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“I notice everything you do. You haunt my steps and my dreams. You’ve bewitched me, Sorcha, and I want my soul back.” “I don’t know how to give it back to you.” He leaned closer, his breath fanning over her lips. “I wonder if you taste like the sun.” “You’re drunk.” “Yes, I am.”
“I never wanted poetry,” she said on a soft sigh. “I only wanted a man who could see me for who I am.”
“Deceitful things are not always ugly.”
“Myths and legends teach us lessons. Tales of your kind frighten children, and I can’t say how many people have thought their babe to be a changeling. They remember you, and they blame many things upon faeries that are their own fault.”
He tilted his face in her palm. Light sparked off the edges of crystals and nearly blinded her. “I am glad you will remember this place fondly.” “And she brought me to you.” Stone stiffened in her arms, his eyes snapping open, burning into her soul. “Why would you say that?” “You are the most intriguing man I have ever met.” “Monster.” “Man.” She pulled him closer, pressing her forehead against his and tasting mint upon the air. He had endured so much, had survived it, and all she could think was that she’d finally met someone who could understand her.
The king dropped his hand, chuckling. “I will leave three guards by the door. If they hear anything unusual, even the slightest of sounds, they will bring your head to me on a platter.” “I am doubtful my head would satisfy your pallet,” she growled. “Might I suggest a more tasteful organ?” The grin on his face was as feral as her words. The king turned, snapped his fingers, and left with half of his guards.
Is this a cunnilingus joke?? Seems out of character for her, but whatever.
“My name is not Stone.” “I refuse to call you master.” He chuckled, hands sliding across her shoulders and tangling in the heavy weight of her hair. “Someday, I would like to hear the word cross your lips just to see how unnatural it sounds.” “You won’t like it if I ever called you master.” “No, I wouldn’t. I’ve come to expect you to surprise me, Sorcha. It would be a shame for you to fall in line like the rest.”
The growl that rumbled from his throat sent shivers down her spine. Sorcha gasped as broad hands slid around her waist and pulled her against his chest. She splayed her fingers against his heat. His legs framed hers, inner thighs pressed against her hips. Her stomach was flush against his—crystals biting through the thin fabric. “This is hardly proper,” she whispered. “Humans do not dance as the Fae do.” “This is how you dance?” “Well, not particularly.”
He traced a circle against her neck, trailed down the slope of her shoulder and arm, lifted her hand until it rested against his bicep. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think as he followed the same path on the other side of her body and curled his fingers around her hand. His other palm flexed against her spine. “This is the proper way to dance with a woman,” he said. “Is it?” Sorcha heard the breathless quality to her voice, the sultry notes that dripped from her tongue. Heat flashed in his gaze, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Perhaps you have never danced with a man.” “Boys, yes.
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But he tilted his head back and laughed so hard that the corded muscles of his neck stood out in stark relief. The crystals gaped at the wound caused by his hanging, and she couldn’t see the disfigurement anymore. He was beautiful. An instrument of power and symbol of strength.
She hated hearing him speak of himself like that. So many years of torment and disapproval from family and friend led to self-hatred. She had seen it in herself. It was so much easier to say he was wrong and ignore the emotions reflected in herself. Sorcha reached forward and intertwined her fingers with his. “Even wolves can be tender, loyal, and brave-hearted. I would rather run with them in the wild than paint my face and try to blend into the walls.” He squeezed her fingers. “I forget who I speak with.” “A midwife?” “A druid priestess with far more power than she admits.” He pressed his
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Her “found family” was in no way like his abusive one, though. And since when did she hate herself?
His grin flashed as the stars blinked to life behind him. “Wild thing that you are, fear has no name for you, does it?”
“You aren’t quite ready for it yet, I imagine.” “Why?” Sorcha wrinkled her nose. “Why wouldn’t I be ready for knowledge?” “For the same reason I was not ready to be king.” He plucked the book from her grasp and set it down on a small table. “We all must grow before we take on responsibility.”
How have they grown, though ?
“He doesn’t deserve your help.” “He’s alive. That means he deserves my help. I will never stop wanting to heal people, and if you want me to then we can end this now. I help others. That’s what I do.”
I need to heal people who want to kill me because I am ~sew pure~.
*Hermione-Granger-What-An-Idiot.gif*
“I didn’t mean to kill him.” “You had to protect yourself, mo chroí.” “I didn’t know what to do.” “The first one is always the hardest. But we do not have time for this.” “I should check for a heartbeat,” she said. She tried to turn but he wouldn’t even let her look at the body. “No. No, we leave now, Sorcha. I need to hide you from him.”
This chick is too stupid to live 🫥
But such responsibility meant she chose a side. It meant she trusted that Eamonn would make a better king, and now that she had seen him in battle she was no longer sure of that. He had changed much. All she knew for certain was that he was not his brother. She could not decide if that made him worthy of a throne.
What?! So do you love him or not? 💀
Even without love, though, the choice seems pretty fucking obvious. This is just to prolong things and split them up for another book. Which—No thank you.
