Page 2 of Burn

Only to have her stop me. Only to watch her ride away.

She had vanished from my sight like mist. A force of nature, impossible to hold on to.

Gone, as if she’d never existed. As though I hadn’t just been clasping her, clutching her in a death grip, furious to protect my princess, to keep her close, keep her safe.

Who would do that now? Who would warm her, feed her, touch her? Who would draw a blade for her? Who would make her scowl and smile? Who would give her pleasure, bring an orgasm to her lips, wring a laugh from her obstinate mouth?

Aye. Three fucking days since my bones shattered, since my fingers felt her skin, since everything.

Sometimes when I turned a corner, my pulse pounded like a drum, and I expected to see her waiting with a stubborn glower, her gray eyes slitting and lips pursing, about to lash me with a reprimand for something naughty I’d done or said. Then I would stop in my tracks, stare at the empty room—the library wing, the throne room, the bedroom, every-fucking-where—and the vacant space where she should have been reminded me. Then my blood would boil, and my knuckles would curl.

Sometimes when I twisted in my sheets, my greedy fingers would reach out to grab my thorn, yank her from dreams, and haul her against me, so that I might tear the nightgown from her body and take what was mine, give what she wanted, and destroy our sleep. My hands would seek out her freckled shoulders, those luscious tits, and the wet crease of her pussy. My touch would extend for her prim and proper mouth, her swollen little clit, her sharp cheekbones.

Then I would grasp at nothing other than tangled quilts, and my sense would return, as well as my fury. In that moment, silence would suffocate the room. And the absence of her breathing would cause my eyes to sting.

She had a distinct voice whenever I pumped inside her, a symphony of private sounds that only my snapping hips could pull from her. She would utter such unique noises, each one particular to the things I did to her. My tongue sweeping over her cunt. My cock pitching through her soaked walls. My lips clamping onto hers and hauling her into a bone-deep kiss, from which her shaky moans and cries of rapture would echo in my head long after I awakened.

Now I felt the void of them like a chasm, a bottomless thing. Naturally.

Yet it was the memory of her words that did the most damage. Her righteous lectures, every time she disagreed with me, and each moment her vocal cords tightened in annoyance or exasperation because I was misbehaving, taunting her wickedly, or being a general pain in the ass. Every time she had spoken out against an injustice, brandished her words like thorns against an enemy, or raised that commanding voice to a crowded hall. Those memories pierced me through.

Blades cut deeply. Yet the pain was temporary.

But words. Oh, those lasted longer. They were underrated, for they made victims bleed eternally.

She was gone. Three days, and she was gone. I could no longer tell morning from night. Every hour dissolved into the next, thick and stifling.

Only one thing kept me upright. Only one person gave me air.

That person was sleeping across the hall. However tempted I felt, I couldn’t wake him in the dead of the night. Dreaming was a challenge for Nicu, a feat I could relate to considering how I’d thrashed in my own bed, unconsciously tearing the blankets to shreds. My son—our son—deserved whatever precious slumber he managed to get.

In the meantime, I would do the midnight suffering for us both. I would carry that burden.

Outside Briar’s suite, footfalls echoed through the cavernous halls. Armor and chainmail clanked from the distant wings and corridors of the castle. The night watch patrolled this fortress like hawks. More so, after the shitshow of the past few days. Everyone remained on edge, anticipating yet another bloodbath.

Such a shame. For what each courtier should truly worry about was running into me. In my presence, no one was safe.

Moonlight dripped through the glass doors leading to the balcony. Eventide glazed the chamber walls in indigo, the color like ink from one of her quill pens. And these fucking sheets still smelled of her, crisp and tart.

My jaw hardened. I had almost forgotten why I’d come here.

Reaching into my coat pocket, I withdrew a precious object. Once long ago, I’d done this same thing, except it had been a ribbon on her pillow, the band of fabric meant to target her for harsh reasons. Tonight, I would offer something different.

Nightfall shaded the rose, turning it from decadent red to a vicious scarlet. The petals puckered, not yet ripe enough to open. Like needles, a neat row of thorns sprouted from the stem.

When Spring arrived for Reaper’s Fest, the king and queen had brought gifts, gestures of goodwill despite its recent history with Autumn. My origin Season was nothing if not boastful about its natural resources.

This flower, in particular.

My black fingernails flashed in the dark as I twisted the rose between my digits. Such softness. Such sharpness. That both coexisted was the cleverest of deceptions, the sort of combination I appreciated. This blossom could be a weapon if it needed to.

Or it could be a seduction. Like someone I knew well.

Sweet Thorn

My lips twitched. My free fingers flexed into a fist, the red ribbon bracelet entwining my wrist pulling taut, withstanding the pressure. Indeed, it would take more than mere tension to sever the cord.

Back to the rose. In Spring, the most potent flowers existed, more than in any other Season. They possessed their own duplicitous magic, from the sinful to malicious.

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