Page 72 of A Bride for the Winter King
“I’ve learned from a very early age that one should never cry over clipped wings. It won’t grow them back.” I rub myself against her inner thigh. “I want to fuck.Now.”
“We can fuckafteryou’ve answered my questions.” The energy in the room changes, her hooded eyes full of rage…and fear. She looks about to burst into tears, and that seriously hinders my priorities.
I force a breath down my throat, my cock so stiff and painful, my vision blurs when she adjusts her position on my lap.
She’s obviously no longer in atake me nowmood, but furious. The black flames of her wrath cast shadows along her shoulders and suck a bit of light out of the room itself, but for once, her ire isn’t directed at me. “Who cut them off?”
Her jaw ticks, and I know she won’t back down until I’ve answered the question. I bury my face in her hair to avoid seeing the pity that’s sure to ride on the carriage of her anger. Pity is not the emotion I want to see in a woman’s gaze before I fuck her.
“My father. He didn’t feel I was worthy of them after I left the Sun Court.” I encircle her waist to keep her close.
I do not want to disclose my secrets to a woman I know almost nothing about, but the feeling of her in my arms is so natural, soright, that I can’t help myself. And besides, this is hardly my darkest secret.
“And in spite of that, you’ve kept all the gifts you were born with? Even after taking on the Winter crown?”
“I did. It drove my father crazy, but even clipping my wings wasn’t enough to destroy the seed of light burning inside me.”
She draws back an inch. “And there’s nothing that can be done? No spell or…” she trails off as she reads the answer on my face, and cradles my head in her hands. “I’m so sor?—”
I peck her lips. “Shh. It's alright. Everyone’s got scars. Unsalvageable broken parts. Indelible trauma that’s altered them forever. I just have to wear some of mine on the outside.”
And I can’t fly. Not now. Not ever. If I tried, I would just crash and break something more. Until there’s nothing left of me to break.
“Back in the hall of mirrors, you mentioned a Blessed Flame?” She twists her fingers in my hair, and I chuckle at the reminder, grateful for the shift in subject.
“A pesky leftover of my old religion.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Light Fae believe the threads forming the tapestry of the gods are sometimes burned at the ends to prevent their will from fraying. That some destinies are too important to be left to chance, and that the Flame is then used to strengthen the pattern. It is said that the Flame of Fate can also be used to burn stray threads that do not serve the gods’ interest. Some of us believe it’s actually used to erase theirmistakes, but others think that the idea of our gods making mistakes is heresy.”
Her thumb caresses the column of my throat, and I tip my head back to rest on the edge of the pool, enjoying each twisted, sinuous line she traces on her way down to my stomach. She takes her sweet time, rekindling the fire in my groin until I’m panting.
“And what camp are you?” she asks.
I bite my bottom lip. “I’d rather not say.”
“Tell me anyway.” She dips her hands to my aching Faehood, her small hand teasing the length of it from root to tip, and I hiss.
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Even you?”
“Especiallyme,” I rasp, my lids fluttering.
She places a soft kiss on my neck. “What kind of mistakes?”
“The kind that are so tantalizing that I’d tear out my soul if it meant I did not have to give them up.”
She stops her glorious exploration, and my eyes snap open. With both hands on my shoulders, she leans back. “Is that what I am? A mistake?”
I shift forward and grab her waist to prevent her escape, digging my fingertips into the flesh of her ass. “A ravishing, sumptuous mistake.”
This indulgence is only meant to soothe the ache in my bones, and me, hers.
Nothing more. She can’t be more.
She crosses her arms over her breasts, shielding them from my view, clearly torn as to what to do next. “Keep talking.”
