Aire
Curse me to an early grave. I stumbled backward, the earth unsteady beneath my boots, my outtakes thick and labored.
Atop the stump, Aspen careened away from me, lips swollen and eyes half-mast. Her flushed bodice inflated with every gusting breath, and curtains of hair tumbled down her ample curves, the locks ruined by my hedonistic fingers. Perdition, the rosy spread across her cheeks and the yearning on that beguiling face threatened to dismantle my reserves.
Despite a lifetime of training, I was not prepared for this type of battle. The gasping heat of her mouth, the tremble of her tongue, the fit of those audacious lips to my own. The sultry pitch of her breasts, the points of her nipples. The bone-deep ache of her moan. And devil take me, the bewitching shape of her womanhood, the glide of her private flesh against my cock, the intimate skin warm and supple.
Fuck. Aspen had been aroused. She’d been drenched.
Then came the excruciating temptation to make Aspen wetter, louder. Followed by the fanatical need to pleasure her.
The disorderly thrill of that kiss.
The travesty of pulling away. The sharp pain of it.
Finally, the aftermath, which sent these feelings into disarray. Already, my hands itched to snatch this woman oncemore. I longed to brand that snarky mouth again and again and again, the hunger as elemental as a tempest.
She had removed the hood. She’d revealed herself. She granted me an unmeasurable privilege.
Selfish desires churned through my blood, yet this female belonged to no one and never should. Beset, I struggled to get my head on straight, my greedy hands to behave, and my randy cock to calm the fuck down.
Meanwhile, Aspen fared better. Scooting off the tree stump, she smoothed out the cloak, her movements practiced, if a bit unsteady. Those industrious fingers quavered like leaves. And how I wanted to make her tremble more, shake this woman off her foundation, test the limits of her endurance, see how much she could truly take before shattering in my arms.
Seasons almighty. I would roast in effigy for this.
It pained me to reflect on the heartache I had caused over our history. All the same, Aspen had more experience subduing this attraction than I did. Enduring years of my ignorance, the female had steeled herself and moved on.
In her preoccupation with the vestment, she glanced toward a dense area of the woods where distant brambles knit together and tapered into the darkness. Whatever she beheld, it leached the ardor suffusing her countenance. Shadows crept over Aspen’s profile, that same flash from our arrival haunting across her pupils. Something about that territory plagued her.
Instinct propelled me forward, venturing only near enough to cover her shadow with my own. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she lied, then changed her mind. “That path leads to The Forbidden Burrow.”
The Forbidden Burrow. The hidden outpost where the Masters had convened in secret, conspiring with Rhys to usurp Avalea, Briar, and Poet’s power.
Shit. I had known of the cult’s hideout and felt an ominous presence earlier. The Royal Retreat’s proximity to that place was the reason Poet and Briar cloistered themselves here, while on a mission to crack down on the elite guild’s alliance with the Summer King. I knew what the Masters did to Aspen, grooming and forcing her to commit heinous acts as a child. What I hadn’t fucking fathomed was that the guild had coerced her to join their roundtables.
Poet and Briar never revealed that part, likely because they hadn’t wanted to resurrect Aspen’s trauma. Also, it would have been inconsequential after the courtyard bloodshed in which my troops eviscerated the guild.
Idiocy pulled a hiss from my tongue. “Aspen, I’m sorry. I should have picked a different—”
“It’s fine,” she said to the view. “You didn’t know. And you needed to bring Nicu someplace warm.”
That did not mean I shouldn’t have made the ghastly connection. Although I witnessed her expression when we got here, I’d been too furious to think straight, too determined to shelter her and Nicu.
With Aspen’s head turned away, my hand stole out, extending to close the void. To cup her jaw. To sweep back a tendril of hair. To comfort her.
Nonetheless, Aspen recuperated fast. The resilient woman snuffed out her reaction, ferocity replacing delicacy. Then she swiped her axe from the grass, broke from her stance, and marched toward the thorny hedges.
Resolute, I surged after her. I knew what she meant to do. And I would follow.
The Royal Retreat’s location had been chosen with care. With Nicu sleeping and the cottage safely ensconced, no one would apprehend him. He would be safe until our return.
Aspen stormed through the narrow trench of brambles, the tangled route winding until we exited the channel and stood before a looming tree. Its trunk spanned to the width of a turret, with a partition chiseled into the facade, a striated door that had once been camouflaged.
Close inspection would validate the craftsmanship of this guild. Rather than a true part of the tree, the door was a fabrication constructed to resemble bark, produced by an expert hand.
The tree itself, Aspen would never harm. The counterfeit door was another matter.
