I can feel every inch of him. The thick drag of his cock against my inner walls. The way he hits a spot deep inside me that makes my legs tremble. The pressure building low in my belly, coiling tighter with every thrust.
His mouth finds my breast. Closes over my nipple. Sucks hard enough to make me cry out, my hips bucking against his, desperate for more friction. He switches to the other breast, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, and I’m making sounds I’d be embarrassed by if I could think clearly enough to care.
“Aviora.” His growl vibrates against my skin. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine, gray-green skin flushed with exertion, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs. He’s beautiful in a way I never expected—all hard angles and brutal edges, but underneath, something fierce and wanting and almost vulnerable.
“Stay with me.” He punctuates each word with a thrust that makes my vision blur. “Right here. Right now. Stay.”
His hand slides between us. Finds my clit. Circles it with rough, calloused fingers while he fucks me harder, deeper, and the dual sensation is too much. The pleasure crests?—
I shatter.
The release crashes through me—violent and overwhelming, my inner walls clenching around him, pleasure radiating out until I’m shaking with it. I cry out, beyond caring who might hear, and Zoric catches the sound with his mouth.
He follows me over the edge moments later. Three more hard thrusts, his rhythm faltering, and then he buries himself to the hilt with a groan that rumbles from deep in his chest. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the heat of his release, and a second wave of pleasure rolls through me at the sensation.
For long seconds, neither of us moves. We stay locked in place, breath mingling, chests heaving, still joined in the most intimate way possible. The sea whispers against the rocks around us. The wind cuts cold through our scattered clothes. And I feel more present in my own skin than I have in years.
“That was necessary.” Zoric’s voice is a rumble against my collarbone. “We’re alive. We should act like it.”
I laugh. It bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, surprising me—this genuine, uncalculated sound. “Is that your version of pillow talk?”
“I don’t do pillow talk.” But there’s warmth in his voice. A softness I’ve never heard before. “I do tactical assessments.”
“And what’s your tactical assessment of this situation?”
He pulls back enough to look at me. Really look, the way no one has in years—seeing past the armor of sarcasm, the walls of deflection, all the layers I’ve built to keep people from getting close enough to hurt me.
“My tactical assessment,” he says slowly, “is that I’m in trouble.”
Before I can ask what he means, he sets me down—carefully, steadying me when my legs threaten to buckle—and begins refastening his armor. I retrieve my vest from where it landed, wincing as cold, wet leather meets cold, wet skin.
“We should get back.” He doesn’t sound happy about it. “The keep won’t organize itself.”
“I know.” I finish the last of my laces, run my fingers through hair that’s going to dry in a tangled mess. “Zoric?—”
“Later.” He repeats my word from earlier and catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. The gesture is startlingly tender, at odds with the raw intensity of what we just did. “Whatever you’re going to say—save it. Let’s deal with the living first.”
We make our way back along the shore, climbing the treacherous path to Dreadhaven’s walls in silence. My body aches in ways that have nothing to do with the fight against Oreth. Every step reminds me of what happened in that alcove, of the way his hands felt on my skin, of the sound he made when he came.
The keep is chaos.
The lower levels are flooded, just as Thorne said—black water lapping at the third-floor landings, carrying debris from the armory and stores. The Great Hall’s floor is buckled, cracked where water pressure warped the ancient stone. The ward fires have gone out, leaving everything in the gray pallor of natural light filtering through broken windows.
And everywhere, the evidence of what Oreth’s siege cost us.
Bodies lay out in the courtyard. Arranged with as much dignity as the surviving guards can manage. Some I recognize—faces I saw in battle, names Thorne listed on the beach. Others are strangers to me, people who died before I could learn who they were.
The survivors are watching me.
I notice it gradually, at first attributing the looks to curiosity about the woman who dove into the Wrecktide with their captain. But the longer I stand there, the more I recognize the quality of those stares.
Suspicion. Resentment. The particular calculation of people deciding who to blame for their losses.
“She brought the curse.” The voice is low, but not low enough. A woman I don’t recognize, speaking to Brek near the ruined eastern wall. “Two days ago, the harbor was safe. Then she washes up, and?—”
“She helped destroy the curse.” Brek’s response is immediate. “I was there. She threw her coins to save my life.”
