Page 73 of Terragnata and the Heir of the Earth

I took a steadying breath and slipped my hands beneath my shift, shedding my trousers, leaving nothing beneath the sheer fabric. I went to the tub and climbed in after him, my shirt sticking to my skin as it saturated with water. He lounged on one end, I on the other. I splashed some water on my face and arched my spine, tilting my head back and letting my hair soak. Cas watched me, the heat of his eyes burning into me.

I sat straight up, my knees folded beneath me, and looked at him, unable to move.

His gaze met mine. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

I remained still for a moment, unsure. But the desire was there, whether it was a product of the trauma, my new Fae body, or pure need. I nodded, my eyes not leaving his.

That seemed to be enough for him, and he reached forward, pulling me on top of him, the water sloshing all around us. I was dangerously close to his manhood, looking down at him. He brushed my hair away from my face, placing his hands on my neck, his thumbs pressed to my jawline. “You’re okay, Terra,” Cas said, more to himself than to me.

Before I could think further, I brushed my lips to his. He kissed me back, running his hands down my sides, raising bumps on my skin despite the warmth of the water and the thin layer of wet cloth shrouding me. And then he thrust into me, holding my hips while he moved. I cried out, losing myself in the joining of our bodies.

I woke in my bed,shrouded in silk, with Cas nowhere in sight. I could only hear the rhythmic crash of waves beneath my window.

I lay there, listening to the sound of the water, remembering the sensation of Cas inside me. It felt good to lose myself in the pure physicality ofneed—to revel in the comforting touch of someone familiar.

But I could not shake the guilt. Ezren’s face lingered in my mind, even in those first moments Cas was inside me. It felt… dirty.

I resented that notion, the self-loathing that seemed to have been schooled into me. We came together in the inevitability of the moment—the stress of the day, the closeness we’d shared for so long. It didn’t feel wrong, the act. The wrongness came from thinking of another. Perhaps it would fade with time.

I fell asleep to those thoughts, stubbornly ignoring the buzzing from my hip bone.

A shakingof my shoulders ripped me from my sleep. “Mestress, me hates te wake ye, but ets urgent,” Olea said. “The Rexi. She’s asken’ te see ye.”

I peeked an eye open—barely dawn. I’d slept a mere two or three hours, and I moaned in protest of the disturbance.

“Please, mess,” Olea pleaded. “She said ef ye didna come, I’d have me personal hours suspended fer a month.”

I didn’t know what ‘personal hours’ were, but the desperation in Olea’s voice roused me. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, my body aching from the previous day’s manhandling. “Where is she?”

“Her guards are waiten’ fer ye outside the door,” Olea answered.

I stuffed my feet into the slippers next to my bedside and grabbed a matching silk robe.

“Wait,” Olea protested when I made to exit. “Ye really should be dressed, te see the queen. Et isna proper?—”

“Did she specifically request me to be dressed?”

Olea shook her head.

“Very well then,” I said, knowing perfectly well that the bruises I’d earned the past few days would be visible.

It wasa long walk to her quarters, which were not in the wing of the Crown but in the wing dedicated to distinguished guests. She was fully dressed, of course. Her hair, the color matching mine, was tightly piled atop her head, revealing the soft curves of her face that I also possessed. But we were not alike in every physical way. Where my eyes resembled the Earth, all life and vibrance, hers were an inky pool of black. They were death.

She tapped her chrome-colored nails against the window ledge on which she perched, her deep purple velvet gown draped all around her. “You’re late. I thought the delay would at least mean you bothered to dress,” she said, her eyes still trained on the hazy morning outside the window.

I stood motionless, wondering how to address the female who bore me for the first time in private. “Hello, Rexi. What have I done to earn this coveted early morning summons?”

She was silent a moment. “How are you?” she asked, her gaze dragging towards me.

I shifted on my feet, assessing the authenticity of her question. “You mean, how am I, after being pulled from my horse, strapped to a chair for interrogation, beaten, and dumped at the palace gates?”

Her eyes narrowed at me. “What did the king want from you?”

I stilled. “It wasn’t the king,” I replied. “It was a group of men, with?—”

“Let me guess: shaved heads, imposing face tattoos, and long dark robes?” She raised her eyebrows in boredom.

I closed my mouth, weighing my options. The king had made it perfectly clear what would happen if I revealed anything about the nature of our conversation to anyone.

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