He grabs another book and opens to an illustrated page. The ring is extremely detailed, even more so than the one he wears on his right hand, which holds that magical blade of starlight and demon fire. Seithr looks as if a galaxy is trapped within it, a band of the cosmos crowned between the layers of gold.
“I really hope they’re real.” My finger runs along the drawing.
He chews his lip and I find myself leaning closer, my eyes trailing the slope of his bare throat, the tick of a vein intersecting the bite mark. Gods, I would kill just to touch him.
A spark remains in his gaze as he glances to me, gaze flitting from my eyes to my lips to my throat. “Something about the stories wrapped around these Artifacts …” He sighs with his whole chest, staring at the map and the flags inked across it as if they hold all the answers in the universe. “They gave me hope when mine was taken. And that is a dangerous thing to believe in.”
It’s what the Selection became for me—something to cling to. However horrible, it was a passageway to my family, a star in the endless dark. Something to hold on to … like a dragon curled possessively around its treasure—
“Wait.”
I rush out of the room, crossing through our shared bathroom, and return a moment later with one of the many anthologies of myths and legends Draven has loaned me in the past few weeks. It was dull to the point of tears, and I mainly keptit to hide the tantalizing romance novel I’ve been reading, but something about the elves stuck out—an image that reminded me of a dragon guarding its hoard. Flipping through the pages, I can feel Draven half behind me, watching over my shoulder, thrumming with interest. I stop on a page showing a portrait of the elven king.
“Look at his hands.”
In the illustration, the king stands at the entrance of a mighty vault of infinite wealth. Though tiny, merely a smudge of emerald and gold, it’s unmistakable—one of the fingers of his clasped hands bears a ring that looks an awful lot like Kingmaker. A grin breaks across Draven’s face, like clouds parting to reveal the sun. He scoops my face in his hands, a broad grin on his face.
“You are fucking brilliant, Rune.”
A giddy smile bubbles out of me as I look up at him, all gorgeous symmetry and angles and strength. Waiting. He’s breathing as though he’s run a marathon, his eyes darkening, hooded as if he wishes to devour me. My hand fists the front of his shirt and those pupils widen. What is he waiting for?
Is that how you ask nicely?His inner voice is more growl than anything.
My mental wards have disappeared entirely.
Just kiss me, you bastard.
Those lips part in a smile and then he grips me hard, his mouth claiming mine. He tastes like burning hot honey and the heated edges of sex, making my knees weak from want. My entire body tingles, alive for the first time in years. Within just a few movements my mind wipes clean, my lips parting as his tongue sweeps in, warmth flooding from my mouth to the spread of my legs. My grip on his shirt is so tight I’m sure thosegolden buttons will rip, but neither of us cares as his hands travel from cupping my face to my back, lower and lower. His hips roll against me, thumbs sliding under the space where my pants rest, caressing along my pelvic bones.
Every sweep of his tongue sends a fire raging through my body, a forge suddenly roused, flame as hot as lava. My veins fill with lightning, and my hands grip around that taut waist, hand sliding up his shirt to explore the muscles stacked over his stomach, digging between ribs, driving him into me harder.
As he pants against my mouth, his hands scoop beneath my backside, lifting me as though I weigh nothing, my legs wrapping around him. He swipes the books and a lamp off the desk, letting them careen to the floor, and sets me down in their place, his hips joining firm against my own. My thumb rubs over the button of his pants, pulling it loose, and his breath hitches, the taste of him hypnotic. His hand entwines in my hair on one side, his mouth leaving my lips to suck against my neck, my eyes rolling as he unravels me as easy as loose thread—
“Your Majesty—oh!” Magda halts in the doorframe, a hand flying to her chest. She holds a couple of garment bags in her hands and sputters, “I heard a crash—”
“We’re fine here, Magda,” I pant, speaking for us, but she waits for his dismissal.
“Just leave the clothes.” Draven’s deference is at war with his body language, the guttural way his words tear out of him. His eyes haven’t left me, threatening to pull me back into this like an undertow.
The way his eyes are lit up, fervor stoked beneath the violet, turning them magenta, a couple of buttons missing from the top of his shirt, baring his muscled chest, has me dizzy withdesire … I’d willingly let go of any shore, surrender to more of this.
His hips have pinned mine, but from where he stopped kissing, just shy of my peaked breasts, I’m not sure how far it would’ve gone. There’s an awkward clink as Magda leaves the outfits for the party hanging off the door handle. She leaves but we can both hear her lingering outside it.
I burst into embarrassed laughter and Draven joins me, his hand still wrapped in my hair as he chuckles against me, our cheeks pressed together. He goes to pull away, but I keep him close. The laugh dies, devoured by the want in his eyes.
I force myself to focus and whisper into his mind,When we’re in Alfheim, it’s not just the ring or the crystal we should be looking for.
He stands up, releasing me, gaze cooling as if weighing what just happened against our deal. I curse myself, realizing how it looks, like I’ve seduced him just to push my own agenda, and his voice curls against my thoughts.
I remember our vow, Wraith. I’ve been looking into leads. We find your family. We find my items.He grins, a wild, wicked thing.Then we bring this world to heel. Together.
A FEW HOURS LATERI enter Death’s Hearth, coiled around Draven’s strong arm. I wear a flowing dress that’s more slip than anything, as white as any bride’s. My white hair flows down my back, encircled by a woven ivy crown intertwined with crimson and blackened orchids, twigs reaching skyward on either side. My white owl’s mask is pulled snug, a complement to Draven’s skeletal stag. Draven wears a tight-fitting onyx suit, the accents all in gold, as he’s dressed himself like the druid’s highest god, Azazel, Lord of Death, and I am his wife, the White Goddess,who through the moon watches over souls through birth, love, and death, her cycling light a representation of her power.
The night is meant to honor Him above all—the temple on campus overwhelmed with gifts, the numerous candles causing it to shine like a beacon—but his wife is adorned with offerings, too, not only to appease Azazel but to ensure she does not end one’s cycle short. The night is for celebrating the hollowing of one’s soul from its shell, the transformation only the mostelitedruid souls undertake.
It’s odd to be here among immortals revering death when mortals cling to life with such terror. Yet immortals can die only by blade or disaster. Neither age nor sickness will ever take them. To them, death is a holy thing, something earned, whereas even the most devout mortals fear it above all else.
“On Hollow Festival, we celebrate the ecstasy of living. As if it’s our last night in this world,” Draven whispers into my ear, sending chills racing up my spine. I forget how connected druids are said to be to nature—and sex, it seems, is akin to holiness.
