Page 129 of Heart Cradle
“I need you,” she said against his skin.
“I’m here,” he promised. “Always.”
He entered her in a slow but powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt. They both stilled, locked in that breathless moment of being full, of being home. He didn’t move yet, he just stayed there, forehead pressed to hers, their breath mixing.
“You’re everything,” he whispered.
“So fucking cheesy!” Maeve replied.
“You knew that from the beginning.” Eiran said before he began to move.
Their bodies met in a rhythm that wasn’t fast, but deep, full and intimate. He held her close, one hand tangled in her hair, the other anchoring her hip as they moved together beneath the stars of her old world. She clutched him close, whispering his name over and over, until her voice cracked and her second climax overtook her, hot, shuddering and totally overwhelming. She cried out and he followed, groaning her name into her shoulder as he spilled inside her, pulsing with the force of it. They lay in a tangle afterward, limbs heavy, breath slowing. He wrapped the blanket over them both, kissing her temple and lips.
Maeve, voice drowsy, whispered, “Romantic, cheesy bastard.”
He chuckled into her hair. “Oh, only for you, love.”
Chapter Sixty – The First Blows
The long breakfast table in the dining hall of Elanthir Keep was crowded with food and fae alike. Sunlight spilled through high windows, gilding platters of soft-boiled eggs, smoked river fish, sweet fruits sliced into fans, and thick-cut bread still steaming from the oven. Clay mugs steamed with black coffee, its sharp scent establishing the morning.
Everyone present, royalty, leaders, and allies, ate without speaking for the first few minutes, their attention split between their plates and the golden map projection hovering above the central hearth. Glyphs pulsed faintly over the riverbanks and coastlines of Melrathen and Armathen, glowing with unreadable runes.
Maeve sat between Eiran and Hayvalaine, one leg tucked beneath her, nursing a coffee she hadn’t really tasted. Across from her sat Orilan and Taelin, both quiet and sharp-eyed. Branfil was farther down, reviewing notes, seated beside Ghaul of the Glimmerhold, who was grinning through a mouthful of eggs. Laren sat on Ghaul’s other side, elbowing him playfully every few bites. Fenric, Calen, and Soren silently argued over toast and Aeilanna and Nolenne sat close, shoulders brushing, eyes intense while in quiet conversation with Hayvalaine.
General Kareth spoke first, voice low but cutting through the tension like steel. “If we want to win this war before it swallows us, we start by severing their legs.”
Orilan raised a brow. “Meaning?”
“Logistics,” Kareth said, pushing a slice of smoked trout across his plate. “Disrupt their roads, bridges and food lines. Starve their march, force them to scatter.”
“I agree,” murmured Elenwe. “A slow army is a dead one.”
“That’s a poetic way to describe breaking their bones,” Rinya added, smirking around her coffee cup. “But effective.”
Orilan leaned back. “Then let’s make it more than fucking poetry.”
“I like poetry,” Ghaul said cheerfully, licking grease from his thumb. “Especially the kind that ends with someone’s head rolling off a siege cart.”
Taelin looked stricken, as if personally offended by the levity. War had settled across his shoulders like a mantle, and flippancy grated, but fifteen thousand Fayean horn-striders did not. He cleared his throat, every inch the commander. “Take your fighters to Maelinar Ridge. There’s ample room at the barracks, the staff will get them settled.”
Ghaul nodded. “Make sure there’s plenty of ale.”
Laren sniggered beside him. “And wine maidens.”
Elenwe rolled her eyes skyward. “Gods preserve us.”
“You know the way to my heart,” Ghaul said, planting a loud kiss on Laren’s cheek, “and the hearts of every soldier I brought.”
“Yes,” Fenric breathed, doe-eyed. “Bloody wonderful, isn’t she?”
Eiran glanced over with a faint grin. “Fenric, you need to take a cold bath.”
“And maybe repent,” Maeve added into her coffee.
“Hmm, that too,” Calen said.
Orilan’s gestured towards the map. “We’ll need surgical strikes by small teams. No one survives to warn the rest.”
