The branch is smothered in thistleberries, a fist-sized fruit that’s remarkably filling. Cassia takes a thistleberry with her whenever she travels because they’re so sustaining.
My eagle must have flown all the way back to the nearest orchard to get them. There are enough thistleberries on this section of the branch that Thyra could gorge herself for days.
I arch my eyebrows at my eagle.
He gives me a cold stare before rising silently into the air and flying off into the night again.
Carrying the branch up to the porch, I pluck a single, large fruit from the branch, choosing the berry with the brightest emerald skin because it will be the sweetest, returning to findThyra standing in the far doorway.
The water droplets around her hairline indicate she washed her face, although she wasn’t in there long enough to have bathed. I imagine she tried the water, got a sense of its temperature, and decided against it.
I hold out the fruit, nestled in the palm of my bare hand. “For you.”
She doesn’t hesitate, powering toward me, snatching up the offering, and biting into it.
A groan leaves her mouth. She takes another bite. And then another, each one with a louder moan.
It’s a good thing she backs away from me, seeming completely engrossed in the berry as she finds her way to the chair.
I plant my feet and stay where I am because, by fuck, the need to claim her mouth and taste her moans is beating through my blood.
“What is this?” she asks, her speech smothered against the fruit as she takes another bite.
“Thistleberry,” I grind out. “Have you never eaten one?”
Of course, she hasn’t. They’re only grown in the Iron Kingdom. Assuming it’s true that she never left the western coast before today.
“I have never eaten anything like this.”
Within moments, she makes it to the thistleberry’s core, and I’m about to stop her before she bites into the seeds. They’re extremely sour, and the core is full of them. Most fae discard that part of the fruit.
I expect her to spit it out, but she chomps down on the final portion, swallows, and leans back in the chair with a final groan, a blissful smile on her face.
It only lasts a second before she sits up, looks around, and asks, “Are there more?”
“Give it a moment,” I say. “One is enough.”
She scowls at me, but her expression quickly clears, and she presses her hands to her stomach. “You’re right. I’m full. That’s remarkable.”
“Bed.” I point. A command.
She stiffens, all bliss vanishing.
“For sleeping,” I clarify.
The sooner, the better.
I need to get out into the forest and work off this burning agitation building within my body.
She rubs her arms. “I’m filthy, but the water’s too cold to wash properly.”
“I don’t care if the blanket gets dirty.”
“That isn’t—” She presses her lips together.
I can’t stop the heated thoughts pouring through my mind or the temptation to rile her. “If you want to bathe, but you need to stay warm, I can bathe you. My body will keep you?—”
“No.” She steps toward the left side of the bed. Pauses. Then, more quietly. “No.”
