Page 26 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Chapter Seventeen

B efore returning to our bower, I take Gwendolyn to what has become my favorite haunt—the bathhouse, modeled after the one in Trevena.

“So it seems…you spoke true,” she says, her smile sly, her memory keen. She is thinking, I know, of the night we reclaimed Trevena from Locrinus and his brothers, and of the boast I made in the water screw.

I say nothing, only grin.

The water here, warm, infused with lavender and cedar, courses through a series of pools at different levels, each spilling into the next, the sound a soothing river song that fills the air with peace.

Steam coils up, clinging to the stone walls, beading on our skin, turning the world soft and dreamlike.

Like our bower, this chamber is not a fantastical creation of Arachne’s, but a sacred place, a temple to love and beauty, crafted with such precision and artistry that it felt like a living, breathing entity.

The rippling pools, illuminated by soft torchlight, cast shadows against the walls and creating a mesmerizing display.

As is proper, I undress, then bathe her, restraining my ardor with a king’s discipline, serving my queen with the reverence she deserves—even as the urge to seize her, and press her body to mine, pulls at my cock.

The ache builds, exquisite and maddening, but I savor it, relishing the feel of her skin beneath my hands as I trace the elegant lines of her shoulders and back with the soapy cloth.

We have waited twenty-two years.

What is a handful of moments more?

The thought of taking her is a devil at my ear, whispering, tempting, but I hold fast. The gravity of this reunion demands more than haste—it demands ceremony, and the honoring of a bond once sundered by fate and time.

The water enfolds us; the lavender sinking deep, unwinding the knots of our separation layer by layer.

Her skin, nearly pearlescent in the mist, gleams beneath the gentle light, and I make a ritual of bathing her, a rite of renewal, as though by cleansing her flesh I may also wash away the years lost. This act, despite its intimacy, is far less about carnal desire and more a ritual of renewal, symbolizing her rebirth into our world.

Her sighs blend with the burble of the watercourse, and when she leans back against me, head pillowed on my shoulder, eyes closed, I feel the world narrow to the heat and scent and sound of her, my heart thumping wildly.

The steam dances around us, cloaking us in a private world that hums with the promise of all the moments we’ve yet to share

“I’ve dreamt of this so long,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible above the lapping water.

“As have I,” I answer, my words nearly lost in the hush.

Every sweep of the cloth is an attempt to erase the scars of our past, to offer her back to herself, whole and restored.

When the bathing is done, I dry her with care—every inch of her, slowly and deliberately—then wrap her in a new robe, soft as down, and guide her through the corridors at a pace that belies the beast stirring beneath my robe.

Denied too long. There has never been another for me, but her.

At the door to our chambers, the heavy oak swings open with the barest push, and torchlight spills across the threshold, warm and golden. I have forbidden the Faerie Flames from entering this chamber tonight. No Esme, no Púca—only us, as it should be.

Within, every detail proclaims that this should be her sanctuary, prepared with a meticulousness bordering on obsession.

The door closes behind us with a gentle click, sealing us in, and for a long moment, neither of us speaks, the silence becoming a living thing, charged with all that has gone unsaid so long.

Her eyes—blue-gray, and sharp as a blade—are almost too much to bear. Every time I look into them, I am reminded how easily the fate of my kingdom, and the fate of my soul, pivots on the edge of her regard.

“Now, where were we?” I ask, my voice roughened by want.

Her chin lifts—a challenge, shattering any illusion of weakness.

She has always been proud, stubborn, indomitable.

This is what I love most: not her beauty, nor her power, but her refusal to break, save for the sake of others.

“What should I call you now?” I ask, marveling at the transformation wrought in her.

She is Curcog, but not Curcog—her eyes, her smile, but also something new, something born of pain and time and change.

She breathes softly, not meeting my gaze at first, nervous perhaps, but not meek. “What did you call me then?”

“Lover,” I growl, my need for her as plain as my fangs, which ache for her essence.

With a wolf’s hunger, I press her to the wall, one hand at her hip, the other at her jaw, forcing her to meet my gaze. Her eyes—stormy, desperate—lock with mine, so raw I fear the world might shatter under the weight of it.

