Page 21 of A Chill in the Flame
He said she tasted like water in the desert and like prayers on the desperate lips of the wicked. It was the sort of thing you only said to someone when you’d given yourself over, body and soul. And so, she took. Ophir savored his mouth, his hands, his manhood until she was satisfied through every kiss, touch, and stroke she desired. Their night commanded the movement of hips, hair, and hands that eliminated all doubt, erasing any memory of anyone who had come before. She claimed what he’d known for a long time: he belonged to her. At first, she led their dance, taking charge when she rode atop him. He flipped her onto her belly, lifting her hips while she stretched her chest against the bed. He pounded into her, desperate to fill her with every quaking movement, from the clap of his hips against her to the way his rough hands gripped her delicate body.
He swore their time together was a religious experience.He whispered sweet nothings, told her of his past, talked about the only other woman he’d been with and how she’d broken his heart into enough pieces that he’d retreated into the life of the guards with no hope of gaining a wife or building a family. He held nothing back.
He awoke cum-drunk and blissfully rested after their tumble.
He reached for her but knew before his hand hit the empty space behind him that she was gone. The wild, lovely Ophir had bested him in the throes of passion, then slipped out of the castle, unnoticed. She visited a poppy den that night, falling asleep among the opium clouds of its patrons. Her smile was the hazy, half-present quirk of tilted lips when he found her to bring her back to the castle.
He wanted to be angry, but he only admired her all the more.
It would be dishonest to be angry with her for using him. He’d wanted to be used. He’d read everything into their shared tumble that he’d wanted to read, and left with a lesson. She was beautiful, clever, and free.
She expressed interest in continuing their dalliances, followed by grumbled protests over boundaries he set after their night together.
He existed to ensure her safety, he said, and he couldn’t guard her properly if he was beholden to her whims.
She insisted that her gift for flame enabled her to protect herself just fine.
Following their exchange of power, his gentle rebukes were met with frustration. He stopped her, blocked her exits, and prevented her movements in ways that she met with nearly wry flirtation. While Harland had very little control over where Ophir went, he always did his best to follow, even if just in the shadows. He’d been rash and naïve, but he maintained every intention to live up to his sovereign title as the princess’s protector, no matter how difficult and perilous she made the job.
Her halfhearted attempts to dodge her responsibilities took her to the far tower with a bottle of wine, as they had so many times before.
His job was not for the faint of heart.
But he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
***
Ophir mustered a smile. “You look beautiful. Are you nervous?”
The ladies in waiting had left the sisters alone in Caris’s chambers so that she could have a few moments of peace before the northern king arrived. Today the eldest princess was in a lovely shade of light green, looking very much like young leaflets in the early days of spring. Her long golden hair was left down in relatively informal curls given the seriousness of the occasion. Caris’s beauty had been a thing of murmurs of admiration across the continent. Her soft voice and gentle spirit were just as charming as the rose of her cheeks and the bright blue of her eyes. Ophir was in awe of her.
Caris shook her head, smiling with a deep, genuine joy. Her loveliness was as much a part of her good soul as it was her delicate features. “No, I’m always excited to meet with him. He’s going to change the world, Firi.”
Ophir smiled. Caris was wrong, of course. Ceneth was not going to change the world. If the continent had any hope for evolution, it would be because of what the two of them might achieve together. Their vision for a sanctuary for fae and solace for humans was one that might end centuries of fear, mistrust, and bloodshed. The two shared their passion with the unity of a single heartbeat. While advantageous diplomatic marriages were traditions as old as time, Princess Caris and King Ceneth had truly been blessed by the All Mother to not only share their vision for how the world might be, but also to have the ability to achieve it together.
What they shared was so much more than their visionfor the continent. They’d been blessed with twin hearts that desired a life together.
The winged king of Raascot had a much easier time traveling with his gift of flight and was more than happy to make the journey as often as he could. It was customary to wait until after the fae bride’s seventy-fifth birthday before a royal wedding. While Caris had insisted for the better part of a decade that she was eager and ready to become Raascot’s queen, her parents had insisted she adhere to tradition, and Caris had obliged, albeit impatiently.
The sounds of hooves and carriages joined the great thunder of wings that sounded the Raascot party’s arrival. Caris sparkled with giddiness as she rushed to greet them.
Ceneth and his procession were greeted at the castle with fanfare and open arms. While it was splendid, it was nothing compared to the warmth of Caris’s face as their eyes locked and she ran to him. Ceneth had swept her up in front of family and friends, holding her aloft as he squeezed her with tenderness and excitement. His exclamations of how she smelled of the fresh rain in spring, the shower of kisses on her cheeks and forehead, the pet names were all a bit too much for the public. It may not have been the most appropriate show of affection for two unwed monarchs, but as they were promised to one another, the demonstration was received with appreciation rather than admonishment. How lucky were they to have found not only shared dreams but to have fallen in love? If the joy had belonged to anyone other than her sister, Ophir would have been sickened.
While the kingdom’s monarchs made their way to the dining room, Ophir used the distraction to slip free from supervising eyes and duck into the kitchen for a bottle of wine. She had been expected to join them in the room, but everyone knew she wouldn’t come. She’d smelled the roast ham and apple glaze, the braided rolls, the tarts and sweets and greens mixed with fig to balance the vegetables’ flavor with natural sugars, and she’d felt nothing but irritation. Aspecial dinner for their special guest. A lovely meal for the lovely Ceneth. She’d spotted the only thing she wanted in the kitchen and left the food for the perfect family. After roughly twenty minutes, Harland found her on the castle wall overlooking the sea with a fine bottle of merlot.
She hadn’t bothered to bring a glass.
Harland slid into the space near the wall across from her and extended his hand for a drink. Their relationship was too familiar for a guard and his lady according to any and all outside opinions, but the world had no way of knowing this informality was the strained, barely salvaged friendship of a man who’d survived her seduction and rejection with a bruised ego and a chuckle.
Harland took a swig of the dark wine.
Ophir pouted, looking between the bottle and her guard. “I didn’t bring enough for two.”
“You’re in luck,” he said. He fished in his breast pocket for a small flask. “Keep your wine. I’ll stick to whiskey.”
If he was trying to make her smile, he’d succeeded. She’d felt on more than one occasion that, apart from her sister, he was the only friend she had. On the matter of courtiers and lords and ladies, Ophir knew her likability had nothing to do with who she was and everything to do with her title. Everyone wanted to be close to the crown. Harland, however, had nothing to gain from her—not anymore, at least. She was glad he’d stuck it out and remained on the job after surviving her preferred form of humbling men. She was even more relieved that he’d remained steadfast, patient, quick to smile, and ready to leave the past behind them.
“Shouldn’t you be sober on the job?”
