Page 47 of Healer to the Ash King
“So why do it then?”
“I was angry. The way you spoke to me of what I did in the Ashlands, as if I were a murderous monster—it stung. I wanted to hurt you back—and I wanted to see your powers in action.”
“By wounding me that night, you only confirmed my terrible impression of you.”
“As if I care what you think of me.” He speaks tight-lipped, his shoulders rigid. Fire flickers deep in his eyes. “Understand, Healer, that you are not forgiven, and that you will be punished for what you did in the city. And, recovered or not, you will serve the Favored in the Third Challenge tomorrow.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” I give the words such a scornful twist that he strides to the bed, teeth bared.
He catches my face in his hand and pulls me toward him, bending until his nose brushes mine. “Watch yourself,” he hisses.
He’s gripping my cheeks, huffing angry breaths over my lips. I can taste his frustration; it tingles on my tongue.
Too close. He’s too close. And whenever he is this close to me, neither of us seems capable of moving away immediately. We hover, caught in a panicked flutter of lashes and breaths and quivering lips—transfixed and trembling.
I nearly died, and life seems suddenly fragile as frost, prone to melting in a moment. Best to seize what pleasure we can when it appears.
I place my fingers over the back of the Ash King’s hand. The tendons there are rigid as he grips my face, but at my touch they relax.
My mouth eases upward, the thin skin of my lips grazing his, just barely. The lightest of soft kisses, not even a kiss, really.
He exhales, sharp and hungry.
But I don’t press in for a real kiss. I keep the touch light, my lips skimming his mouth. Waiting.
16
The Ash King doesn’t kiss me. With his mouth against mine he whispers, “I save my kisses for the women I might marry. But if you want other parts of me, I’m happy to oblige.”
“I don’t kiss kings who threaten me,” I whisper back. “And I don’t fuck them either.”
“That’s too bad.” He pulls back slowly. “I could make you forget your own name.”
“And I could make you forget the past,” I reply.
The mutual challenge tightens the air between us. It’s like a child’s game—a rope pulled taut, and we each hold an end, straining, tugging—one gaining ground, then the other. I’m not sure which of us will pull the other over the edge. But I want to find out.
When the Ash King whirls and stalks from the room, I collapse into my pillows. To escape thoughts of the King on his outing with the girls, I spend the afternoon reading more romance stories, an activity which makes me smile but also leaves me hot, lustful, and frustrated.
While I’m picking at my dinner, a welcome distraction arrives—a letter from my parents. I’m not sure how my own message reached them so quickly, or how theirs got back to me so fast. Either the King’s messengers ride hard or they use hawks for letter delivery. Or maybe there is magic involved. No matter the reason, I’m thrilled to receive word from home.
Everyone is well in the village. My parents are relieved to hear that I’m all right, but they’re worried, of course. In my letter, I included very strong words forbidding them from coming to the Capital to fetch me. Thankfully, it seems they took my warning to heart.
I write another message to them, telling as much as I can without revealing anything that could get them—or me—into trouble. At the end of the letter, I include a vague mention of meeting some old friends in the city. But I don’t use Brayda’s name, or Rince’s.
With the letter sealed and handed off to a servant, I plop onto the bed again. Burying my mind deep in a fictional world is a blessed reprieve from the torment of my heart and soul. In fact, it’s such a successful pastime that I barely notice the hours passing.
I’ve nearly finished a romance about a pirate and his captive when there’s a tap on my door. Or rather, onourdoor—the door I share with the Ash King. Odd that he would knock—he usually enters without warning.
Quickly I arrange myself against the pillows and tug the neckline of my nightdress a little lower, so my full breasts are nicely on display. I push off the sheet and pose my bare legs artfully.
I want him to see what he’s missing. And I’ve learned that no matter how much I tempt him, he won’t force me. Not that he’d have to at this point—I feel rather like a puff-flower, whose seeds usually burst into a cloud of floating white motes at the slightest breath. A few touches between my legs, or a thick cock sliding inside me, and I’d shatter into bliss at once.
“Come in, Your Majesty,” I say.
He saunters in, his magnificent body entirely bare except for a pair of gray undershorts. Three tiny orbs of fire rotate lazily above his head, bathing the planes of his chest and abs with a soft orange glow. His white hair is in a long braid down his back, with strands brushing his bold cheekbones.
He is altogether luscious. And he’s tempting me on purpose, as I’m doing to him.
