I came with a yell against Aspen’s lips. Engulfed in the same climax, my beautiful lady knight cried out across my tongue.
Not in defeat. But in triumph.
It wouldn’t end here for us. Not if we could help it.
Releasing my mouth, Aspen crashed against me. With a husky sigh, I caved into her, my profile slumping onto her shoulder. We strove to reclaim our breathing, my body still attached to hers, our clothing in shambles.
Inside, a breeze sailed through the chamber. Outside, leaves quivered.
Content, Aspen melted into my frame. Despite the rope anchored to my nape, we fit ourselves together, clinging to this moment, drawing fortitude from this memory.
There would be judgement. There might be consequences.
But I would never regret this. Only now did I realize, the premonition hadn’t intended to separate us. Through our choices, this woman and I grew closer than we had foreseen, bringing us to a place we were always meant to find.
The reigning pairs in our clan discovered this truth long before. If each of us could find our soul mate in the grimmest of wars, it would yield our greatest strength. One that could topple evil itself.
My heart thudded like a war drum. Yet I had never felt so peaceful.
Nor so fucking in love.
56
Aire
Our knees struck the wood planks. The ropes chafed my wrists, the scent of nutmeg hit my lungs, and leaves skittered across the ground.
My eyes veered to Aspen. The bindings hung loose around her hands, sparing her from developing scabs. Even so, I longed to shred them with my bare hands.
Instead, we reached for one another. Our fingers locked, weaving tightly.
They had come for us at sunset, the evening after I dubbed my lady and made love to her. Starlight trickled through the eaves. We knelt upon a round platform where six bridges united like the spokes of a wheel, the level hovering dozens of feet above the earth.
The center of The Lost Treehouses. The enclave’s beating heart.
“Rise,” commanded a voice that threw shivers across my skin.
A stately inflection I had served for the majority of my life. An eloquent intonation belonging to a great monument of a woman.
Aspen and I obeyed. Gaining our feet, we maintained an unbreakable grip on one another.
Layers of titian-dyed fabric swished inches from my boots. The hem of a priceless garment pooled over the floor ina regal puddle. I followed the cascade of a gown, voluptuous curves similar to Aspen’s, and craned my head toward the figure who had spoken.
Freckles dotted the female’s nose. Her hair was twisted up into russet plaits, which blended with an off-the-shoulder gown, creating one high tower of color.
A crown encircled her head. An ancient, glossed wood, long extinct in Autumn, crafted with delicacy, the spears coiling into branches.
Queen Avalea of Autumn.
Her hands were folded in front of her, in the same manner as her daughter.
Princess Briar stood a few feet behind, draped in an onyx gown overlaid in hazelnut lace. The upper portion appeared backless, and the floor-length skirt ended in a train. The tail of her side-braid hung loosely over one shoulder, and her pupils flashed in sorrow.
Poet shadowed his wife. A black velvet coat and fitted pants clutched his muscled frame, with a ruffle of brown silk frothing from the plunging neckline. During our captivity, the jester had reclaimed his fashioned preferences, ornamental webs dripping from his lower eyelashes. Watching us through a grim expression, his conflicted irises glittered like sharply cut emeralds.
Beside his father, Nicu shuffled. Cleaned and freshly dressed in brocade, he blanched to see us like this.
Jeryn towered on the queen’s opposite side, the collar of his fur coat bristling around his jaw. With the meticulously detached precision of an anatomist, those acute features prepared to dissect every word we said.
