“Dayton!” I cry, clinging to his neck, pulling at his hair. He pulls out, almost to the tip before sliding back in slowly. “You’re torturing me.”
He does it again, grinning like the Cheshire Cat as inch by agonizing inch, he slides deeper inside. Then he lifts me off the bridge railing and into his arms, pumping faster and faster. I have no idea how he has the strength to do that and hold me, but I am completely and utterly at his mercy.
He brings a wet tongue to my ear, then says lowly, “I do recall you promising to fuck me in a goblin’s blood. The blood has washed away, but …”
He lowers himself to the slick cobblestone, me still on top of him, legs falling to either side of his waist, cock still deep inside me. His teal eyes blaze. “You’re in control now, Rosie. So, fuck me like the wild, uninhibited goddess I know lives inside you.”
I slam my hands on his rain-slicked chest, and a smile rises on my face. I move, lifting myself to the tip of his cock before slamming down hard. The sensation rattles us both. He tilts his head back, neck muscles straining, and groans. So I do it again. And again. Faster and faster, until my fingers are leaving red scratches along his chest, my breasts are bouncing, and he’s lifting his hips to match me thrust by thrust.
My voice is hoarse from calling his name. Something feral flashes in his eyes as he rises, holding me in his lap as we continue this pace, our bodies working in tandem.
My inner muscles tighten, and he slams me down hard, and I know I can’t hold on much longer. “Day, I’m—”
“Come, Baby. Take it, take this cock.” His teeth graze my neck, hands tangled in my soaking hair. I’m his. My body wracks with euphoric bliss as I come undone around him.
He roars and I feel his own release explode, cock spasming as he spills deep inside me. I press down on his lap, wanting to take it all. Somehow in the daze, his lips meet mine, and we tumble to the cobblestone.
I’m not sure how long we lie there, him still inside me, the rain cooling our heated bodies, but eventually he pulls out and rolls to the side.
Pure euphoric bliss fills me as I fall to my back, blinking as the rain pours down, the taste sweet on my tongue. A laugh bubbles up within me, but when I don’t hear Dayton answer it, I turn to him.
He’s staring straight up, one hand clenched to his chest, an almost pained expression on his face. Pain? Why, when what happened was just so wonderful?
It hits me with shocking clarity.
He didn’t feel it. Did I feel it? I let out an animalistic cry, my own hand flying to my chest. Desperately, I try to recall how it felt with Kel, with Farron. It had been the same, hadn’t it? This feeling had been answered by them, but with Dayton …
No, no, no. It’s not possible. He’s my mate, too. I know it.
Dayton sits up, sighing. The rain clouds begin to part, and it feels more ominous than it should. Like an ending.
“Let’s go inside.” He grabs his pants and laces them up.
Tears fall down my cheeks, now no longer hidden by the rain. “I was so sure …”
Dayton picks up Kel’s sheathed sword and only gives me a quick, sympathetic shrug. Like that’s all this loss is to him—a shrug. But what this really means is … There is someone else out there for him.
I shake my head, drawing my knees up to cover my naked body. “No, something is wrong. It hasn’t awoken yet. It wasn’t the right time. We can go find some will-o’-wisps and see if your bond is still all tangled and—”
“I died in front of you.” Dayton turns, anger lacing his words. “You watched me get pierced by three arrows and collapse, and the bond didn’t awaken.” He kneels and cups my face. “We made love, fucking glorious love. And the bond didn’t awaken. Because there is no bond between us. We’re not mates, Rosalina.”
“But Day—”
He stands swiftly. “Stop.”
It’s the second time he’s told me to stop today. And this time I do.
My training dress is tattered on the ground, and I stand naked, chest heaving. The storm has blown away the ash, the rain has washed the blood, and now only the rags of the goblins’ clothes and their weapons remain.
“Oddly nice weapons for goblins,” I say absently. As if my heart isn’t ashes itself.
“I was thinking the same thing.” Dayton leans down to inspect a piece, then another, and another.
“What is it?”
“These weapons are practically new,” Dayton says, brow furrowed. “And they’re made of Spring steel.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we have to warn Ezryn.”
My heart clenches at his name. “So, we’re going to the Spring Realm?”
“Yes, Rosalina, we’re going to Spring.”
12
Ezryn
Each step I take into the Hall of Vernalion—the throne room of my home, my ancestors—is slower and heavier than the last.
It’s been months since I’ve returned to the Spring Realm—a long time for the High Prince to be away, but also merely a blink in the eyes of the fae.
And yet everything has changed.
It looks the same, the lush greenery draping the stone walls. Delicate tendrils of vines and leaves trail down like emerald tears. Gleaming veins of Spring steel trace intricate patterns across stout pillars, entwining with golden filigree. The earthy scent of moss mixes with the wet stone. Keep Hammergarden is built into the base of the mountains, an eternal mixture of Spring’s bounty and the rich ores in the rock.
Servants bow their heads as I pass. They weren’t expecting me, but they never are. Usually, my presence is cause for bustle and gossip. Now, they shrink back, eyeing me warily as if I am a stranger.
The ornate, domed ceiling makes the throne room appear even more spacious than it is, though it does nothing to stop the oppressing weight that hangs throughout the hall. Though I have stood here many times as a boy and a young man, never have I felt such a heaviness in this space.
Someone has planted massive red flowers in every corner of the throne room. A few have bloomed but most are still buds. They appear too vivid for this sacred area.
But the biggest difference of all is my father. He’s not sitting on the throne as he rightfully should as steward.
Instead, sitting there, leaning back, hands grasping the armrests with curved gloved knuckles, is my brother.
The brother I banished decades ago.
“Well, well, well, the silver son has returned,” Kairyn calls from the throne, his voice a dark timbre.
“That seat does not belong to you,” I say. “Where is Father?”
Kairyn tilts his black helm. Two long protrusions jut out above the dark visor, reminiscent of a Great Horned Owl. Like all Spring royalty, he covers his face for all but his immediate family or fated mate. Though by creed, we could take off our helmets in the presence of the other, our parents raised us with the strictest of principles. I remember the last time I looked into his eyes as a boy before he put on his helm. There was innocence there. Fear.
Now, his visor reveals only darkness.
“Father,” Kairyn says slowly, “has fallen ill. He is under our watchful care.”