If it had not been so dark, I might not have noticed. But every nerve, fae and beast, was attuned to her. I could feel her in my soul. So, I had no doubt that the tiny droplet of water that hit my hand was not a melted bit of ice, but a singular tear.
Veyka spoke again—faster, desperate. “I was angry and selfish and depressed bloodthirsty—”
“You’re still plenty bloodthirsty,” I interrupted. My cock was already hard, had been since she’d first tucked herself in against my side. But the mention of blood, of her unbridled vengeance and glorious brutality, had me near ready to explode.
Still, Veyka tried to deny who and what she was. “The queen I was… I …”
She lost her words.
I had them.
“Why can’t it be both? Why can’t both versions of you be worthy?”
Another tear. I could smell them now, the faint saltiness merging with the ever-present primrose and plum that was so perfectly Veyka. There was no hint of blood; the scabbards did not allow it. But I imagined I could smell the coppery tang of her through the delicate skin of her throat. A throat I wanted to taste. To claim, because she was mine.
And whether I was ready to accept it or not, I was hers.
Slowly, guided only by instinct in the dark and that golden thread that connected our souls, I replaced my fingers with my lips.
“Arran, I…” Veyka trembled against my mouth.
I pulled back, just enough to let her speak. She was injured, more fragile than perhaps even she realized. I would sit here at her side for the entire night, cock aching to be sheathed inside of her, soul yearning to touch hers.
“Tell me to stop,” I breathed.
Her words were as tortured as my own— “I can’t.”
Thank the Ancestors.
“I won’t hurt you.”
Yes, you will.
72
VEYKA
If Arran heard the words I let slip through the bond, he did not respond to them. Desperate, wanton thing that I was, I was grateful that he didn’t. His mouth was on mine, gentle but insistent. His hand dropped between us, already questing beneath the heavy fur of my cloak. I did not want it to stop. The darkness and isolation of the ice cave was giving us something beautiful amidst a desert of despair, and I was too weak to turn away from it.
I leaned further into him, one hand reaching to unfasten my cloak while the other slid up his leg. But Arran’s fingers hovered in the air between us.
“You can touch me,” I moaned against him. “I will not break.”
Not physically, at least.
The pain in my head was gone. My leg ached, but it was not sharp anymore. The throb of healing. We would have to be careful, but I was strong. My need for him more powerful than any wound.
Softly, so gently I almost thought it was a wish, his fingertips touched my stomach. There were layers and layers of clothing between us, and I would happily shed them all, despite theoppressive cold. But when Arran touched me, through the thick wool of the tunic I wore—his tunic—the linen shirt and boned bustier beneath, it was reverent. His fingers stroked again and again, massaging the layers of fabric, the soft skin a curve of my stomach beneath. It was the sweetest sort of torture as his lips mirrored the slow, persistent exploration against mine.
He was discovering, as if for the first time, all over again.
The weight of it could have suffocated me. This would not be the half-conscious fucking of a few nights ago, driven by unbridled need.
That need was still there, to be sure.
But this was deeper. This was a choice.
Finally—oh, yes, finally—Arran slipped his hand beneath the layers of fabric to touch my fevered skin. He caressed the inch of exposed skin between the bottom of the bustier and the waistband of my leather leggings. I pressed my hips into his hand, urging him to slide lower. But Brutal Prince that he was, he chuckled against my mouth.
