Page 73 of Kissed By the Gods
The spined back drifts farther from view as Einarr beats his powerful wings.
We hug a jagged ribbon of cliffs and black sand beaches that stretch along the coastline. Watchtowers rise from the rocks. Ryot raises a hand to acknowledge the guards, always standing near massive pyres—each of them ready to light a signal that traces all the way back to the Synod. It’s a warning system if any of the Kher’zenn make it this far south, though I’m told they usually don’t. There hasn’t been a sighting down this far in over a decade.
I hunch lower, pressing myself against Ryot, the cold wind of the higher altitude cutting through the thickness of my leather. My brain is fuzzy, but it’s not the altitude, the cold, or Einarr’s speed that’s making me dizzy. It’s exhaustion. My eyelids start to droop again—I was in the Reckoning Hall until dawn broke through the windows, though I didn’t find anything helpful. No old treaties, no formal records, no information on the culture, on historic trade, or even the language that’s spoken in Aish. Only a warning that the Aish were too proud to kneel before the gods, and an old notice that any Aishan spies discovered in Faraengard would be executed.
My eyes close, and my body slides. Ryot jerks around at the movement, catching the edge of my fur coat.
“By the Veil, Leina—!” Ryot snaps, hauling Einarr into a tight, banking turn that makes my stomach lurch. He curses. “Did you stay up all night with Faelon?”
I grimace, cheeks burning under the cold. “No—” But I stop, because it’s only technically true. I did stay up all night.
Ryot doesn't wait for an explanation. He motions Einarr into a sharp descent, heading for a narrow strip of rocky cliffs below.Einarr rumbles, but he sweeps down in a steep glide that forces me to cling tighter to Ryot’s back.
We hit the ground hard, the beast’s hooves skidding against the loose gravel before he settles with a huff that sends a cloud of sand into the air. Ryot swings off in one fluid motion, then rounds on me as I half-climb, half-stumble to the ground.
“You need to start listening to orders.” His voice is biting. “It’s not safe to be on patrol and sliding off your faravar out of exhaustion.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off with a sharp gesture.
“I don’t care why. I don’t care if you were up drinking or fighting or writing damn poetry in the barracks.” Einarr snorts behind him, stamping a hoof against the stone as if to add his own agreement.
“I’m sorry,” I manage. “It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” he says. “Because on patrol, we’re on our own. Any mistake could be your last.”
He turns back to Einarr, running a gloved hand down the faravar’s neck with a touch far gentler than his voice.
“Are we stopping for the day?” We’ve only been flying for about six hours. We were supposed to go until nightfall.
“Well, we’re certainly not flying further if you’re going to fall into the ocean. Einarr doesn’t like getting wet. He won’t go in after you.” Einarr paws the ground and glares at me.
“Good to know where I rank.” I shift my weight, wincing at the stiffness in my thighs. My legs are quivering from the hours spent on Einarr’s back—and we didn’t even make half the time we were supposed to. I stretch out my legs, first one and then the other. “How long does it normally take to get used to riding?”
Ryot smirks at me, like he’s glad I’m being punished somehow. “You won’t get used to it until you have your ownbeast.” Even still, he comes over to my corner of our rocks and gestures to a mostly flat section of the cliff. “Sit down.”
I know a command when I hear one. My lips tilt. “Yes, Master.”
His eyes flash, but he says nothing—just waits, arms crossed, until I lower myself onto the flattest section of the rock. Once I sit, the stiffness hits harder, a deep ache in my thighs and calves that makes me inhale sharply. Without a word, Ryot crouches in front of me. His gloves are already stripped off and tucked into his belt, and his hands—callused, scarred, steady—close around my right calf.
I jolt, instinctively trying to pull away, but his grip tightens—not painful, but firm enough to hold me there.
"Stay still," he mutters, and starts working the muscle with slow, sure pressure. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second as he finds the worst knot on my inner thigh and pushes into it with his thumb. Pain flares, bright and hot, before it bleeds out into something that almost feels like relief. I exhale, shuddering slightly when he moves to the other leg. Einarr stands nearby, watching the horizon with the kind of patience only a faravar possesses, tail flicking lazily in the breeze.
“You won’t get used to it overnight,” Ryot says after a minute.
He presses into the top of my thigh, and I gasp as the ache there unknots under his touch. It’s an intimate thing, being massaged by a man, but it isn’t sexual at all. He’s clinical about it, doing it only to release my pain.
Still, the closeness hums between us. His thumb circles once more, before sliding up along my thigh, checking for tightness. It’s the kind of attention I’ve only ever seen him give to his weapons or Einarr.
“You hide it well,” he says.
“Hide what?”
He doesn’t look up, just digs into a cramping muscle in my thigh. “How much it hurts.” His lips curl upward in the hint of a smile, and he raises his gaze to meet mine. “I’m not so old I don’t remember how much it hurts.”
I grin a wicked smile, despite myself. “You’re what, forty?”
Ryot makes a wounded sound. “I’m thirty-one.”
