Page 23 of A Frozen Pyre
Holy fucking shit.
Ophir swallowed, gasping against the rhythmic pleasure of a warm, wet mouth working between her thighs as she locked on to the golden eyes looking back at her. She watched her pupils swell with telltale arousal as wave after wave of tantalizing ecstasy soaked her. She could see the way her lips parted, the teeth that flashed as she groaned, the tendons in her neck that went taut. Her fingers tensed against the cold mirror as if trying to dig into the solid surface. She gasped for air, drinking in the contrast of hot and cold. Ophir stifled a cry as two fingers slipped inside her, flexing gently as if beckoning her to climax.
Her eyes had closed again as they rolled into the back of her head. The moment she felt Dwyn’s lips clamp around her clit and suck, they popped back open in shock. The breath left her lungs as she fixed eye contact to the mirror for thefinal moments before she knew she was going to come. She bit her lip to stifle her scream but couldn’t stop the sound, absorbing the glistening of sweat on her skin, the blush of her cheeks, the glaze of her eyes as pleasure clouded her ability to think or see.
Like climbing a spiraling staircase, she was wound tight as she was carried up ten steps, then twenty, then another and another and another more, until there was only one left before she reached the top. She knew that the top of this staircase had no landing. Once she crested the final step—
Ophir broke, collapsing against the mirror as she choked on her cry. Her body tumbled from the top of the staircase through the dark, sickly-sweet void, into oblivion as pleasure coursed through her. She flexed and tightened as its final pulsations wracked her body. Dwyn waited until Ophir’s legs, her stomach, the wet grip of her innermost self relaxed before she slowly slipped her fingers out. Ophir groaned at the sensitive contact as Dwyn freed herself from the chiffon and grinned up at her, lips shimmering, hair askew, skin dewy and flushed from the heat of being trapped beneath her skirt. She bit her lip to stop the wicked grin from spreading.
Ophir lowered herself to the ground, a final pulse still coursing through her as she joined Dwyn on her knees. She wrapped her fingers in Dwyn’s hair and drank in the kiss, tasting sex and sunshine on her tongue.
“Did you look?” Dwyn asked, breaking the kiss.
She panted, unable to stop herself from smiling.
“And? Can you appreciate how fucking incredible you are?”
Ophir averted her eyes, but Dwyn grabbed her chin.
“Hey, you’re the princess—soon to be queen. Nothing,no one, embarrasses you. Own who and what you are, Firi. Youarepower.”
Ophir examined her face and saw the same look she’d seen before. She had seen it when Dwyn told her that shewas a deer limping through the forest. She’d seen it on the cliff when Dwyn had struck her into conjuring a snake. And she saw it now.
“What is it you’re trying to get me to become?” Ophir asked. Her question dropped to a barely audible register as she reflected on Caris’s goals for unity, met with her inclinations to tear the world from its seams.
Dwyn smiled at her, running a gentle finger over her lips. She searched her eyes for a long time, studying, appraising, weighing, allowing a curious silence to fill the room until at last she said, “Everything.”
Nine
It was hard for Tyr to know what was usual and what wasunusual in a new kingdom. He’d mistakenly followed a few people up and down the castle’s corridors, certain that they didn’t belong in the innermost walls. He’d discovered, instead, that Gwydir’s culture of informality created both a curious lack of security and an environment of implied trust. Unfortunately for them, trust was easy to exploit for someone hiding in the shadows.
Tyr spotted a curious person with a bright yellow scarf wrapped tightly around their head. The individual wore a flowing floral shawl—one that he would have described as a kimono if they’d been in Sulgrave rather than Raascot. Tyr would have merely marked the person as peculiar, had the individual not been walking directly for the king’s personal bedchambers. With nothing to do and all the time to do it, Tyr walked silently behind the stranger, barely slipping into Ceneth’s room before the door shut behind him.
One of these days, he’d surely get caught in the door and give himself away. It hadn’t happened in centuries of sleuthing, so he was long overdue for a slipup.
Instead, he snuck along the far wall and eyed the setup with heavy skepticism. Ceneth sat at an empty table, curtainsdrawn, with only the fireplace to light the room despite the happy midday sun. The one in the yellow scarf slid into the chair and immediately extended their hands.
Ceneth reached across the table with eagerness, but the person snatched their hands away.
“Every time we meet, you tell me she’s begged you not to call on her again. You are my king, and I will answer when you summon me. We can meet every day for five centuries. However, I must ask: Are you sure violating your late bride’s wishes is what you want?”
Tyr’s pulse skipped. Were they truly summoning the dead? No, that couldn’t be. Consorting with spirits was forbidden across the kingdoms, wasn’t it?
Ceneth withdrew his hands, burying his head in his palms. “I can’t do any of this without her. Maybe if I could just dream of her again…”
The person frowned. “Your Majesty, do you still dream?”
Ceneth nodded, though his head remained buried in his hands.
Their frown deepened. “King Ceneth… Have you considered that you were never dreaming of Caris?”
The king’s face rearranged in a painted mask of confused displeasure.
The scarfed stranger pursed their lips. “Your Majesty, aside from your wings and perfect sight in the blackest of nights, what abilities have you demonstrated?”
He waved away the question. “I have the power to steer a nation and the ability to soar through the sky. The All Mother was perfectly generous with her hand.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. However, I suspect you may have been…visiting Caris.”
