Chapter Three
The Fool
When her littlecottage came into view, Aveta’s legs began to tremble violently. A deep sense of foreboding followed her like a dark cloud. It felt as though the threat loomed over her, so close that she would see it if she only turned to look. She struggled to continue walking, focusing on taking one step at a time. As she approached the door, she faltered, falling down on her knees.
Her legs too weak to carry her any longer, Aveta crawled to the door, pushing it open, and dragging herself inside. She had to hide. There was safety in the shadows of her home and she desperately needed it.
Grunting with the effort to force her legs to cooperate, she kicked the door shut behind her and collapsed on the floor. Her breath came in gasps and her chest ached fiercely.
Finally in the protective embrace of her home, Aveta curled her knees into her chest and sobbed.
The wild storm of tears had passed when she realized that the late afternoon had turned to early evening. Her entire body was stiff, as though she were aged or infirm. Moving slowly, she rose to her feet. The fire was dying in the hearth and the light within the house was fading.
Aveta focused on the simple tasks of stoking the fire and lighting candles within the cottage. The air had cooled after the storm and she didn’t want to open the shutters and let out the heat.
As she prepared a light supper, she felt him step into the meadow. He must have heard about Branwen and her son. Aveta could feel his agitation, his worry. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she went to the door and opened it in time to see him enter her yard, the setting sun burnishing his chestnut hair with fire.
Alaunus did not speak as he strode down the little path that bisected her garden. He scooped her up into his arms, elbowing the door shut behind him. Without hesitation, he carried her to the bed and sat on the edge, draping her across his lap and tucking her face against his throat.
His skin was hot and damp and his chest heaved against her. Aveta realized he must have run the entire way from town.
“I felt you,” he panted, running a hand through her hair and loosening it from the bit of cloth she had used to tie it back as was his habit. “Your pain and your sorrow. I was north of town with my father, checking the plantings after the storm. What happened? What grieves you?”
Aveta went still in his arms. She had often thought that Alaunus held power of his own, perhaps the same touch of the god or goddess that she possessed, but never before had he spoken of sensing things.
“You felt me?” she asked.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I do not know how, but I knew that you needed me. I could hear your cries and feel the wetness of your tears on my own face.”
Alaunus tucked her face against his neck once again, cupping the back of her head with his hand. Despite his size, he cradled her gently, his touch reverent.
“I love you,” he muttered, his voice breaking over the words he had only spoken once before. “When I felt you, I thought—” he stopped speaking and swallowed with difficulty, as though the words were caught in his throat. “I thought you were lost to me. I have never run so far or so quickly.”
Aveta reached up, touching his cheek with her hand, surprised to find a slight dampness to his face. The trail of a single tear.
Her hesitant fingers seemed to crack the control he held over his body. Alaunus fisted his hand in her hair, tilting her face back in order to take her mouth. There was no playfulness or joy in his hands on her body, only desperation. This was not about desire.
It was about need. A need to claim her as his own.
He all but tore the dress from her body, ripping one of the sleeves as he removed it. His tunic and trousers did not fare much better as Aveta wrestled him out of his clothing.
His mouth traveled down her throat, the edge of his teeth scraping her skin as he tasted her. Aveta touched him, her nails dragging over his chest and marking him as he marked her.
As his lips moved over her collarbone to her breast, she arched her back, openly seeking the pleasure he offered. When Alaunus sucked her nipple into the heat of his mouth, Aveta cried out and fisted her hands in his hair.
Her body quickened with each stroke of his tongue and nip of his teeth on the sensitive flesh of her breasts. She reached between them, wrapping her shaking fingers around his length.
Alaunus groaned against her sternum, his hips thrusting forward. “Aveta,” he murmured.
“Now,” she whispered. “Come to me now.”
There was no finesse, no lingering touches. She guided him into her body, lifting her hips to meet him.
Frantic for each other, they clashed together, racing toward release.
As they reached the pinnacle, Alaunus demanded, “Look at me.” His hand burrowed in her hair, tugging her head back so their eyes met.
Aveta gasped at the brilliant hazel of his eyes, her body tensing as she came.
