Fire Kin (13 page)

“You like mysteries too, it seems,” he said.

“In books, they're easily solved. And everything works out well in the end.”

“Some things work out well in life too.”

“Perhaps. But some things don't.” I sipped my tea and sighed with pleasure as the chamomile and mint soothed my nerves.

I settled into one of the big chairs by the fireplace and drank some more, leaving Ash to wander around the room and do what he would.

“If you're going to roam about like that, make yourself useful and bring the pot over here,” I said when I had finished the first cup.

“Nice rooms,” Ash said, obeying. He leaned in, refilled my tea, and then nodded toward the silk hangings in the doorway to the next room. “Is that your bedroom?”

“That isn't information you need to know,” I said with a shake of my head. “Sit and drink your tea. You should be worn out after today as well.”

“No.” But he sat and drank a little before he leaned over, put the cup down, and stood again.

I frowned up at him. “You should be. Why aren't you?”

He shrugged and crossed to the mantel, where candlesticks and pictures and a few other trinkets lined the surface in a messy jumble. “Maybe being back in the Veiled World after so long.”

“Fen calls it power-drunk,” I said. “When Fae get a boost from being back in Summerdale. It wears off quickly enough.”

At least I hoped it would in his case. Ash was reckless enough without the added boost of excess magic running through his veins and making him think he was invincible. Or irresistible.

“Maybe,” he said with a grin. “Maybe I need to work it off.” He quirked an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes.

“The Templars have a training ground,” I said reprovingly. “You could go whack something with your sword.”

“I do not ‘whack things' with my sword,” he said. “Whacking at things with your sword is a good way to end up dead. Sword fighting takes skill.”

“You can go and skillfully wield a sword to your heart's content, then.”

“Ah, but that's not the type of exercise that appeals to me right this minute.”

I ignored the curl of excitement in my stomach. He was flirting. I would be immune. Stone. Not flesh and blood. Not—

“Cat got your tongue?” he said softly.

“If you want a cat, go see Simon and Lily. She has a kitten.”

“I'm not interested in sunmages or wraiths right now either,” Ash said. “Though one day you'll have to explain the wraith to me.”

“Her name is Lily.”

“Lily,” he amended. “But you're trying to change the subject again.”

“That's because the topic you wanted to discuss is of little interest to me.”

“Really?” He came over to my chair, plucked the teacup from my hand, and then, in one swift movement, grasped my wrists and tugged. I came to my feet without meaning to.

Close to him.

Too close.

I could smell him. Still slightly smoky from the explosion, but mostly he smelled like man. Of leather and horses and fresh air and the subtle elusive scent of Ash himself. A Fae scent but something all his own.

A scent that seemed to bypass every last ounce of common sense I possessed and appeal to the primitive part of me that was hungry and demanding and starved for the things he was offering.

The fire that lay beyond the flirting and the charm.

The raw power of him and the pleasure I knew his hands and body could coax from me as easily as lighting a match.

He wasn't the only man I'd taken to my bed and he definitely wasn't the most recent, but he was the one I remembered. The one who floated through the dreams that left me wet and gasping when I awoke, teasing me with wicked kisses and clever fingers before he melted away.

He would melt away again now if I pressed him to go. I knew that. But right here and right now, there was a chance to finally have more than the memory.

To perhaps even drive away forever the ability of that memory to haunt me, with one last taste of the man.

A chance to finish things.

With clear sight and a wiser heart.

Or a chance to make it all worse.

I stared up at him, seeking something in his face that would let me choose one way or the other.

“Whatever you want,” he said, “you can have.”

The simple honesty in those words caught my heart. “And if I want you to leave?”

“I'll go. Or I'll stay. You decide.”

“You and I—”

“Yes?”

“It caused a lot of trouble the last time.”

“It doesn't have to. Things can be simple. It's just you and me, after all. Just us.”

His smile was crooked. I'd never had much resistance to his smile.

“My way. Whatever I want?”

“Your way,” he agreed.

It couldn't be a lie. He couldn't speak a lie. Which meant he at least believed that he would walk away if I asked him to. Maybe he was better at self-deception than I was.

But here he was. After all this time. And I knew I couldn't send him away. Not just yet. “Stay,” I said.

The candles flared to life behind me.

“Show-off,” I said softly.

“I always liked you in candlelight.” Ash studied me for a long, slow moment, heat deepening his eyes to a nameless shade of gray. “I still do.”

“You liked me in any light.”

“True. I still do.”

I drew in a breath, not liking the small happy pang in my heart that leapt to life with his words. “This isn't that,” I said. “You agreed.”

“I did,” he said. “But that would be easier if I could lie.”

“You can't. So don't say anything. Or we'll both regret it.”

“A little regret seems like a small price to pay right now,” Ash said. He stepped closer, touched a finger to my lips.

I closed my eyes, wishing that I could believe that the regret—and the rest of the price—would be small. But I doubted it. I couldn't lie, not even to myself when it came right down to it. I would do this thing and I would take Ash to my bed and let him ease the ache inside me and I would pretend that it meant nothing more.

And I'd hope that the Veil might offer me grace and let me survive him a second time.

I'd almost lost him back in Summerdale. A second or two longer and he might be dead. I might be too. And even though I knew this was a terrible idea, I also knew that I didn't want to go to my grave without knowing his touch again.

I'd denied the memories of him for thirty years. And now I wanted to store up some more against the years to come.

I opened my eyes, met the dark gray gaze watching me with a mix of tenderness and hope and fire that burned me to the ash he was named for.

“Kiss me,” I said simply.

He took his time. Back at my father's house there had been urgency and fire and desperate, dazed chance taking. But now we had time and no particular risk of discovery and there was no need to rush through the moment.

