.”
He gazed up, right into her eyes.
“That’s what we can change,” he concluded. The vengeance of hope in his voice—it was more perfectly Clare Grandhart than any jest or gloating remark. He outstretched his hand. “What do you say, B?”
Her hesitation was gone.
She lifted her chin, lining her lips up with his. Yet instead of kissing him— “I have one condition,” she said.
His lips quirked in a grin. “Of fucking course you do.”
“I know you’re pushing yourself to live up to Galwell’s legacy,” she went on. “Pretending to be the noble hero Mythria needs. But”—she pinned his flickering eyes—“I don’t need that. I don’t . . . want a gentleman.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I want Clare Grandhart,” she said. “The man I met in a seedy shithole tavern, who smelled like sweat and had a foul mouth and didn’t hold any of himself back just because it would be more genteel if he did.”
For once, Clare said nothing. She did not receive the cockiness, the self-congratulation, or the vindicated wink she expected. No, he looked—stunned. Like, she realized, while he fought and doubted himself in vain efforts to make himself better, he never imagined someone could want him for who he already was.
Then, of course, came the cockiness.
“Given this enlightenment,” he drawled, smirking, setting sweetness clenching in her once more, “I feel compelled to share I punched the impersonator who kissed you. Turns out I’m not much of a gentleman, even when I try.”
She laughed—feeling somewhat like they were still on that lift, except it had no ending, carrying them ever higher into the wondrous night.
“Well then,” she replied. “Don’t hold back, Grandhart.”
He was on her instantly.
The force of his passion overwhelmed her, dizzying pleasure rendering her weak. His hands, feeling her breasts. His mouth hot on hers, devouring. His massive frame dashing her into the ecstasy of lovely surrender. Suddenly he was ripping her clothes, the seams splitting under his experienced grip as the garments fell to the floor.
He paused only to growl in her ear, “How am I doing?”
She knew what she needed to say.
“Passably,” she replied.
“Hmmm,” he grumbled. “Passably won’t do.” He hoisted her up, throwing her over his shoulder while she shrieked. “I have to say,” he went on with glib casualness, “I’m surprised. I know you had a schoolgirl crush on old Galwell. He never would’ve behaved this way in the bedroom.”
Groping for something like the upper hand while her front half hung down his back, she settled for slapping his ass. “Why do you even remember that?”
He stopped short, like something in her words had jammed in his clockwork. The next moment, he was depositing her down, onto her feet in front of him, to her great dismay. “You’re joking, right?” he asked when he could look her in the eye. “When the girl you can’t stop thinking about mentions having a crush on the other man you’re currently questing with, the detail tends to stick with you.”
She found her expression softening. “It shouldn’t,” she informed him. “Like you said. Schoolgirl crush. When I grew up, I realized what I really wanted. Ghosts help me, but it’s you, Clare.” Drawn to him, she lifted her chin. “Not you pretending to be someone else,” she said. “You, as you are.”
Finding him speechless, she spared him having to reply and pulled him into a deep kiss. He kissed her in return, with more than hunger—she felt the song his lips played of longing, of gratitude, of weary wonderment. Of deep, real joy.
While he kissed her, he reached behind her, where he opened the bathing room doors.
She withdrew, questioning. She’d not even noticed where he set her on her feet, figuring the hallway in front of the bathing room was only one inadvertent waypoint on their journey into the bedroom.
Clare looked to have other plans. He murmured his explanation into her neck. “It drove me wild watching you take that bath in Queendom. Now I’m going to do everything I’ve been imagining doing to you since.”
Heat rippled through her. In the past nights, she’d done some reimagining of the encounter herself. She guessed their wildest dreams were going to converge.
In reply, she strode into the bathing chamber, inviting him to follow her. The bath—closer to a small pool, sunken into the stone floor—was full. Upon their entry, the pink waterfall cascading from the ceiling had commenced pouring hot water into the pool. Crystal-blue steam rose from the shimmering surface.
Clare stripped down to nothing in front of her.
Ghosts, she’d forgotten how large he was. Her mouth went dry. Ignoring whatever indulgent desire she knew her face held, he strode into the water, then turned, waiting for her.
