Lord of silver ashes row.., p.39
Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood Book 2), page 39
“I just… want you,” Saffron shuddered.
“Every piece of me belongs to you,” Cylvan promised, kissing Saffron again—and thrusting himself inside. Saffron gasped sharply, throwing his head back. “And you—belong to me. Every word, every sound. All of your magic, your cunning—is owed to your king.”
Saffron laughed hazily, placing his hands on Cylvan’s shoulders and smiling while moving his hips. Pressing Cylvan deeper inside, he rolled his back, flexing his legs and taking him in and out in all the ways that made Cylvan gasp and curse in pleasure. Hands gripped Saffron’s thighs, his hips, his waist, as if struggling to find any place to anchor himself against the overwhelming way Saffron rode him.
“And what of yours belongs to me?” Saffron asked, smiling again as Cylvan’s lips parted, eyes closed as he lost the ability to speak. Saffron’s hands found Cylvan’s chest, teasing his jewelry, kissing the center of his throat. “You once offered me your kingdom—but I don’t care about power, or land, or anything someone else can take from me.”
“You can have—anything,” Cylvan breathed, expression brightening as he struggled to breathe. “Anything you want—is yours, Saffron.”
“You know what I want,” Saffron laughed softly, kissing under Cylvan’s jaw. “Just you, only you. Every part of you. Your name, your voice—your body, your hands… your devotion.”
“F-fuck, yes,” Cylvan choked, and Saffron grinned—before he was suddenly grabbed by the crook of the arm and turned onto his back. Cylvan nearly bent him in half, gripping Saffron’s wrists in one hand and pinning them over his head.
Slamming himself to the hilt with deep, merciless thrusts, Saffron gagged on every breath. He grappled weakly at Cylvan’s shoulders with each twist of his insides, nails dragging down skin and leaving marks behind.
“Promise me,” Cylvan leaned close, pushing himself as deep as he could go and making Saffron’s toes curl. He edged in and out with rolling hips, and Saffron swore at him in whimpering breaths. “You’ll never—make a deal with any other fey, ever again. Only me.”
“Cyl—” Saffron begged, tightness flushing in a pool in his stomach, between his legs, the rhythmic in and out of Cylvan’s hips pushing him closer and closer to the edge of breaking. Cylvan sensed it—and his hand found Saffron’s length, stroking it knowingly.
“Promise me, Saffron,” Cylvan demanded. “You’ll never go where I can’t find you. Ever again.”
“I—!” Saffron writhed in pleasure, unable to find his mouth, clutching at Cylvan’s arms in a beg for mercy. “Cylvan, I’m—!”
“Not until you say it, beantighe,” came Cylvan’s response, a smile coating the words. His hand between Saffron’s legs stroked and teased more, almost making Saffron scream as the growing pressure between his hips crested and broke against his insides—
“I p-promise, Cylvan!” He pleaded, a mix of desperate laughter breaking out of him. “I won’t—I won’t leave you, again, please—!”
Cylvan pulled Saffron in as he tightened with climax, spilling over Cylvan’s chest and stomach. Trembling with overwhelmed gasps, Saffron’s entire body sparkled, heart dancing like human feet on Beltane. He sank back to the grass as Cylvan kissed him, then kissed under his chin, his neck, his chest, before pulling Saffron’s legs together over one shoulder, and thrusting inside again.
Saffron’s world spun, lapping in and out of reality as saccharine exhaustion made his body throb and tremble, feeling it swirl again between his legs as Cylvan buried inside. The prince’s movements grew more demanding, pressing deep enough, with enough force, that Saffron thought he was going to split apart. Moaning, Cylvan bent Saffron’s legs forward to give himself more leverage—before burying himself with a final gasp, and filling Saffron with spreading heat. Hunched over Saffron’s bent body, with Saffron’s legs still draped together over one shoulder, Cylvan breathed heavily as stray drops of sweat hit Saffron’s stomach.
When Cylvan carefully removed himself, Saffron complained between biting his lip, but Cylvan hardly shifted away any farther. He kept Saffron’s legs over his shoulder, kissing the curve of his knee, stroking fingers up and down the outside of his thigh. He only moved again when Saffron extended his hands, pulling Cylvan back down over him, just—wanting to be within reach. Begging for more. Begging to be filled again. No single touch was enough. Nothing else commanded every part of him like his fey prince who could grasp pieces of his soul and keep them warm, even in the loneliest of winters.
