She swallowed. “There’s so much of myself I haven’t shared with you yet. What Hauth did—all the feelings he stole from me. I’m bitterly angry.”
“Then be angry, Ione.” Elm pressed his mouth to her forehead. “It looks well on you.”
She made a small noise of approval, her words to him mirrored back at her. “I say spiteful things when my feelings are hurt. Hold grudges. And the highwaymen—I’m not sorry for what I did to them. Not even a little. It was frightening and awful, and I’d do it again without thinking to keep you from getting hurt.” She took a rattling breath. “I think about how easy it would be to do horrible things if I felt I had a good reason.”
“So do I.”
“I liked that I might be Queen one day. I liked how the Maiden tempered things, how I stopped feeling regret and worry and fear. It felt a lot like power.” She tilted her chin up until their lips were almost pressed together. “Maybe you liked me that way, too.”
“I like that I can finally read your face, and that you’ve chosen to show it to me. You can tell me your terrible truths, Ione. I’m not going anywhere.”
Elm sat up, awake, hungry. And, for the first time in memory, happy the day was only beginning. “Do you still like to ride?”
They dressed quickly. This time, Elm made sure Ione had shoes and a damn cloak.
Fortified against the mist with their charms, they found Elm’s horse in the stable, then a chestnut-brown palfrey for Ione. When Elm handed her into the saddle, he caught himself wondering once more if the Spirit of the Wood did indeed dabble in the lives of men. If she’d pitied him that day he rode with Destriers to Hawthorn House. If she’d sensed all the rot inside him and gifted him, the ruined Prince, this moment with Ione to tide over his darkness.
They rushed out of the bailey and over the drawbridge. Wind blew Ione’s hair behind her like a thousand beckoning ribbons, and Elm let out a breath. He always felt washed clean, riding away from Stone.
Autumn was slipping, the frost slow to melt. Soon, it wouldn’t melt at all. They kept to the main road for a quarter of a mile, and then, so fast Ione had to jerk her reins, Elm veered his horse west, down an embankment. When they bottomed out, he took the path he’d long since memorized. Then, across a grassy plain, Elm unleashed his horse.
They cantered through the open field, parting the mist with their speed.
Ione spurred her horse—caught him until they rode neck and neck. Her eyes were wide, yellow hair a storm. But just as Elm began to worry the speed was too much, she tilted her head back, deficient of all pageantry—
And laughed.
The sound rolled through her body into Elm, undoing his last brick, his last barb. Ione’s face was wide open, not a hint of ice or restraint. Her eyes were creased and her freckled nose wrinkled, the gap between her front teeth visible as she smiled. Elm took in the sight of her—memorized her—praying he could get to his sketchbook before the lines of her smile faded from his memory.
He doubted they ever would.
She must have felt his stare, because when Ione shifted in her saddle and looked at him, her gaze was expectant.
Elm reached over, snagged her reins. It was impossible to kiss on horseback, but he leaned over—brushed his mouth over hers—kissed her just the same.
Ione tugged the reins. When the horses stopped, Elm dismounted and reached up for her waist. She slid from her saddle into his grasp, crashing her mouth down upon his. “Thank you for this, Elm,” she whispered into his lips. “For everything.”
He’d never get used to how it felt, hearing her say his name. Heady, sweet, wistful.
They made it to a copse of trees before sprawling out in the grass, fumbling with one another’s clothes. Salt stung the air. Elm kept his horsehair charm woven tightly around his wrist and Ione hers on its mended chain around her neck.
They rolled, caged in each other’s arms. Elm pinned her to the ground and put a knee between her legs, guiding them open, whispering words of adoration into her mouth, words like warm and divine and I can’t fucking breathe when you look at me, Ione.
Ione’s hand slid under his tunic and up his back, pressing into the lean muscles along his spine and shoulders—the places he’d taken beatings as a boy. When she freed him from his tunic, her eyes traveled over his bare chest, studying its contours. Fingers wove into his mess of auburn hair. Her voice was hushed, coated in awe. “You’re beautiful.”
“No. That word is only for you.” Elm leaned back and pulled her onto his lap like he had on the throne. Only now, there was no shadow forged of rowan trees looming over them. There was fresh air, mist. Mourning doves cooed. A gossamer breeze came in waves. It draped itself over Elm, pushing the wild hairs along Ione’s forehead into his face. Everything was gentle, soft.
Delicate.
Elm found the knot at the end of her bodice. There would be no knife. No tearing of fabric. He took his time, his fingers slow as he loosened her laces.
Ione didn’t rush him. She was too busy memorizing his face. Running her fingers over it. Searching, measuring. When her bodice fell, dragging her dress down with it and leaving her bare to the waist, her hazel eyes were still on him.
“The way you’re looking at me,” he said, cupping her chin, “terrifies me.”
“Why?” She ran a hand down his neck, his chest, the line between his abdomen muscles. “Did no one ever love you before, Elm?”
“Not like this.” Closer. He needed her closer. “There’s never been anything like this.”
Elm lay on his back atop his cloak. He dragged Ione’s leggings off and she straddled him, light hovering over her yellow hair. He reveled in how warm she was, how perfect the weight of her was against his body, how delicious it felt when she freed him of his pants.
Her eyes went wide. She dropped her hand—measured him anew. “Elm.”
He hissed through his teeth and pressed a hand over her lips. “Careful what you say. You’ll spend me too soon with that wicked mouth of yours.” He pulled her down, kissed her slowly. “I want this to last, Ione.”
She braced herself on his chest, and when they started, it was agonizingly slow. Elm watched her face, looking for pain, ready to stop the moment he saw any. But Ione eased onto him, hips tilting this way and that, finding her comfort, which became Elm’s comfort, too. Inch by inch, she descended. And every memory of pleasure Elm had ever carried fractured in his mind, replaced by this. By her.
He held her hips. When he arched up into her, Ione sucked in a breath. He froze. “Did that—Are you—”
“You won’t hurt me. There won’t be any pain between us.” She dragged her thumb over his bottom lip. Elm nipped it, and she smiled. “Unless we’re in the mood for it.”
“They’ll be time for all manner of sordid things, Miss Hawthorn. For now, just—” His voice quieted. “Just keep looking at me.”