Cass and Tristanwouldsucceed. Caelwouldget the dragon and burn down those wards.
Any anxiety she might have felt over the future had difficultly taking hold in her endorphin-flooded brain. Cael had made her come so many times in the past forty-eight hours she’d lost count. He wasinsatiable. Making up for lost time.
Not that she was complaining.
She smiled at the memory of this morning’s session: Cael bending her over the kitchen counter, tossing her white cotton skirt up over her ass and taking her hard and fast from behind, the warbling birdsong mingling with her pleasure-soaked cries.
These hills were so remote, so peaceful. A part of her wished they could stay here forever. Forget about the dragon and the rebels and their cause.
But that would require a level of selfishness Xenia wasn’t capable of. At least, not for long.
She bent to pick a flower with a black center and feathery orange-yellow petals, then glanced toward the empty cottage.
Cael had taken the cuff and portaled down to the village to meet Leonard for lunch and get a report on the dragon. And to apologize for the table before purchasing the supplies to build a new one.
Xenia had spent the morning with a book in her lap and a steaming cup of tea in her hand. Leonard didn’t have much in his cottage, but hedidhave a surprisingly robust collection of historical romances. She preferred to believe the books belonged to Leonard himself and not to whomever had left the few simple dresses she’d found in his closet.
She’d blushed and giggled her way through the spectacularly filthyThe Windrider General’s Prize, then decided to get some fresh air. She’d tucked the flute—which Cael had left in her care—into her dress, then plucked up a basket and strode out into the meadows.
She was examining a white spray of baby’s breath when a familiar scent tickled her nose.
Something soft and…bitter.
Xenia turned into the wind, trying to locate the source. Her gaze caught on a patch of tiny red blooms resting upon a sea of deep green leaves.
Dienswort. Named after Dienses the Jester, the human God of Merriment. Xenia had seen plenty of pictures, but had never actually encountered the plant.
She pinched a blossom off its stem, then brought it to her nose. It was most definitely the note she’d scented in Elodie’s vials.
What was dienswort used for? Knowledge tickled the back of her brain but wouldn’t materialize.
In the distance, the cottage door banged shut and she dropped the flower as a smile burst across her face. She rushed up the hill to welcome Cael home, her blood thrumming.
Sweet Amatu, she hadn’t realized it was possible to want someone this much. And so frequently. A bottomless well of need that could never be filled no matter how many times she’d had him.
She whipped open the door. “What are you doing back so early, I?—”
The greeting died in her throat, and her basket of wildflowers fell to floor.
Arran Zephyrus’s dark gray eyes roved over the scattered stems before they landed on Xenia with the force of a runaway boulder. He flared his wings, stalked toward her, and she could donothing. Couldn’t run, couldn’t scream, couldn’tbreathe.
“I did wonder what could have possibly inspired my son to stray from my plans.” Arran’s voice was as cold and hard as frost-bitten steel.
Arran whispered something into his palm, then sent the message gusting through the open window.
He grabbed her arm, his wicked smile even more terrifying than his typical stone-faced grimace.
“Help me get him back on track, won’t you, little human?”
Cael wascertain that every inhabitant of the remote mountain village had descended upon The Mottled Hog for lunch.
The crowd was jovial, the food delicious, and the ale refreshing. For one silly, selfish moment, Cael thought he might just stay in this tiny town of farmers and artisans. It was a rarerefuge, unspoiled by the Empire. A place where he could remain spectacularly anonymous.
He could picture it so clearly: taking a job as a carpenter or fieldworker, wearing himself out with honest work, returning to the cottage every night to rejuvenate himself in Xenia’s nourishing embrace. Maybe with a little half-breed or two running around his feet.
A simple life where his lost wing wouldn’t matter. Where he’d have the space to heal.
A life he’d never wanted before he’d met her.