* * *
They remained in the grass until the sun began to set, drifting in and out of awareness on the breeze, relishing the sensation of one another, kissing and fucking until Saffron could hardly remember his name. Making up for time lost. Making up for emotions repressed. As if the memories of Danann House would unfurl and fall away the more they traded ecstasy.
Lying on their backs in exhaustion, Saffron trailed fingers down Cylvan’s chest, the muscles of his stomach, his strong shoulders; Cylvan kissed Saffron’s collarbones, the tiny scars left on his windpipe, his wrists, his leg, anywhere Proserpina’s Silver had tasted him. He found and memorized every spotted scar where the prongs pierced, kissing each one with reverence.
Could that really be what Saffron could look forward to by Cylvan’s side? Now that they’d protected him and his name, now that he could refuse Taran and his plan by telling the kings what Saffron had learned about Nimue? The wolf king’s ashes?
“I love you,” Saffron whispered, tucking a stray hair from Cylvan’s eyes. Cylvan claimed his hand, kissing his palm.
“I love you,” he breathed into it. “Saffron, my arid witch.”
“My fairy king,” Saffron giggled, resting across Cylvan’s chest, listening to his heart, drawing a finger down from the center of his collarbones where his true name hid underneath. “My raven.”
“My treasure.”
Saffron grinned. He kissed Cylvan one more time. Another geis sealed on their lips; the first of another infinity that would surely come.
* * *
Gazing up at the clouds painted pink and orange with the setting sun, a creeping chill soon came to tickle Saffron’s skin and make him shiver. But even after pulling their clothes back on, they still didn’t leave the circle, instead exploring more of Baba Yaga’s grimoire as if searching for any reason to remain within the quiet peace of the henge. Or, perhaps—because the thought of leaving, of using Beantighe Ostara as a cover to escape through the woods, risking discovery, risking putting the entire village in danger, was overwhelming. Cylvan might have even been able to sense it on Saffron’s voice, the way it trembled slightly whenever conversation brushed up against the topic—but he never once mentioned it being time to head back. As if he wished to stay right there, too.
But there were other powers less willing to wait. Less willing to search, where they might have found that peaceful circle where Saffron could vanish like a wild forest spirit in the arms of his ancient fey king.
Other powers knew exactly how to draw Saffron to them, rather than wait any longer. And Saffron knew exactly the trap that had been set, when he spotted pluming smoke rising over the trees from the direction of Beantighe Village.
50
THE FIRE
Saffron abandoned everything in his bag, taking off into the trees like a bolting deer. Cylvan called out after him, but Saffron barely heard it, barely remembered there being anyone else at all—until hands suddenly hooked under his arms, and they launched into the sky.
Grappling for balance, Saffron only had a second to gather himself as the wind whipped above. Finally witnessing the extent of the blinding inferno within the trees, he screamed, nearly tearing from Cylvan’s arms.
Racing shadows fled through the fence into the trees, Saffron was relieved to see—but the feeling didn’t last the moment he spotted a handful of figures standing in a half-circle in the festival clearing. Kneeling within them—Saffron recognized silver hair.
“B—” His throat closed on the smoke. “Baba Yaga! Cylvan, we have to—!”
“No, Saffron, wait!” Cylvan commanded as Saffron attempted to pull him into a nosedive, but was interrupted by a blackbird suddenly flashing past, talon slicing through Saffron’s cheek and making him jolt backward with a cry.
Half a dozen more pierced from the darkness like arrows, beaks and talons tearing into Saffron’s arms, Cylvan’s hair. Cylvan instinctively pulled Saffron’s face into his chest, hunching around him as he cursed and attempted to swat the birds away.
“Púca, hold your breath!”
Saffron did—and the air vanished, only a thin layer remaining for Cylvan to tread. With nothing to brace their feathers, the blackbirds tumbled until catching themselves again. They didn’t attack a second time, scattering back into the trees.