He did not need to wait long. She walked steadily and with purpose right into his arms.
On his skin she found remnants of the fight downstairs. Cuts, scrapes, new wounds joining old scars. Her own recent injury stung in the hot water, reminding her of its half-healed state whenever she moved her side.
She welcomed the pain, for the pain made the experience more real. She was not walking in some fantasy, unmoored from herself. Nor was Clare. They were them. They could find this pleasure even in hardship. They had not fallen into each other’s embrace—they had fought their way there.
She felt Clare’s hands cascading over her naked curves while the hot water unwound her muscles. Every fear, every worry, every resentment disappeared, desire softening her shape into one of pure hungry hope.
Clare filled her need. He was, indeed, no gentleman. His fingers found her under the water, demanding her pleasure. With urging strokes he coaxed her heart ever faster.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling the length of him. The contact sent his head rocking back, his eyes closing. That wouldn’t do. Beatrice gripped the back of his neck. “Afraid to watch, Sir Grandhart?” she asked, knowing what wicked fire she was playing with.
Clare’s eyes flew open, the crystal blue she’d spent years dreaming of fixed on her once more. “So this is how you’re going to be.” His voice made everything in her clench.
“How?” she repeated breathlessly, his thumb pressing in a place that made her grateful the water was holding her up.
He brought his lips to her throat. “Difficult,” he rasped.
Beatrice gripped his hair firmly enough to pull his head back. “I’m with Mythria’s Sexiest Man Alive. I want to see his eyes.”
Sinking a finger into her, Clare did as he was told. He didn’t close his eyes. Didn’t blink. When finally they could withstand the deprivation no longer, Clare slid into her, each of them gasping in the warm water, and still he watched.
It was not enough for Clare Grandhart, the rogue. He moaned into her shoulder, pressing his lips, his tongue, his teeth into her skin. He touched every part of her and told her where to touch him in return, his requests urgent and raw.
She gripped him under the water, raked nails down his chest, clung to his broad frame. Every stroke pushed them farther, and closer.
She’d only ever known Clare Grandhart on quests. Sharing a journey in the intrepid hope of reaching the end of the road. Now was no different. It was like they were racing in unison for the greatest destination either of them had ever known.
As he got closer to the edge, she expected Clare to grow more frantic, harder, faster. Instead, his movements seemed more intentional. He pushed her to the bath’s wall, pressing them tighter together, like he needed to touch as much of her at once as he could. “I’m watching you, Beatrice. You’re fucking spectacular,” he ground out, his fingers interlacing with hers.
His words were her undoing. While he held her, they found their release together. Fears vanished, years collapsed. Everything erased in one shattering culmination of light.
What surfaced then was—contentment. For the first time in so many years, Beatrice wanted to be nowhere but the present.
But the future loomed.
In the unguarded lull, life found her. She spoke freely, spontaneously, like she was on the verge of giggling. “The resurrection is happening tomorrow night,” she said, a little breathless. “The Order is throwing a revel at the Night Dragon Inn.”
Unsurprisingly, Clare looked startled. “Beatrice, love,” he replied delicately. “Is this some manner of polite way for you to kick me out of your bath? Because if—I wasn’t good, then I’m brave enough to hear it.”
She splashed him. Wasn’t good? she wanted to say. Every love song written in your honor has not done you justice. She knew such comments would only enlarge his self-satisfaction, however. “Quite the contrary. I’m telling you because we have some time,” she settled for saying. “All night, in fact.”
Clare grinned. His widest, most wonderful grin.
“Now what, exactly, could we do with so much time?” he inquired.
She withdrew from him, sliding in invitation under the waterfall. “We have a lot of years to make up for, Grandhart,” she said.
Clare stalked closer in the water.
“Best start right now,” he replied.
31
Elowen
Over breakfast, Elowen wore a huge smile on her face, and frankly, she expected some fanfare because of it. When was the last time any of them woke up to the sight of her beaming? But Clare seemed determined to outdo her in terms of cheer. He was unusually chipper, even for him.
