Page 33 of Heart Cradle
Eiran’s hand rose, and this time, he touched her. Fingertips at her jaw, tilting her face to his, his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “They don’t get to keep any part of you,” he said, voice low and burning. “Not your body, not your breath, certainly not the fire they tried to steal and couldn’t snuff. Not one fucking spark. You survived, you’re here.”
His other hand slid to her waist, rough palm resting on the slight curve of her stomach. He didn’t pull her closer, but his touch anchored her, claimed nothing and offered everything. His eyes were still on her mouth, as if he were trying not to fall.
“Eiran,” she whispered, breath catching.
He leaned in, slow, deliberate, until his lips hovered over hers, close enough that her mouth tingled with anticipation. “Tell me to stop,” he said. “And I will.”
She didn’t, instead, she kissed him, firm and certain. The kiss hit like a spell, it was otherworldly and Maeve gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt as if she could anchor herself to him, to the moment. Eiran answered with a low growl from deep in his chest, his hands sliding to her hips, then lower. He grasped her bare arse in both hands, firm and possessive and, before she could catch her breath, he lifted her. She squeaked in surprise, arms flying around his shoulders, legs instinctivelywrapping around his waist. Her skin brushed his leathers, cool and soft, sending shivers across her thighs.
“You could’ve bloody warned me,” she whispered breathlessly into his ear.
“You squeaked,” he murmured with a grin, nuzzling her temple as he stepped further into the bathroom. “Like a tiny woodland creature.”
“I squealed,” she corrected archly. “Powerfully and with much dignity.”
He laughed, the sound easy and warm. “Of course, the battle cry of a feral fae queen. My feral fae queen.”
“I’m not fae,” she muttered, resting her cheek against his shoulder.
“You will be,” he said, so softly it almost vanished beneath the hiss of bathwater.
The deep stone tub was oversized, carved into the floor and almost overflowing with fragrant water. Rose, sage, and lavender lifted in warm curls around them as Eiran crouched slightly, his hands never leaving her as he slowly lowered into the water, eyes fixed on her like she was made of moonlight and might vanish with the next blink. Maeve sighed as the heat wrapped around her limbs, letting the water lap over her shoulders, easing the ache in her muscles. The water shimmered faintly where it touched her skin and the Glade Stalker’s gore dissolved almost instantly, drifting like smoke through the water.
“Magic bath?” she asked, eyes closed.
“Of course.” Eiran knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves further. “I wouldn’t dunk you in mortal bubbles like some fucking barbarian, love.”
“Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty,” she drawled, tilting her head back. “Next time I’ll request silks, petals, and maybe some harps.”
“You joke,” he said, dipping a soft cloth into the water, “but we do have a harpist.”
She opened one eye. “Of course you do.”
He started at her collarbone, gently running the cloth over her skin, down the curve of her shoulder, then across her chest. His touch was tender and held no urgency, just deep care.
“I’m trying very hard not to pounce on you right now,” Maeve said, half-lidded with pleasure.
“That’s very noble of you,” Eiran murmured, rinsing the cloth again.
He worked it down her arm, lifting her hand to kiss her knuckles before and after washing her fingers one by one. She watched him, eyes full of quiet wonder. “You’re very good at this.”
“I’ve had centuries of practice.”
“Bathing women?”
“Enjoying them.”
Maeve raised a brow and he smirked. “Bathing them was optional.”
She laughed, bright and unguarded, and Eiran felt his heart kick in his chest at the sound. He moved the cloth lower, over her ribs, across her stomach. Always tender, even over her scars, not pushing for more. Just there, warm and present and she leaned forwards slightly, arms resting on the edge of the bath. “Tell me something about you,” she said. “Not regal or realm related just real.”
Eiran dipped the cloth again, thoughtful. “When I was sixteen, I tried to impress a girl by building her a tree swing.”
Maeve glanced at him, amused. “Did it work?”
“Not exactly. The branch snapped the moment she sat on it. She sprained her ankle and wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”
Maeve laughed, bright and unguarded. “That’s tragically sweet.”