Air crashed back around them like a muted thunderclap, Saffron inhaling sharply and recognizing a faint glow in Cylvan’s eyes. Saffron grabbed his face, wishing to pull him out of it—but a loud snap resounded from below, followed by the whistle of something approaching fast.
It collided with Cylvan’s shoulder, and he reeled backward with a snarl. Saffron nearly slipped from his arms, barely caught before freefalling—but it didn’t matter, as Cylvan’s balance was thrown askew. They rolled backward, plummeting to the forest outside the village gate.
Saffron hit and tumbled to a halt over the road. Lifting his head, Cylvan crashed to the undergrowth behind him, rolling over with a grunt and a curse. Saffron frantically crawled to where he was, helping him up—and blood stained his hand the moment he touched Cylvan’s arm.
“Cylvan!” He choked, but Cylvan threw his strained gaze over Saffron’s shoulder as four horses emerged from the inner flames of the village gate. Saffron attempted to lunge to his feet, wanting to put himself between them and the prince—but Cylvan grabbed his hand first, wrenching him back down.
“Saffron, look at me. Look at me!” He commanded, and Saffron did. His heart pounded behind his vision, making it undulate. He just saw the dark spot seeping through the shoulder of Cylvan’s shirt, where the end of a broken arrow still protruded.
“Go into the woods. Run as fast as you can. Go back to the ruins and wait until—”
“No!” Saffron cried, but Cylvan grabbed him before he could fight further.
“It won’t be for long,” Cylvan promised, taking Saffron’s face with urgency. “Those guards are from Avren. Taran might have called them—but they’ll take me back to the capital, just like we planned. Just like we planned, remember? They’ll do all the work for us. I can speak to the kings about everything, and then I’ll come back for—”
“Sybil.”
Cylvan went still. Saffron froze, eyes locked on Cylvan’s face—but Cylvan’s eyes stared over his shoulder, again. Saffron didn’t have to ask. He already knew. A shriek of fear rippled through his being.
He turned his head, just slightly, just enough to look.
Taran stood on the road, illuminated by the sweltering flames of the village. Behind him, three guards waited in a line, one of them gripping Daurae Asche’s arms as they screamed Saffron’s name—and begged for his forgiveness.
“Take that beantighe by the throat.”
Saffron had no chance to gasp before Cylvan’s hand lashed out, slamming Saffron to the ground with a choking grip on his windpipe. No—no, no, no, the spell hadn’t worked—
“Bring him here, darling.”
Cylvan’s tense expression didn’t change, fingers flexing against Saffron’s neck before lifting him back up again. He hardly flinched as Saffron clawed at him and thrashed for release.
Dragged through the bushes, Cylvan pulled Saffron onto the road, shoving him to his knees in front of Taran whose face was wild with bloodthirsty thrill.
“I was wondering where you two had gone off to.” He smiled. “I was so worried, I had no choice but to call the royal guard. What a relief to find you mostly unharmed, your highness. We’ll get your shoulder looked at on our way to Avren.”
“He’s not going anywhere with you!” Saffron snarled, but Cylvan’s arm hooked under his chin and wrenched him backward, cutting off his words. Saffron jerked against Cylvan’s grasp as Taran approached, kneeling in front of him. He squeezed Saffron’s face.
“You were a useless pain in my ass, right up until the end,” he cooed, before patting Saffron’s cheek in gratitude. “As much as I want to take you with us to face judgment for taboo magic… I promised the headmistress she would have the honor, whether you pass or fail your final trials. She’s waiting for you right on the other side of the fence, beantighe, so don’t linger too long. Perhaps we’ll see you again in a few days… where you can congratulate us on our engagement. It’s all thanks to you, after all.”
Saffron spit in his face, and Taran’s fist slammed into his mouth. It knocked him free of Cylvan’s grasp, landing face-down in the dirt but rolling over again as quickly as he could—just to watch Taran take Cylvan’s hand, and pull him into a kiss.
“Say you wish to marry me, Sybil,” Taran commanded sensually. “Say you’ll make me your Harmonious King.”
“I wish to marry you, Taran,” Cylvan said, taking Taran’s hands and kissing the backs of them. “I’ll make you my Harmonious King.”
“No!” Saffron begged, leaping to his feet—but Kaelar’s voice emerged from the burning village, compelling him back to his knees.
