Lord of silver ashes row.., p.30
Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood Book 2), page 30
“Yes,” he rasped. “Please—please, your highness—”
Cylvan kissed him from above, before sliding a hand down the curve of Saffron’s throat. His mouth then found the underside of Saffron’s jaw, then the side of his neck, biting at the inner curve of his shoulder.
“You—are like nothing I’ve ever had, Saffron,” Cylvan breathed, hot against Saffron’s back and making him tremble. “You are the most decadent thing I’ve ever tasted, Saffron.”
Saffron fell back into the pillows, shaking with bliss and stretching out his arms to grip the bars of the headboard. Cylvan coaxed the rest of him flat to the bed, pinning Saffron’s legs together between his knees and allowing himself more weight to thrust inside.
Cylvan’s hand flattened against Saffron’s back, trailing his palm over every textured scar of the words carved in his skin. Saffron shivered, offering Cylvan a glance over his shoulder. But Cylvan didn’t see him—he stared at the words, alone. That was the first time he’d seen them so close, in direct light, unlike in the dark bathroom the night before; it was the first time he touched them fully, with his entire hand. Saffron had hidden the scars from Cylvan the first time they tangled up in one another, but in that moment, Cylvan touched them as if it was one of his biggest regrets once he was told Saffron was gone.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, and Saffron’s heart squeezed. “You’re… perfect, Saffron.”
“Don’t,” Saffron whispered back, hiding his face against the pillow. But Cylvan’s hand continued touching every inch, every letter.
“Do you know… you have a line of freckles down your spine?” He breathed, trailing a finger as he said it. “And a beauty mark here, at the top of your shoulder…”
He kissed the spot, and goosebumps flushed Saffron’s skin.
“Everywhere I touch… is softer than the last,” Cylvan continued, never slowing the pace of his hips. “Every part of you… is more perfect than the last.”
Saffron just shook his head, but Cylvan’s mouth, his thoughtful touch, carefully broke down the insecurity, the embarrassment at the thought of someone Saffron thought to be perfect seeing something so gruesome on his body. He realized—an unthreaded version of himself wouldn’t know what Cylvan talked about, let alone how he’d gotten the scars at all, but Saffron didn’t want to play that game. He didn’t want to acknowledge it. Just like he didn’t want to pretend he didn’t know about Arrow and Berry and Cloth. He wasn’t sure he could, if asked. He wasn’t sure he could stomach lying about his friends who died.
I’m not perfect, he wanted to say, instead. I’m covered in scars. My skin is uneven. My hair is a mess. My fingernails are chipped. All the things Taran tried to fix in the first week of Saffron’s stay in the attic. He’d learned, that day, every single imperfection every high fey saw when they looked at someone as pathetic and small as he was.
But Cylvan dé Tuatha dé Danann, the Prince of Alfidel, the embodiment of what it meant to be perfect—venerated every inch of him, as if… he meant it, that time he called Saffron a treasure. Something to be appreciated. Memorized. Every part of him, even the scars, the stretch marks, the things Saffron never thought were even something to be insecure about until some fey made a comment.
Cylvan pressed deeper inside, as if wishing to summon a sound from Saffron’s mouth. It did, and Saffron moaned into the pillow, clutching it in his arms before biting down on the fabric. Cylvan hunched over his back, hooking fingers into Saffron’s mouth and pulling him free.
“I want to hear all of it,” he breathed, and Saffron whimpered, fists trembling as they clutched the cushion desperately. His eyes fluttered closed from the overwhelm, spit dripping between Cylvan’s fingers as the prince’s opposite hand gripped Saffron’s hip for leverage. Plunging deeper, again and again, Saffron thought he might break into pieces. Gasping and crying out in pleasure, he prayed Cylvan’s name between hiccuping breaths and want for more.
“I want—to see you,” he begged next, turning pathetically to reach out an arm. Cylvan didn’t hesitate, removing himself and taking Saffron’s extended reach, pulling him into his chest before pressing him back into the pillows. Saffron wrapped his arms around the back of Cylvan’s neck, opening his legs again as Cylvan pressed back inside, vanishing into shared gasps and pleas on one another’s name. Saffron kissed him selfishly, closing his eyes and rolling his hips to meet Cylvan’s movements, wanting him deeper, harder, more and more until they might never be separated again. Cylvan obeyed every silent command, all the while supporting Saffron’s bandaged leg, ensuring there was never any weight applied enough to hurt it.
