In the end, it had been easy to orchestrate. Silva knew Tate would have followed wherever she led, regardless of her reasoning, even if it was only to collect her and grouse about the drive. She decided to give them both a reason to get away, researching the surrounding areas until she had found the perfect opportunity. An antique shop that specialized in Elvish and Gnomish wares, in close enough proximity to a bar that advertised pool to make it worth their while. He had just come home from the bistro, mumbling about the heat and setting his thermostat to an even more Arctic temperature. Silva let him shower and change before he headed down to the pub, pushing him back on the bed and straddling his hips, nosing against his damp hair.
"Can we go away again?" she whined, fisting a hand into his black T-shirt. "It doesn't need to be anywhere fancy. We had so much fun that one time, remember?"
He chuckled against her neck. "Did we have fun? I seem to remember you turning into a cannibal at one point, does that happen every time you leave town? I only ask because I'll need to start taking a multivitamin in preparation."
"Please," she pleaded, pressing her cheek to his chest, throwing her arms around his neck. "I just want to get away for a day, there's a big dip coming up at work, and I won't have anything to do. We could leave Friday morning and be back by Saturday night. You won't even have to miss the busy night at the bar."
She should have felt more satisfied than she did as she sat in the passenger seat of his car the following month, her GPS set to the hotel she picked out, close to both the antique shop and the pub. It annoyed her that they hadn't even thought of her, that they hadn't included her in the planning at all, but she pushed the frustration away as the highway narrowed down to a rural stretch of nothing but countryside. The trees had already slipped into their autumn coats, brilliant red and gold and orange, blazing across the valley as they sped along. She wondered if they would've been better off planning something back two months ago, that would've been her suggestion if they would've bothered asking. Tate was tetchy in the autumn; his temper shorter and his answers to questions more snappish.
He had picked a fight with her apropos of nothing a few weeks earlier, insinuating that he thought she needed to call and reconcile with her mother. "How much more time are you going to let slide away, dove? The more time that passes, the harder it's going to be to forgive you, harder for your sort to forget. You've had your fun playing house, it's time to go back to your actual life." He'd softened once she was in tears, as he always did. "I'm too selfish to give you up on my own, but it's tearing me apart watching you throw away your future. I can't give you anything you want, Silva."
"Can't," she asked, "or won't?" When she laid against him that night, salty tracks of her dried tears staining her cheeks, he repeated the same line he always gave her — that he couldn't give her the things she wanted. "Why should I have to choose," she demanded hotly. "Whycan'tI get what I want? You’re just being stubborn."
His smile stretched again, his nose bumping hers. "And what is that, little dove? Why don't you tell me exactly what it is that you want. Let me guess . . . a summer wedding and a house in your gated community, a perfect little wisp of a daughter. Am I close?"
He needs a wife and at least three children, and a hobby he can only do on Sundays. Her smile was small around the tracks of her tears. "A spring wedding, actually. When all the flowers are in bloom."
"I'm going to have to nix springtime for anything," he cut in. "Spring and autumn are absolutely out of the question, dreadful seasons. Summer would be fine if it weren't for the bleedin' heat. Winter is truly the only acceptable time of year for anything."
Her heart was crowded in her chest by the riot of butterfly wings that fluttered and pushed, pressing against her lungs, a bubble of elation filling her as he played along. "A winter wedding means I could wear one of those long velvet cloaks trimmed and in fur," she mused. "Blue and silver for everything. We have to book a hall, instead of having it outside, but that can be arranged." His laughter was a rich scrape, vibrating against her chest. "You said I was a princess," she reminded him, "so I should be able to get everything I want."
His sigh was deep, and she already knew what was coming. "You shouldn't want me, dove. I was serious before. I can't give you any of the things you want, Silva. You should kiss me goodbye in the morning, and go back to your family before it's too late."
"I'm very tired of having the same argument with you over and over again," she mumbled, rubbing her nose against the dark, crescent-shaped scar on his shoulder. Dark green, nearly black, she'd kept the wound fresh for weeks by digging her nail into it, the same as she'd done to her own after that first time he bit her. Marked as his, marked as hers, meant to be together. If this were one of her books, she thought, she would be close to pitching it across the room. She would be furious with the hero at this point, and aggravated by the heroine's inability to close the deal and get her happily ever after. "I'm just as selfish as you, you know. I'm not leaving. You'll have to throw me out. So I guess we're stuck with each other." His laughter had been a low rumble against her, his lips a soft pressure against her head, and she'd fallen asleep shortly after, putting the same, tired argument to bed once more.
She'd have not chosen autumn for any sort of party at which she wanted him to be truly sociable. She already knew when they arrived back at the Plundered Pixie, he would grit his teeth and endure the night, rather than enjoying it.That's what they get for not asking me.
The antique shop proved to be a disappointment for both of them. Mostly Gnomish, the Elvish pieces they did have weren't anything especially impressive, and he only wound up purchasing a few pieces — several teacups that she oohed over, an egg cup she admired, and an intricately designed hourglass that he liked the lines of, mumbling about putting it on Cymbeline's stand to make her aware of how much time she spent chatting with guests. The pool bar had been equally disappointing — populated by a biker gang of ogres, all of whom looked as if they could snap Tate in half like a toothpick. He'd wheezed with laughter against her back the first night they'd arrived, insisting there were easier ways for her to have him killed. It was the hotel room where they wound up spending the bulk of their time, and not even that was as nice as the pictures she'd looked at.
