Page 11 of Defy the Fae

Tímien had returned shortly after the chaos. A lane of snuffed torches on a nearby rampart had troubled him, as the flames never go out at night, so he’d swooped down to inspect the extinguished lights.

The simplest diversions are usually the strongest. Whoever set the raven on us had successfully distracted my father.

But upon seeing the raven, Tímien had gone into a frenzy, intent on dismembering the corvid with a thrust of his talons. Instead, I’d stopped him by communicating what had happened, that it hadn’t been a scrimmage for territory or a hunting rampage.

This hadn’t been the raven’s fault. He’d been a pawn, an act of war. Some, like our enemies, might say the corvid was a casualty of war.

Bereavement claws at my chest. I would say the avian had been a tragedy.

Puck and Elixir had been shaken, but they’re not of the mountain. This isn’t their realm, and it wasn’t one of the animals from their regions. Their fingers hadn’t trembled this violently, as if gripped by a tempest.

My mate is the one who puts me back together, her embrace reinforcing the scaffolding once more. I take Lark’s knuckles and race my lips over them. “Thank you.”

She nips the tip of my ear. “Any time,” she says, then waits a beat before asking, “Did the raven suffer?”

I swallow. “He was sedate. I tried communicating with him, but the animal was too weak to try.” We sit with that for a considerable while until I’m able to continue. “I’ll speak with The Parliament of Owls. There’s no telling whether more corvids have been corrupted. Until we know for sure, The Congress of Ravens must be considered forbidden terrain for our allies. I know you were intrigued to see the place, but I won’t risk it.”

“Fine by me. I’m also eager not to be eaten.”

“Except by me, I trust?”

“That a legit question?”

We do our best to laugh, but the mirth is stale. And Lark isn’t finished.

“Will it live?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer.

Elixir had evanesced while my father and I flew the raven to The Deep. My brother had been intent on transferring the corvid there, where he could bathe its wounds and see about mixing a cure for the creature’s altered state. Though sorrowfully, Elixir hadn’t succeeded with his limited ingredients, particularly without knowing what exactly had been done to the raptor.

For my part, I could hardly provide a solution. When Lark’s game had ended, my magic had cleansed one of her wounds, preventing the possibility of an infection. For a while afterward, she had assumed that gift extended to any being who needed my help. But what I’d failed to clarify until recently is that my ability only works on her, because we’re mated. Thus, I couldn’t use it on the raven.

But wanting to be near the bird, to offer the animal whatever comfort I could, I’d remained by its side, then left with Tímien when the raven finally slept.

I tell Lark as much, though I harbor little hope. My javelin had skewered the avian deeply.

As a mortal who has spent her life rescuing animals, Lark’s breathing catches. As a Fae who has spent his existence giving fauna victims of The Trapping a haven, a place to recover, I understand her reaction.

A peacock’s remote call blows like a slender horn through the park, coupled with the echo of two rams galloping through the brush. Moonflowers droop from the gazebo’s framework and perfume the air.

Our wet hands thread, in and out, over and under. I watch our fingers explore and feel Lark doing the same. Such a basic yet profound exchange, which I’d never known was possible until I fell eagerly under this mortal’s spell, until a bond linked us eternally.

“I love you,” I whisper. “To the ends of this earth, I love you.”

Her voice thickens like syrup. “Back atcha.”

Oh, but I know that sultry tone. I’m fully aware of the smutty intentions accompanying her intonation. Moreover, I hear Lark’s blood flowing quicker now, as impulsive as a gust.

My mate wiggles out from under me, her movements tossing water over the tub’s edge. She sits upright, twists to face me, and slings a glistening thigh across my lap to straddle me. Rivulets slide like fingers down her breasts, drip from the cherry tips of her nipples, and sink down her ample hips, where they vanish into that delectable patch of hair at the crux of her body.

She’s a busty one indeed, full and shapely across the hips, providing so many places to sample. Fables help me. How I’d love to snatch those nipples in my mouth, then flick my tongue through those sprigs of hair and latch my lips around the stud hiding within.

I’ve done so countless times, physically and through the wind. Yet the craving never abates, and I’m certain it never will. Even now, amid grief and fury, I’ve found solace with her. And in that solace, the desire from earlier resurfaces, rising like the humidity encircling us.

Lark settles her weight onto my groin. “Get over here, you,” she says, tugging me forward.

Ever at her mercy, I straighten into her waiting arms. They string around my shoulders while my own arms band around her middle, and we crush ourselves together. Our heads bow and burrow into one another.

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