“You’re so beautiful, Saffron,” Cylvan repeated, kissing Saffron’s cheek, then his sweat-flushed forehead, his hair. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
Saffron shook his head again.
“Don’t—tease me,” he whimpered, but Cylvan responded with a long, reverential kiss that numbed all of Saffron’s denials.
“You’re beautiful,” he reiterated, pressing their foreheads together. “And the only person—who can ever make such requests of me.”
Saffron smiled weakly, and something about it made Cylvan thrust harder. Choking on his breath, Saffron’s hands found Cylvan’s shoulders, clinging to him, clawing lines into his skin.
“Don’t go,” Saffron asked, meaning more than simply back into Connacht. Don’t go, don’t go, don’t leave me again, I can’t be without you again. “You can’t go—”
“Not yet,” Cylvan promised, nipping at Saffron’s neck. “Not when you feel so good.”
“Do whatever you want to me,” Saffron practically begged, pulling Cylvan closer. “If it means you’ll stay.”
“I’ll do whatever I want to you—because I’m your prince,” was Cylvan’s answer, and Saffron bit back a laugh.
“You said—mh!—I could make requests of you…”
“I never said I would listen.”
“You…!” Saffron bucked backward as Cylvan’s hand stroked between his legs, crying out as ecstacsy flooded between his hips, waking every nerve in his body as it swelled like bottled champagne. Higher and higher as Cylvan coaxed it—until Saffron gasped and choked at his peak, releasing over Cylvan’s stomach. Cylvan immediately hunched over to press their foreheads back together, kissing him, complimenting him, telling him how beautiful he was—all the while, his own movements growing more intense, losing their constant rhythm in demand for release. Saffron could only cling, legs wrapped around Cylvan’s waist while he was dominated—before Cylvan grunted and spilled inside of him, in the most satisfying way.
Saffron collapsed to the pillows as the world spun, a flush of ice grazing his skin as his heart squeezed and slowed in the afterglow. Breathing heavy, Cylvan bent over to kiss him, pushing sweaty hair from his eyes to kiss his forehead, last.
“Beautiful,” he whispered one last time like a promise, and Saffron managed an exhausted smile despite unable to find the rest of his body.
“I’ll come back for you,” Cylvan’s voice returned, floating overhead. Saffron pouted his lips, managing to open his eyes again. It made Cylvan laugh, kissing him one more time before coaxing himself in and out with a few final rolls of his hips. Saffron’s face contorted in pleasure, summoning a satisfied sound from Cylvan in reply. “There is no way for me to possibly… be apart from someone so perfect, for any time at all.”
“Do you promise?” Saffron asked, the exhaustion of crashing pleasure racing to meet him. Cylvan kissed him again.
“I promise,” he said. “By the old rules of human and fey—I always come back for what belongs to me.”
Saffron smiled, closing his eyes and sinking heavily into the pillows. Cylvan pulled away, trailing a line of kisses across Saffron’s collarbones, then his damp hair.
“My treasure,” he whispered in finality, and Saffron attempted to smile at the joy those words brought him—but he disappeared too quickly back to the mounds, summoned to that safe, dark place where he could sleep and wake again to the sound of Cylvan’s voice. Deep enough that he never once worried about propping the door closed, or being caught off guard.
39
THE OFFER
Saffron slept deep enough to escape dreams. Deep enough that once his heart floated back to a place where it could beat again, summoning him from the darkness, he wasn’t sure where he was. Who he was. Why he was. Only that he ached with saccarhine warmth emanating from his back, his stomach, between his legs.
He might have even remained in the earth, had something in the open air not caught his attention. Knock, knock.
Flickering back to life, Saffron’s heavy eyes cracked open, squinting against the sun breaking through overcast clouds on the other side of the windows behind him. Lifting his head slightly, he blinked around the room as thoughts pieced themselves back together, only at the last moment realizing—he wasn’t alone. There was a stranger in the room with him, door propped open behind them. Had he not been so heavy, Saffron might have screamed, clambered away, attacked with the first thing he could grab—but then he realized, he recognized them. It was the clerk from the inn’s front desk.
