He forced himself to relinquish the sheets he’d bunched in a death grip. He fumbled with his belt, feeling the stiffness in his pants. The copper button slipped loose and once freed, he gripped himself firmly at the hilt, as if he could force the blood back into his body.
Skyre cursed under his breath, bracing against the bedside table. What was he thinking coming here? That damned druid was all he could picture. He wanted him out of his thoughts, out of his mind forever. He wanted to forget their wedding night like he had forgotten every other.
It shouldn’t have mattered. He should have fucked him and been done with it. So why did he feel this way now?
Skyre bit back a groan, sanding over himself in rough strokes.
It was all just ceremony. Pointless pageantry that meant nothing. And the druid… the druid…
His cock thickened beneath his palm.
It should have been a night of passion. He should have spent hours on that altar till the An’Atherin had gathered enough eld to satisfy their rite. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wished he couldn’t taste the druid on his lips.
With a gasp, his body tightened, and he scrambled for the first receptacle he could find.
The druid’s pewter cup.
Skyre hissed between his teeth as he released inside it. The seconds passed, miserable and slow, till he’d emptied himself fully. But was no less full of shame.
He shoved the cup back onto the table and collapsed against the bed, covering his face with his hands.
When had he become so pathetic?
To think of a man in the midst of…
He groaned again, this time in agony, his fingers gripping at his raven strands.
This damned druid.
As he lay there, the bells of Kaern’Og rang again in celebration. A glorious cacophony that drowned out his panting breaths.
Skyre had imagined glory. He had imagined his spotless rule. But his hand trembled when he passed the pewter cup to the priestess. She bowed deeply and went off without a word, leaving the Vaich to his reverie.
He knew not how long he stood outside that door, reluctant to return to his bedroom. He might have stood there till nightfall, but a familiar voice pierced his thoughts.
“Mirín?”
The Sun Matron looked sickly; the tan hue of her skin drained away. He hadn’t seen her since the ceremony, and hated to see her now.
Skyre turned away, hiding his eyes, afraid of what she might see.
“Why have you come?” he asked. “To announce your disappointment?”
“You know that I could not,” she whispered.
“No?” He laughed, but it came out as a strangled cry. “I was your only task. And now I’ve shamed you. A life’s work dashed against the rocks. It’s embarrassing…”
She didn’t come closer. She didn’t speak. He felt the silence on his skin.
“Will they speak poorly of you?” he whispered. “If they do, I’ll—I swear, I’ll hang them—”
“Even if they did, I should not care,” she said, turning his face to hers. “You, Skyre, could never disappoint me.”
He held her hand to his cheek, feeling her warmth on his face. “I wanted to make you proud.”
Her expression softened, her eyes as deep as the sea. “I never told you, but… I was married once myself.”
His thoughts stumbled at her words. “Married? I thought that—”
