Then Ban sat up, carrying Elia with him.
Her legs fumbled to either side of his lap; she gasped at the feel of him, his skin, his strong thighs, his belly, the rough hair and flesh rubbing against her. Elia clung to him from inches away. Their noses nearly touched, and she could hardly look into his eyes for being so close.
“Elia,” he said, and she felt his voice in every part of her: her name in his mouth raised the hairs all over her body, made her neck and arms and breasts shiver, her toes flex.
“Ban.”
“Stop” was his next word, and Elia felt that, too.
She jerked. “I don’t want to stop,” she whispered. “I want this—you—I want all of it, and I know it’s dangerous, and I don’t know how exactly…” she shifted her hips forward, because maybe she did know how.
Ban pushed her farther away. “You don’t know this is what you want.”
“I do, though.” Elia smiled.
This huge feeling was not grief or fury; it was warm, it enveloped her whole being. She did not want to diffuse it or let it go, but to instead let it overwhelm her. “I do know, as sure as I know anything. I want you, and this.”
“It isn’t what I want.” His voice was scorching.
Elia froze, and so did the world. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to pause in its licking. In the next moment Elia climbed away from Ban Errigal. Her chest ached; she pressed a hand to her stomach against a blossoming nausea.
“Wait,” he said.
There was no place for her to go. Elia stood still and held herself with her back to him, her mind empty because she refused all thoughts. Ban quickly rustled about, and then appeared wearing his damp, muddy pants to face her.
Because she was the daughter of a king, Elia Lear kept her chin high and met Ban Errigal’s wretched, burning gaze.
He said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I meant … El—Elia—I mean I don’t…” He shook his head, his mouth turned into pain and sorrow. “You kissed me, and we almost … I’ve never wanted that, except with you. But I do. Want you. I want—I just want something for myself. Free of consequences. You.”
“Yes,” she whispered. She wanted it too: no plans, no future, no consequences.
“But I can’t. I know what kind of creature a bed like that makes.”
“Creature?” she said, her voice high as a sparrow’s. “You’re not the sum of your birth and stars.”
“You don’t know what I am, what I’ve done.”
Rory Errigal’s image appeared in her mind, as did that of Morimaros, Aefa, and the soldiers she’d seen in Aremoria, the world beyond this bed, beyond Hartfare and Innis Lear. She did know much of what he had done, and she wanted him. She knew what he was, and it was enough. She reached for him.
He let her touch his face, even brought his hands up over hers.
“Do you hate me for being my father’s daughter?” she asked softly.
“I could never hate you,” Ban said, and his entire body shivered.
He kissed her gently, slow as a sunrise, and trembling. She felt tears slide under her fingers where she held his face. And then he pulled roughly away, a curse harsh on his tongue. He scrubbed at his eyes. A scratch on his forearm glinted red with fresh blood.
“Ban, I know what you’ve done. I know what you are. And I do not hate it.”
“I am what I made myself,” he said.
Elia’s cheeks remained hot, her body too aware of him; she was flooded with embarrassment and desire still, and most of all, joy. Elia wanted to make Ban feel better, be better. She wanted him to see what she saw, but she didn’t know how.
Grief or rage or love: why did Elia never have the right words to speak?
A queen would have them.
So that was what she decided to say.
“Everyone wants different things from me, and it is never enough: my father wants that I be a star, only his, and not even my own; my sisters require that I submit to them, or to never have existed at all; Morimaros wishes that I be his queen; and Brona and Kayo want that, too, but for them! Even Aefa wants me to rule, if it makes me safe. You’re the only one who ever asked me to be something for myself. And there is a chaotic web of danger all around us—war and spies, dukes and kings, and even just this storm, this breaking island—and I don’t know how to make any of it better. I just know that I want to. I want to make Innis Lear strong, to help the land revive and the rootwaters clear, and I want you to kiss me again, and always.”
“Why?” His voice cracked.
“Because I…” Her shoulders lifted; her voice drained away. “Because this is the only way I know what to say to you. We’ve never needed words.”
“I think you’re so beautiful, Elia, it hurts me sometimes.”
It hurt her, too, the hearing of it. Morimaros had said she was beautiful, gently convincing. This was so different. With Ban it was a struggle. It was selfish to take and take.
Elia closed her mouth, stopped trying to speak. Instead, she pulled Ban back to the low bed. She sat on it, her head level with his waist, and untied his pants again. He held still, the long line of his muscled belly trembling, hands frozen at his sides. Elia focused on the work, and when the laces were free, she grasped the band of the pants and gently tugged them down over his hips. Her eyes flicked to his because she couldn’t quite look at the rest of him.
Ban’s lips parted. “Elia,” he breathed.
“We’re in the heart of the White Forest. Whatever we need, Brona can help with.”
“She’s not perfect with prevention,” he said bitterly. “She had me.”
Wrinkling her nose, Elia said, “Because she wanted you, Ban! And I want you, too. I always, always have.”
His shoulders hitched as his breath went ragged, and Elia leaned back onto the bed, pulling the long shirt up her thighs, holding his gaze. All her skin was tight, and tingled: her lips, her nipples, the small of her back, and the damp well of her body, aching.
“Ban,” she said.
He gave in, kneeling on the edge of the bed. Elia reached for him, and Ban bent over her. They scooted together, and Elia spread her thighs, pulling up the shirt to get it off herself. She had to wiggle where it stuck under her back, twisting her arms until it slipped up over her head, dragging at her hair. Ban did not help at all, propped over her on hands and knees. His breath was hot, skimming around her breasts and along her ribs.
In the dim orange firelight, Elia shivered. She touched Ban’s chest: scars pale against his skin, some random, others in obvious designs of the language of trees. One of them spelled out his name, and Elia leaned up to kiss it, put her tongue there, making Ban groan.
He hardly moved, letting Elia do what she would, still hanging over her, every part of him awake and hot with desire.
She recalled Aefa’s specific instructions: Whatever else you do, make sure you’re damp enough, if not from exertion and lust, then spit or grease or something, don’t forget that, especially your first time. Try to relax! Not your strong suit, I know. I hope you’ll have some wine.
Oh, stars, and her friend was only a cottage away.
Elia smiled suddenly. Ban did not smile back, but something in his eyes brightened.
She touched her belly, and then petted the wild hair at the top of her thighs, at the crest between them, and slipped her fingers between the folds, showing him. “Ban,” she whispered, using her other hand to caress his chin, nudging his face down so he would look.
With a little gasp, his entire body shuddered and he put his hand over hers, between them. At the first touch of his finger against her unbearably tender flesh, Elia whimpered, her hips lifting off the mattress. “Ban,” she said again. More urgently, louder.
He shifted, panting, and carefully, shivering, they moved together, focused so precisely either would have been embarrassed to realize. Elia put her hands against his ribs, widened her hips, and whispered his name in the language of trees.