Gods. I can never tell if it is the mortal in her—the suffering, the endurance, the years spent holding the world together with nothing but grit—or the immortal, my immortal, whose need burns white-hot in these stolen moments.

All the memories between us congeal: the aching absences, the fleeting touches, the agony of never enough.

For too long I have waited.

Too long.

Still, I hold myself in check as her hand splays between us, breathless.

The lump in my throat is a stone.

How many nights have I lain awake, longing for this moment? How many times have I conjured her voice, her touch, only to wake to cold, empty sheets and the shameful solace of my fist? Bringing myself to a completion that never satisfied—never truly, not without her.

My hands ache to touch her, to test her wetness and prove she is real. I grin. “So here we are at last.”

She nods, her smile lovely and a touch defiant. “Against all odds.”

“Indeed,” I whisper, pride swelling in my chest.

This is the creature I would die for, a thousand times over.

“I am glad I did not know what Esme planned,” I confess. “I wouldn’t have let you leave.”

A beat of silence.

She shrugs. “I am glad I went.”

“No regrets?”

Gwendolyn shakes her golden head, and the sight of it—her hair, her certainty—stirs my cock to pain. For so long, even the thought of her lips on mine, her body beneath me, was enough to torment me beyond reason.

“No regrets,” she whispers, the words a promise, a dare. Her hand slips lower, finds my shaft, and the hunger in her palm is equal to my own.

“Whatever comes,” she says, “we will face it together.”

I nod. “Together,” I echo, and drink her in, in no hurry to claim what I know she will give. Why rush when I never want this to end?

She takes my hand, leads me to the bed, her gaze never leaving mine.

The light—strange and spectral—limns her hair in a halo.

She is as changed as she is unchanged, and it delights me beyond all reason. I came to know and love the mortal as much as I did her counterpart.

Her hair falls into her face, and I brush it back, exposing the stubborn set of her jaw and the tremor at the edge of her lips. I want to devour that tremor, taste it, but I linger, worshipping the shape of her shoulders, the hollow of her throat, memorizing every curve anew.

She lies back, watching me, a smile turning her lips. She knows the effect she has, her eyes alive with triumph and mischief and hunger. She moves with the surety of a woman who has commanded armies, but she yields to me now, inviting me to worship at her altar.

And I do.

With infinite care, I stretch beside her, tracing the hollow above her collarbone. She shudders, exhaling a ragged breath, and my body grows harder, straining for her—no, for us. For this is not merely a union, but a reunion: her body, mine, and mine, hers.

“I've missed this... and you... so much.”

It’s impossible to say which of us has spoken, so complete is our accord.

Her hand covers mine, pressing it to her cheek, and the gesture is more eloquent than any vow. My heart hammers, overwhelmed by the force of what I feel. “We're here now,” she says. “Together. And nothing will part us again.”

The fire in her voice ignites something feral within me.

With a growl, I roll atop her, pressing her body beneath mine.

She melts into me, arms tight around my neck, clinging with desperation to match my own.

I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply—her scent, lavender and spices, is a balm.

My fingers tangle in her hair, anchoring me to this moment, this reality where she is finally, truly mine again.

“My love,” I whisper against her lips, feeling her shiver.

Her fingers dig into my shoulders. “My king,” she breathes. “My home.”

And for a time, we simply lie together, lost in the sanctuary of our embrace, my mind racing with memories—our first meeting in Aengus’ court, stolen moments in moonlit gardens, the agony of our first parting.

Every trial, every heartache, has led us here.

Slowly, I pull back to search her eyes. “I swear to you, Gwendolyn—no force in this world or any other will part us again. And…there is a ritual,” I add, voice low.

“It binds two souls, intertwining our essences beyond any carnal act.” My thumb traces her cheek as I speak, each circle sending a tremor through her.

“Tell me more…” Her gaze never wavers.

“Through this, we share not only our lives, but our very beings. Our strengths, our weaknesses, our magic—we are one.”

She laughs, bright and wicked. “Even our bodies?”

I laugh too, the sound raw. “No. Thank the gods.”

The laughter fades, and the silence that follows is thick with anticipation. I take her face in my hands, thumb caressing her cheekbone, and she leans into my touch. “Yes,” she whispers, squeezing my hand. “A thousand times, yes…”