Sitting up slowly, somewhere in the depths of his awareness he knew he was naked and littered with lovemarks and half-moon crescents in the shape of Cylvan’s teeth, but for some reason, it didn’t bother him. He just watched the clerk bring in what Saffron recognized as luggage bags without ever meeting Saffron’s eyes, and then Saffron’s attention moved to where the dinner table had been cleaned of old dishes and replaced with a breakfast spread filling the room with delicious scents. Cut fruits with powdered sugar; eggs, bacon, honey ham, glazed salmon beneath a glass lid; steaming coffee in a porcelain carafe; a bouquet of tulips and fresh lavender spilling out of a crystal vase in the middle.
On the opposite nightstand, an additional surprise waited for him, and Saffron plucked it up before sinking back into the pillows with a long exhale. Smiling to himself, he touched the front where his name was written in Cylvan’s handwriting, opening the card and wiggling his feet in glee.
Stay where you are. You are safe.
If you wake before I return, I deserve punishment without mercy.
The inn attendant left the room not much later, though Saffron noticed how they glanced last second back to where he rested, disheleved, useless, exhausted in the bed. Saffron almost smiled at them in reassurance, but they turned away again too quickly—and made the sign of beseeching a Day Court as they went. As soon as the door closed behind them, Saffron frowned, making his own for a Night in response.
Keeping the note in one hand, he crawled on wobbly hands and knees to pick at the breakfast offerings on the table, eating directly from the platters. Spreading coils of salted salmon on crackers, sucking on chocolate strawberries, sipping at champagne and orange juice with more alcohol than anything else. He wondered how such a quaint tavern and inn managed to provide such an impressive display twice in a row, though he wouldn’t be surprised if Cylvan had somehow arranged for it to all be delivered from Connacht nearby.
Knowing how far they were from the city center, recalling how long they soared in the sky after leaving the party, was both a relief and another reason Saffron’s insides twisted up in anxiety. Far enough that he might not be found; far enough that he wouldn’t be able to make excuses if the others were looking for him.
You are safe. You are safe.
Slumping back into the fluffy pillows with another fat strawberry between his fingers, Saffron rubbed a palm up and down his bandaged thigh while sucking on the red fruit, smiling at the hand-painted flowers encircling a hanging lamp overhead. It was fitted with what Saffron recognized to be electric lights, something he’d overheard Eias talking about as they approached on the train. How had they described it? A fast-growing trend in Avren, spreading across Alfidel. Illuminating rooms and streets without the need for candles or matches, like magic. Someone finally figured out how to get lightbulbs through the veil without the glass shattering…
Oh, god—Saffron was thinking about the lights. He was thinking about the interior decor, when his whole body throbbed so deliciously. Grinning and kicking his feet like a fool in love, he allowed himself to follow the memories back to every moment. Every second. Every touch, and taste, and smell, and—
He had to grab the card again, reading “You are safe” once more as adrenaline slammed for a second time. He drowned in the pure elation of exactly what he’d done, but also cowered at the thought of how he’d put himself and Cylvan in horrible danger by giving in to his selfish urges, how if Taran or Kaelar or anyone else found out exactly what happened, Saffron surely wouldn’t live through the week—
You are safe. You are safe. You are…
“Safe,” he whispered. He sank back into the pillows, tracing his fingers over the handwritten letters. Cylvan’s words. Just for him. His name, a promise, a spell—just for him.
Perhaps… all was not lost. Cylvan knew Saffron could speak again—but Saffron hadn’t told him much else. As far as Cylvan knew, Saffron’s memory threads were still gone, he’d simply… fallen for the prince’s undeniable charm and allure, all over again.
“Who wouldn’t?” He mused, thinking about how handsome, perfect, irresistible Cylvan looked while they ate dinner the night before, how his muscles moved as he thrust in and out of Saffron that morning, the way he filled Saffron to the brim, the sound of his breaths and grunts of pleasure—and Saffron prickled with embarrassment, kicking his legs again and giggling. Fuck.
