“I should . . .” he pants.
“Should what?” I moan.
“Gryff said . . . pull out.”
“No.” My ankles lock behind his head. “I’m on a tonic.” There’s no need to worry about bringing new life into this world. Not yet.
“What is . . .” He’s losing his rhythm, and I’m losing what little control I still possess.
“Inside, Maddox. I want you to come inside of me. I choose you.” Every. Single. Time. “Choose me too. Choose me, Maddox.”
His hips punch forward once. Twice. A third time. Hitting that perfect spot. Rupturing my tenuous grip on this reality. The one where I’ve been ravaged by an Unseelie warrior as good and kind and beautiful as Maddox Finch.
The one where he’s breathing my name and pulsing inside of me.
The one where we both collapse, boneless and panting.
The one where he’s still inside of me when he draws me close and we both succumb to sleep.
36
“Five times.”
— Maddox Finch, A Truth
Maddox Finch sleeps like the dead.
Which, to be fair, is well deserved. We made love three times last night, and if I hadn’t pulled myself away from him this morning, I’ve a feeling we would’ve made it four. He looked so delicious lying in the bed we shared, the thin quilt draped over his waist, arms sprawled and face tucked into my pillow. He hasn’t slept properly since we fell into this strange world, so I decided to leave him to his slumber.
Even after a long shower, my body is still feeling the effects of last night. The sun may not be shining, but as I let down the ladder and climb to the ground, today feels more glorious and beautiful than any other.
All going well, the Unseelie will show us the path up the cliff, and we’ll be back in Rosehill by nightfall.
As anxious as I am to return, there’s unease as well. Where does this leave Maddox and me? Choosing each other for a night isn’t the same as choosing each other for life.
Last night, we were too lust-fueled to venture into the specifics of our relationship.
We’ll just have to discuss it on the walk back, won’t we?
The women of the Unseelie village are hard at work, cleaning animal skins, cooking in large iron pots over crackling fires, and weaving fabric for quilts. One of the elderly men sits on a stone with six women watching him as he speaks, enraptured by whatever story he’s telling.
Heads turn as I walk past, their glowers and glares like little nicks against my skin. Cutting but not enough to mortally wound. No one offers me breakfast. Their goodwill faded the moment Maddox insisted I stay with him.
How different last night would have been if he’d told me to sleep somewhere else. If he’d chosen to share a bed with one of the Unseelie instead.
Bile surges up my throat.
Maddox is mine.
I come to a stop next to a small cache of weapons.
Maddox is mine.
I don’t want anyone else, and he’s said time and again that he feels the same.
Last night only proves that, doesn’t it?
Why would we wait until the walk back to discuss any of this when we can figure it out before then? We can figure it out now.
