Beauty [A Faery Story 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (18 page)

Shim closed his eyes, trying to push Bron’s panic aside. He felt the fire in the Harper’s hearth. The power rushed along his skin. That fire led to another, a stronger fire, a bonfire somewhere along the road. It was all connected, a line of flame and heat that bounced to another. Each one he grabbed hold of flared, possibly sending the Fae who sat around it reeling back a bit, but Shim kept control. The fire didn’t bloom out, burning anyone. He could do this.

Lead me to her.

He breathed deeply, the smell of flames and smoldering embers filling his every sense. This was his home, given to him the day he’d bonded with his mate, connecting him to the other half of his soul.

“So many dead,” his brother whispered.

Lach’s power was a cold chill that ran up Shim’s spine. His brother was so strong, but he feared his gifts. “Yes, so many dead who can lead the way to Bronwyn. Don’t stop.”

“I have her.” Lach opened his mind and, sure enough, Shim felt her. The connection was right there, stronger than ever.

Shim grabbed it, letting go of his own hunt, the fires dying down for now. “Hold the connection, Lach. Can you do it?”

Lach’s voice was firm and in control. “I have it. She’s in a jail. There’s a cemetery a short distance from it, but the place is coated in death. It’s easy, Shim. I can see her. Gods, I can feel how scared she is. She’s going to try something foolish.”

“Stop,
a stoirin
.” Shim put a wealth of power behind the word. He shoved every dominant trait he possessed into that one word, sending it over the line that ran from him to Lach to Bronwyn.

Nothing.

“She can’t hear,” Lach said. “But I think she can feel. I clenched my fists and she clenched hers almost like she was answering me. Shim, she’s trying to work the lock open. I think there’s a guard right outside her door. They’ll kill her, or we could lose her. She could run and we wouldn’t be able to find her. The war is about to start.”

Shim knew all the ways this could quickly go very, very badly. “We have to calm her down.”

She wasn’t listening, or talking didn’t work the way they thought it did. This connection was new to them. To be able to communicate when they were all conscious was brand-new territory. But if she could feel, then Shim knew what to do.

“Hold the connection, brother,” he said to his other half. “I know just how to turn our little mate’s mind to something that won’t get her killed.”

* * * *

Bronwyn stopped. She shuddered, the cold threatening to overtake her. They hadn’t even left a blanket in the cold, dank cell they’d tossed her into. There was nothing but a cot and a bucket. She didn’t like to think about what the bucket was for.

Her head ached. She wondered if Ove was even alive.

She had to get out of here. She had to. If she stayed the night, they would execute her in the morning.

Goddess, what had she done? She’d felt the heat in her hands, rolling up from her soul. She’d called it. It had been hers to command. Little Ove had been lying on the ground, her fragile body seconds from being kicked apart by brutal feet. She hadn’t thought. She’d acted and the world around her had gone up in flames. It had been natural. She hadn’t feared the fire.

But she was afraid of the cold she felt now.

She had to ignore it. She was scared. Sure she was. She was locked in a prison. She had every right to be scared. Her head throbbed. What had happened? She remembered everything up to the fire coursing through her veins. She was a pyromancer. It was the only explanation. She needed to come to terms with it. It could help her enormously.

She was done. Watching sweet little Ove lie there in the dirt had crystalized her resolve. She needed to stop hiding. One way or another, she was going to be Bronwyn again. In life. In death. If Torin was looking for her, maybe it was time to make herself available to the rebels. Gillian was wrong. Her only job wasn’t to stay alive. Her job was to fight.

She looked around her small cell. They hadn’t placed her in the jail, but in the private cell of the sheriff’s office. A thick oak door with a small rectangular hole stood in the way of her and freedom. She had to get out. Staring at the door, she tried to call the fire forth.

Nothing.

Her palms were cold, not hot. And she could feel them flexing almost as though they weren’t her own. Her hands clenched of their own volition. And yet there was something about it that felt almost soothing, like a hand reached out to embrace her own.

She ignored it. She was alone. No one had hugged her or touched her in years. Gillian would pat her hand or her back. Ove hugged her, but it was for the little brownie’s comfort. It had been thirteen years since she’d really felt compassionate hands on her body.

Except in her dreams. But she wasn’t dreaming now.

She got to her knees in front of the door, trying to peer out the keyhole. She could fashion a lockpick. She’d been taught by the best thieves. She simply needed two pieces of flexible but strong material. Her hands felt around the material of her dress. There was a pin that held her neat apron to the tunic. It would do. She pulled it out. Flexible and easy to work with. She could scrape the pins of the lock with it. Now she needed something more solid to hold the lock in place.

Sweet heat invaded her veins.

Bronwyn.

Her name rumbled along her skin. A dark, sensual masculine tone echoed in her brain. It said her name over and over. It wasn’t an unpleasant thing meant to draw her attention, more like a monk whispering a prayer over and over.

Except the low feeling in her womb didn’t remind her of any religion.

She struggled to breathe. Her pussy was warm. Except it wasn’t a pussy.

Bronwyn sighed and closed her eyes. What the hell was happening to her? A cock. She could feel a cock as though she had one herself. It was a wonderful thing to have a cock. A cock was the center of the whole world.

Bron felt her head roll back, her focus scatter. She couldn’t concentrate on the door. How could she think about anything but the warm feeling in the center of her body. Stumbling back, she held her hands out, trying to find that cot. Her feet felt dumb, her whole body being taken over by sensation.

What in all the planes was happening to her?

Calm down, love. Let it happen.

The words flowed over her. She knew that voice. It was the voice of her Dark Ones. They often spoke as one, their tone flowing in and out. She knew it well. Tears pricked her eyes. She was still asleep. She was dreaming. The whole incident with Ove had been naught but a terrible nightmare. It was still the night before the festival, and she had time.