* * *
Eventually limping to the bags delivered by the desk attendant, Saffron was surprised at how completely they were packed. All of Cylvan’s clothes, all of Saffron’s clothes, including those Cylvan bought for him on the first day, as well as a few new pieces he didn’t recognize. Even his arid books were in Cylvan’s bag, and Saffron’s amethyst pendant was tucked away safely alongisde them, where he grabbed it to drape over his head. Even his crutch was propped against the wall by the door, he noticed last.
Assuring himself Cylvan was just being thorough, Saffron grabbed the crutch and hopped back to the breakfast table, spreading another piece of toast with salmon and cheese before snagging the gossip digest tucked under one of the platters.
Flopping back to the bed on his stomach, he skimmed through the pages unfurled like feathers on the pillow, ankles crossed and swinging with the food balanced on the tips of his fingers. Beantighes weren’t usually privy to daily, weekly, or monthly digests, except when a patron specifically mailed one to Beantighe Village for one reason or another. Depending on the publisher, they discussed politics, or gossip, or festivals, scandals, and none of that had ever interested someone like Saffron who would much rather repurpose the paper for his sketchbook.
But that morning, it only took until the second page for something to grab his attention and hook into it like a pair of talons.
MATRIARCH MURVA MAC DELBAITH, KNOWN FOR HER PHILANTHROPIC ENDEAVORS, RETURNS TO THE MOUNDS BY PYRE. FAMILY ORACLES STATE INHERENT MAGIC WAS ‘HEALING’ UPON POSTHUMOUS WITNESS. FAMILY SAYS TAPESTRY WILL BE WOVEN TO RESEMBLE ANCESTRAL HOME IN THE WINTER COURT…
Saffron scoffed, hating to be reminded that the mac Delbaiths were also from the Winter Court. That must have also been the same funeral Taran attended while everyone else was in Connacht. Saffron hoped the burning pyre failed to collapse beneath the deceased’s body, signifying the mounds wanting nothing to do with her. There wasn’t a single part of him that believed the words philanthropic endeavors, either, despite not being completely sure what they even meant. Unless it was about cruelty, or war crimes, or the courtiers’ overall distaste for her while alive.
One other thing did stand out to him, however—that mention of inherent magic. What did that mean, if the mac Delbaiths were ashen? How could an oracle figure it out in death, but not in life?
Burying another bite of toast in his mouth, Saffron rested his head on an outstretched arm while reading the headline over a second time and then skimming through the dry recounting of the woman’s life. He only sat up again at the sound of a key in the door.
Stretching his neck, instincts urged him to leap to his feet and scramble out the window—but he forced himself to remain calm. Cylvan promised he was safe.
Still, he couldn’t help but sigh in relief when it really was Cylvan who opened the door and stepped inside. Carrying a paper bag in one arm and a bouquet of flowers in the other, Cylvan kicked the door shut with his foot, before smiling as Saffron sat up on his elbows with a grin of his own.
Cylvan nearly said something in greeting, before his eyes trailed up Saffron’s bare ass, back, shoulders, exposed on the bed. Swaying his legs, Saffron smiled flirtily from his naked place within the pillows, laughing when Cylvan immediately stuffed everything he carried onto the nearest chaise and pounced.
Cylvan stole the last bite of salmon on toast, and Saffron barely had a chance to squeak before the prince’s mouth pinned against his, then turned him over.
“My little strawberry cake,” he breathed between their lips, tucking Saffron against the pillows and captivating every additional thought Saffron had.
“Were our bags delivered?” Cylvan went on, but hardly gave Saffron a chance to respond. He lifted a knee onto the bed, gliding his hands over Saffron’s chest. Saffron shivered beneath the touch, gently hooking his fingers around Cylvan’s wrists. Cylvan responded by rubbing his thumbs into Saffron’s nipples, making Saffron gasp sharply as a mouth found a ticklish spot under his ear. He giggled, then laughed as Cylvan hiked himself farther onto the bed, pinning Saffron beneath straddling legs.
“I’m going to take you away from here, Saffron. Just like I promised,” Cylvan went on against his skin. Saffron’s eyes fluttered slightly in question.