"I'm terrible at planning anything," she moaned against him as he laughed.
"Oh no, Silva, we're trapped in a hotel room together. How ever shall we pass the time, dove?"
She supposed she should have done better planning the trip; should have investigated the hotel room more and read a larger selection of reviews, should have checked out the species populations of the town to have an idea of who might patronize the little bar . . . But she couldn't quite find it in her to complain a short while later, when she knelt in the center of the bed, holding herself up on her elbows and knees, keening as he pumped into her from behind. Her options for this trip had been limited, and she'd not had time to do a thorough casing of the neighborhood for diversions, so they had created their own diversions. She could feel the rub of that delicious ridge within her, not as pronounced as she knew it would become, but enough to make her pressed her face to the mattress and moan, every slide of it over her G spot feeling like a jackhammer to her brain. When he pushed her flat to the mattress, grinding into her from a tighter angle, she was lost. He might hate autumn, for whatever nonsense reason he gave, but ifthiswas what happened to him every year, Silva vowed she would live for this season for the rest of her life. She wanted him to come inside her, was determined that she would not let the weekend end until he both came in her mouth and flooded her womb in his seed, uncaring how crass that made her seem.
Now they were back, her little diversion executed, her part played. Whatever happened next would have nothing to do with her.
The collection of voices within the pub was a cacophony, exploding the instant the Pixie's door groaned out their arrival. Tate froze, stiffening at the threshold, the sudden rigor of his long fingers causing her hand to slip from his. They were meant to be coming back to a quiet night in the off-season — the Pixie's Orcish regulars crowded around the pool tables and a few at the bar, gossiping with Rukh before settling their tabs and disappearing into the chilly autumn night, the air still damp from an earlier storm. Instead, the pub was packed with trolls and werecats, lithe nymphs and laughing satyrs, the exact same sort of crowd that had populated the birthday party at the club in the city, months earlier. For what felt like a small eternity, he stood mute in the Pixie's doorway, too shocked to even blink, a statue beside her, and Silva was certain he’d stopped breathing.
They’d actually done it, she realized with a sinking heart. Months of careful planning, none of it involving her, and it had gone off without a hitch. She had served her only purpose: distract him with her neediness and her body and her tears while Ainsley and Elshona did the rest, and to her great shock and slight dismay, it had actually worked.
They shouldn't have come back, she thought for the millionth time. It was an impractical daydream she’d had on the journey home, moving from town to town, living in hotels, leaving their judgment and responsibility-laden lives behind, but for the last several months, she'd felt whole. Silva of the daytime hadn't existed, and the freedom to be, without splintering herself into tiny shards, was intoxicating. She watched how the hand that had slipped from her tightened around the wood of the interior jamb, as if the pub had betrayed him, and gulped.You can deny having anything to do with it. Ainsley and Elshona are responsible for all of this.
Silva followed the line of his sight, golden eyes boring into Elshona’s, and she couldn’t help but notice that the latter looked as though she were ready to flee if necessary. She kept her hand wrapped around his wrist when Tate moved, at last, ignoring the well-wishers and pushing through the tight press of bodies with a single-minded focus, dragging her along until they stood before the orc. Elshona sucked in a shaky breath, pressing her lips in a firm line, and jutted her chin out defiantly. Her eyes gave away her panic though, and Silva tightened her grip around his wrist. Why they thought throwing a surprise party for a control freak like Tate was a good idea, she’d never know, and from the look in the orc woman's eyes, Elshona was realizing the folly.
"You have the bald fucking audacity to pull one over the minute I’m out of town." It was a statement, not a question, her nostrils flaring as he continued before she could draw breath. "Who's footing the bill for this? Who invited this crowd? Do you think for a minute I'll not pack you up and ship you back to that sheep pasture that spat you out if I have to socialize all bleedin' night?"
She would never understand their relationship. Silva bit her lip as Tate's fists balled and Elshona smiled, evidently deciding the danger had passed, mirth replacing the look of fear as she beamed at Tate’s words.
"You don't need to worry about footing the bill for a thing, we took care of all that, right under your meddlin' nose. Ains invited everyone, said these are your friends. It's your party, you can do whatever you please, I suppose. If you want to stomp upstairs like the miserable cunt you are, no one'll stop you. As for pulling one over. . . Scarlet on your mam for raising the eejit that fell for it."
The air in Silva’s lungs dissolved, for though she knew practically nothing about the man she professed to love, she had knowledge enough to know all mention of his mother was verboten.
She would never, ever,everunderstand the relationship Tate and Elshona shared, she realized when a choked laugh escaped Tate’s throat, his shoulders shaking as he leaned forward to press his lips to the orc woman’s temple.
"Fair play, Culchie."
Silva slumped against him, relieved that the danger had passed, if only for the moment.