She fell back on the mattress, worrying because this bed wasn’t hers. It was hard and unyielding, made of wool. Her sheets were of a soft cotton. They had brought them when they left the last province, she and Gillian. Those sheets had been easy to slip into their packs. A reminder of the home they had enjoyed for a few years.

So many “homes.”

She gasped. A hand circled her dream cock. Tight, strong fingers tightened around masculine flesh. No wonder men became obsessed with such a thing. She felt lit from the inside out. That hand laid a light touch along her cock. Her cock? What sort of dream was this?

The kind that keeps you out of trouble
.

That voice echoed through her head like a shout from the wrong end of a long tunnel. She tried to call back, but was robbed of her breath as that dream hand grasped her cock and began to squeeze with light pressure.

She fell back on the cot, not giving a damn about the scratchy wool on her back. It could be pine needles for all she cared. This feeling was glorious.

Yes, love, give in. Let us help. Let us find you
.

Her ears only caught a part of what her dream voice said, but the sensation ruled her core. She felt her cock and balls, both so, so sensitive. Her balls were tight against her body. They always were when she was around. They drew up at the very thought of being close to her. She was beautiful. So fucking gorgeous. They didn’t need to truly see her. They knew what she was because their souls had meshed. They had mingled in dreams since childhood. A lovely tangling of their bodies was a simple next step.

She felt the moon on her face, the light a gentle slash across her eyes. Were they feeling the same moon on their faces?

She groaned, the sound masculine and deep to her ears. She wasn’t hearing her own voice. She was hearing his.

Shim, love. My name is Shim
.

She fell back against the cot. Shim. Was that his name? Her Dark One? This connection felt different. There had always been a gauzy, dreamy quality to the connection before, but this felt so real. His voice wavered a bit, but there was a solidness to it that had never been there before.

Bronwyn. My name is Bronwyn
.

There was a low chuckle. She could feel its warmth like he was beside her and his breath could heat her skin.
Yes, love. You’re…Always known
.

She wanted to hear him, everything he said, but there was a maddening disconnect. And then she felt a surge of arousal. It took her breath away. What was he doing?

She needed to get up. She needed to get away, but he called to her. Perhaps she was still dreaming. Yes. She was dreaming, and this was her precious time. She wasn’t about to waste it with plotting and planning that wouldn’t come to fruition. Bron took a long breath and mentally reached for Shim. Shim. She loved his name. For so long she’d dreamed of him and his twin, but they had no names. Shim. It made him seem real.

And Shim was a dirty boy.

I want to touch…breasts. Touch…

How could she even think when his hand kept stroking his cock? A cock was a marvelous thing. Long and thick, it was like a lightning rod that attracted pleasure. Shim’s heartbeat was steady and strong, his hand moving up and down. An image struck her, slamming into her head with gentle force.

He wanted to spread her legs. He wanted to take that cock and enter her body, joining them together.

They would be naked, not a stitch between them, only warm flesh that fit together perfectly. He would cover her, his chest to her breast, bellies rubbing, legs entangled. Even their toes would kiss. His mouth would sink onto hers, his tongue fusing them together as his cock laid claim.

Her whole body relaxed.

Touch…

He wanted her to touch herself. Her breasts. She put her hand to her breast, his satisfaction pulsing across their connection. He wanted to hold her breasts in his hands, cupping them, playing with the nipples.

It wasn’t enough. Without opening her eyes, she undid the buttons on her bodice, the cool air caressing her breasts. Her nipples tightened.

Ours
.

She pushed the sides of her bodice away, cupping her own breasts. She didn’t feel her hands. She felt big, masculine hands on her body. She pinched her nipples, the image of what Shim wanted playing in her brain. He wanted to own her nipples. He wanted to roll them in his fingers, dress them up with jewels.

She pulled at her nipples, feeling the heat of his mouth. This was what he wanted. Shim wanted to suck her nipples. He would start with little kisses, like pixie wings on her skin. He would cover her flesh with soft kisses, and then she would feel the long slow lick of his tongue.

Yes, love…what I want…

She sent the image out. She wanted it, too. She wanted his mouth on her, devouring her like a treat after a hard day’s work. His tongue flicked around her nipple, making it a hard nub. It stood straight up, pointing to his mouth, begging for more.

The rough edge of his teeth dragged along her nipple. It was a wickedly decadent feeling, running just the right side of pain. He bit at her nipple and then sucked it into his mouth with lavish affection.

It felt so good. The sensation raced from her nipples to deep in her pussy where an ache had begun.

And all the while she felt the tug on his cock, his strong hand running the length. There was a wetness at the tip. His seed. That’s what the women called it.

Cum, love. That’s…cum.

Cum. The head of his cock was covered in a light coating of cum. It eased the way of his hand to stroke from bulb to base and back in an easy, slow motion. He loved this. He did this often, and when he did, he thought of her. When he stroked his own cock, it was always with her pussy in mind. He would close his eyes and see her, as she was in their dreams. She would be over him, her breasts bouncing as she rode him like a horse. She would be under him, covered by his body, open to him. She would be tied up and awaiting his pleasure, her ass in the air.

Such images assaulted her, making her gasp at the sheer eroticism that played through his mind. He’d thought up a thousand scenarios, a thousand ways to have her. It was his pastime—dreaming of ways to fuck her.

He had so many plans. He would dominate her. He would take care of her. He would fuck her over and over and over until she could always feel him inside her. Until he could be a thousand miles away and still feel his cock in her pussy.

He was hot. So hot. His touch sparked across her skin, little flames licking at her.