Page 77 of Through the Wicked Wood

“Yes?” My voice comes out breathy, my body on edge in the best way as he lowers the weight of himself behind me to whisper in my ear.

“On your knees, love.”

I do as he says, bringing my knees up so my face remains buried in the furs beneath me. My body aches as he runs his hands up the backs of my legs. He resumes his grip on my hips before thrusting himself back in. Finding our rhythm, waves of pleasure ripple over me as I near another release. Leaving my hips, Sorin’s hand dips between my legs, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, lighting me on fire.

I breathe out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me over and over again. Sorin replaces his hands on my hips as his pace quickens and breathing becomes ragged. He finds his own release with a deep moan as I lay breathless underneath him. His movements begin to slow, our breaths begin to steady, the ache between my legs finally satiated.

For now.

His hands trace lines along my back and through my hair as he lowers himself next to me, his chest and forehead slicked with sweat. Rolling to my side to face him, I run my hands through his damp hair before pulling him in for another kiss. Pulling himself away, he buries his face into the crook of my neck and takes a deep inhale.“You are incredible,” he whispers against my skin, and my body lights up as if we hadn’t just been together moments ago. My chest warms but my eyes become heavy, the weight of his arms and words drape around me like a thick blanket. I open my mouth to say anything back but instead find myself kissing the top of his head before resting my chin there.

I am undoubtedly yours, Sorin once said to me. And now I know without a sliver of doubt, that I am his too.

* * *

It takes several moments for Sorin to fall asleep. The deep rise and fall of his chest against mine has become my own personal lullabye. I wait a few moments longer, making sure he truly is asleep before I reach up and run my fingers over the back of my neck.

I trace the raised flesh, recognizing the circular pattern. A match, I’m sure, to the mark Sorin wore before I broke his bargain. Truly surprised the mask held while unconscious, I’m grateful I have more time before I must tell another secret.

Just one more secret. I try to convince myself.

Despite the brightness of the morning light trickling through the tent, I close my eyes and succumb to sleep.

Chapter 38

Elora

My eyes prickle with tears as I watch the remaining plumes of smoke rise to the sky from our morning fire, my mind torn on the relief of being out of the Wicked Woods and the reality that soon enough, I’ll be bound to them. Sorin and I spent most of yesterday in our tent, sleeping and also, not sleeping. The rumble of our stomachs reminding us we need to leave the comfort of the canvas sooner than later. I’ve perched myself against a fallen tree, watching where the Wicked Woods meets the moss-ridden ground where we’ve camped. The memory of the horrors held inside flash behind my eyes. The darkness of the cage. My mother’s face. The thick black tar that spilled from Grawgeth’s chest as I sliced it open. The bargain I made.

Swallowing deeply, I grieve the loss of the souls trapped in the birch trees I can’t save. Once I am there, I vow to myself to release them somehow. The crunch of leaves under boots draws my attention backward. Galen approaches with his black pack slung neatly over his shoulder. He says nothing as he takes a seat. The silence is comfortable as we both stare at the smoke rising to the sky. The clinking of glass rattles in my ears. Peering over my shoulder, he holds out a small vial.

“I need you to take this,” Galen says, gesturing to the vial. Clear liquid sloshes around as he passes it over to me. Uncorking the top with my teeth, I toss it back without a question of what it is. Galen’s eyes roam over me as I wipe my mouth clean of the foul-tasting liquid, handing back the empty vial. “That should help the pain in your foot,” he says, “another day or two and you should be back to walking normally.” I nod before returning my focus to the woods.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, grimacing at the aftertaste still dancing on my tongue.

Another clinking noise. Turning my head, he holds out a second vial, this one smaller than the last. The liquid inside a deep red, tiny gold flecks catches against the late morning light.

“And what’s that for?” I ask, gesturing to the vial as he rolls it between his fingers before tossing it to me.

“That”—he points to the glass as I catch it—“is so we don’t have a bunch of little Sorin’s running around.” Heat blooms over my cheeks as my mouth drops open. Of all the people to talk about this with, Galen is certainly last on my list. He lets out a huff of air that could almost pass as a laugh.

“Take it once a month. Until you know…until you decide not to, if you decide not to. Samaria’s on the same tonic.” I snap my mouth shut but before I can thank him again, he turns away and saunters back toward the camp. I run the vial through my fingers before removing the top and tossing it back in one gulp.

* * *

We’ve decided we can only spare one more night before we must move, and while I agree my foot does not. So I spend the rest of our last day around the fire, forcing myself to rest.

“How many others were there?” I ask Galen as he and I sit around the fire alone while the others are off hunting or bathing in the nearby stream. He glances at me over the edge of his book.

“Not many Dyrsjel are on record, it’s difficult to say,” he says, setting his book into his lap. “But there were at least two bloodlines, two families known. Queen Solei was rumored but there was no factual proof, and the only other on paper is yours. The Leigh’s.” He strums his fingers on top of the book, his eyes finding mine. “Your magick is rare,” he continues, “invaluable. Not many Dyrsjel choose to make their gift known to others, so if there are more, there’s a good chance we wouldn’t know.”

I straighten at his words, eyeing him over the flames. The orange light flickers against his icy hair, casting a yellow glow to his skin. “It could be dangerous if it were in the wrong hands,” he whispers.

Roman.

The thought makes my stomach curl. I think of Queen Solei, the original Queen of Valebridge. How she had no heirs, therefore it wouldn’t be possible for a Dyrsjel to come of her bloodline. Why would the Mother choose my family? Why would she choose…me?

“And this other magick…this Elemental magick I apparently have, is it common?” I ask, flexing my fingers, ignoring the frustration lining in my gut that I have so many unresolved questions. Galen’s teeth are perfectly straight and glisten in the firelight as he casts a rare smile.

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