Ash's mouth sank over mine like the brush of velvet wings, tasting me gently, tracing my lips with his as his hands settled around my waist and drew me close with a pressure that asked more than demanded.

I sighed into him and did as he wanted. Did as I wanted. Moved into him until we were thigh to thigh, chest to chest, mouth to mouth. He was taller than me but not by much. I'd always liked that about him, the fit of us when we moved together.

He felt familiar, like an extension of my body. I remembered this. Remembered the hard lines of his muscles and bones and the harder line of his cock standing to greet me as my hips settled into him. Just at the right point to send the heat flaring a little faster through my veins.

But I ignored that pull of wanting, determined, as he was, to enjoy the moment. There had been nights I'd lain awake when he first left, jolted from sleep by the phantom taste of him in my mouth, the ghost of his hands on my body, and the whispered echo of his voice in my ears. I'd cursed him then, cursed my memory and the treachery of a heart and body that couldn't forget, but now, now I remembered as he kissed me. Remembered precisely how it was between us. The reality was so much more than my memories.

“Bryony,” he said softly as he pulled me closer still. His kiss went deeper then, his tongue stroking mine, dragging me deeper into him.

I curled my hands into his hair and let him kiss me, though it was harder now to just stay still and not move against him. His hands grew restless at my waist, fingers tightening, then loosening, his grip moving softly as one hand began to stroke my back, fingers walking up the line of buttons that fastened my dress, as if memorizing their position for later reference.

I hoped he was paying attention.

Lazy as our kisses were, I knew we were approaching the point when they would turn more serious. Where we would catch fire and burn.

I'd always burned for him. From the first time I'd seen him at court, so bright with confidence and power that he drew the eye like a diamond.

I'd never met a man like him before. Not that he was the first man who'd shared my bed, but he was the first one who caught my heart along with my desire and turned it into something more than a shared pleasure.

He made me laugh, my Ash, and laughter was something not in ready supply in my father's house.

Disapproved of.

Much as the way that Ash's hand was stealing to my breast would be disapproved of.

I, however, approved heartily and let him do what he wanted. His lips drifted down my neck, finding every secret nerve along the way and setting them to tingling life.

Fingers over velvet brushed against my breast, against the nipples turned sensitive and wanting.

His hands were warm, hot even. His skin always felt hot against mine, as if he carried the fire he commanded within him. I pulled away, suddenly too warm in my dress.

“Take off your clothes,” I said when he murmured a protest and reached for me.

That earned me a grin and an answering murmur of “whatever my lady desires,” before he stripped off with a speed that made me blink. Maybe living in tents and on horseback had taught him the need for disrobing rapidly, but before I knew it he was naked before me and the sight of him stilled the hands I had reached to the neck of my dress to start on my own buttons.

“Oh,” I said stupidly, drinking in the sight of him.

His body was different now. Harder. Stronger. The lean lines that I remembered were more ruggedly curved, though still sleeker than a human man's. His skin was the same golden brown shade, though, seeming to almost glow in the candlelight, the flickering light lining him in shadows and highlights that painted him into a living statue. A testament to the beauty of our kind.

And then there were the scars. A long curve of silver down his right thigh. Another arc along his ribs and a less elegant ragged circle on his left biceps.

The sight of them angered me.

Someone had hurt him. Could have killed him.

But at the same time, they made him seem even more tantalizing.

He was different now. He knew things I didn't know, had seen things I hadn't seen.

Once upon a time we'd spent every minute possible together and had few secrets. Now we had been apart.

What might he have learned in that time?

What secrets was he hiding?

One of them was the story of the tattoo that splashed across his chest, an elaborate spiraling design that covered the left side of his chest and spiked down and across to curl around the scar on his arms. Bold and black with accents of red and golden brown.

The colors of his house.

The ink matched the jewels glimmering in the ring that hung from the golden chain around his neck. I'd wondered where he'd been hiding his Family ring. He hadn't even worn it to court and I'd seen the quickly hidden flash of uncertainty in his father's eyes when he'd seen his son's naked hands.

For a Fae to hide his Family colors was to proclaim he belonged to no one. But despite Ash's not wearing his ring, here he was with the colors of his house inked into his very skin.

What had he been thinking when he chose that?

Was he defying or trying to remember who he was despite being sent away to fend for himself?

I stepped closer, hand reaching for him. I wanted to touch him, to see if he was changed beneath the outer differences. And if he was, what did that mean?

But Ash caught my wrist before I could reach him.

“Not fair,” he said. “You're still wearing clothes.”

I paused then, drawn back from the startlement of what his nakedness revealed to the reality of what we were doing as just the folding of his palm around my wrist made me want again.

I let my gaze drift lower than it had before. To the part of him that was very much as I remembered. Hard and hungry.

I smiled up at him. “You said my rules, remember?”

“So I did. But there's a lot less fun to be had if I can't get to you.” He leaned in and ran his tongue against the curve where neck met shoulder. My skin quivered.

“Don't you want my hands on you?” he said softly. “I want to touch you. Want to feel you writhe against me. Want your heat. Want to taste you.”

The heat spiraled up and through me then and seemed to dissolve every thought in my head. My head tipped back and he feasted on my neck, raining kisses over my skin that burned like warm honey, then sank into my skin, the heat blooming out and through me from each point his lips touched.

His fingers made short work of the buttons of my dress, and the heavy fabric sank to the floor with little urging from either of us.

Ash swung me up then, lifting me with as little trouble as he wielded a sword, and he carried me over to the bed. I still wore my underwear, but the silk was flimsy and transparent and the next best thing to being naked to his gaze. The heat of his eyes and the look on his face were nearly as potent as the touch of his lips.