Hitting the ground hard, Saffron hunched forward to catch his fall. He turned to find Kaelar approaching with a smug grin and arms crossed over his chest.
“It’s time for you to perform the rest of your trials, beantighe. The old woman will suffocate on the smoke, soon, otherwise.”
His eyes lifted to Taran and Cylvan, and Saffron followed, heart sinking at how Cylvan’s hand curved around Taran’s waist, gazing at him. His face was—empty. Blank. Trapped in his own body. Saffron wanted to scream, wanted to leap and rip Taran away, to tear him open, tear his throat out with teeth—but Kaelar grabbed him by the hair, shoving him into a bow, instead.
“Congratulate the prince and his fiancé, beantighe. Don’t be rude.”
“Thank you, Lord Caoimháin.” Taran smirked. “We’ll be expecting you at the engagement celebration tomorrow night.”
Saffron spilled onto his side, slamming his foot into Kaelar’s stomach, thrashing and spitting and demanding to be let go—but even screaming Cylvan’s name, begging him to do something, anything—was useless. Cylvan might not even be able to hear him. Cylvan might not even remember what happened once morning came. Saffron stood no match against the power of a true name.
Perhaps he should have accepted that sooner.
* * *
His scalp burned as Kaelar dragged him toward the flames. Through the front gate.
Saffron wrenched back and attempted to free himself once more. His thoughts were as inflamed as every beantighe cottage burning around him, suffocating slowly as the fire scorched the breatheable air. Saffron scrambled to recall Kaelar’s true name, to compel him, even just to find and grab something to break his arm, anything—anything that would set him free, so that he might chase after Taran, who had his final hooks in Cylvan, the person Saffron swore to protect, to stay with—
“Your henmother almost got away, you know,” Kaelar grunted as Saffron nearly pulled loose, finally hooking an arm around Saffron’s throat like Cylvan had held him. It made Saffron choke, clawing fingernails into Kaelar’s arm as he was carried deeper into the inferno. “She didn’t get very far in to the trees before we dragged her back, though—perhaps she’s simply too old to go on. What do you think? Would it be more merciful to put her out of her misery, Saffron?”
Saffron landed a kick to Kaelar’s groin, released for just a moment long enough to hit the dirt and push off again—but Kaelar tackled him a second later, slamming Saffron’s face into the road and making his head spin.
“Taran is going to purge any human beantighe with connections to arid magic, you know,” he growled, grabbing Saffron again and forcing him back to his feet. “Which means, even if you—prove yourself arid, and save your stupid village in front of Elluin—it doesn’t matter. Every single one of them—is marked for execution, anyway.”
His words bucked and broke as Saffron threw his fists, his feet, his head, knees only going weak at that final threat. He knew that already, he knew Taran rising to power was going to be catastrophic for all humans, not just beantighes, not just arid witches—but hearing it said so blatantly, Saffron wanted to scream.
Dragged toward the ceremonial field, Saffron’s eyes burned against the heat and smoke in the air, searching the clearing for his henmother. Sure enough, in the center of the stone spiral meant to be where they partook in Ostara supper together—Saffron saw the hunched shape of Baba Yaga on her knees. Standing over her, Elluin grinned at the sight of Saffron stumbling in their direction.
Shoved to his knees in the grass, Saffron immediately turned to his henmother—but saw only red. A red veil, trailing on the scorched breeze behind her. He could have sworn he’d seen her silver hair from the sky…
But then the face hidden by crimson turned to meet Saffron’s eyes in return, and his stopped heart slammed hard enough to crack his ribs.
Your henmother almost got away, you know. She didn’t get very far in to the trees before we dragged her back…
Something rushed up the back of Saffron’s throat—and before he could stop it, a shrill explosion of laughter erupted out of him. He howled, practically screaming with the hilarity of it, shoved into the grass by Kaelar who barked at him to shut the fuck up. Saffron just laughed more.
Next to him—the beannighe bubbled with amusement of her own.
51
THE HEADMISTRESS
“Today, we witness the performance of arid trials at my interrogation,” Elluin announced over the snapping flames and crashing debris of Beantighe Village—and Saffron’s restrained hysterics.
