Page 12 of A Thousand Burning Ravens (The Queen Who Bleeds Stars #1)
AT FIRST, MYLA thinks it might be the monks praying outside her door when the sound of a boot scuff brings her head from the flat pillow. At the turning of the handle, she sits upright, drawing the heavy linens over her chest. Quietly, the door creaks open, and Myla is grateful for the fox dagger on the bedside table; otherwise, it may be difficult to abide by the monk’s request of no magic within the monastery walls. Alas, with a breath, she relaxes at the sight of Bryar entering, bearing a humble teacup on a chipped saucer.
“It seems all of their cups are chipped,” he whispers with a tired smile, handing her a steaming cup of chamomile. Myla gratefully accepts.
“You have brought me my evening tea,” she acknowledges warmly.
“Well, without Fern. . . someone has to see to it you get a good night’s rest.”
Bryar leans against her hearth momentarily before taking note of the dying flames, which he resuscitates with a few logs and some patient stoking. “No magic, they said,” he mutters. “So, we do it the normal way.”
“You know, most people have to start fires and tend them the normal way,” she teases, savoring a long sip of her warm tea. “We do not all have the gift of fire and constant warmth.”
Bryar smiles briefly at her before checking that the shutters of her window are secure. “This should keep your room warm most of the night. The shutters are locked, and I will stand guard by your door tonight.” Myla nearly sighs in exasperation at this man’s level of commitment.
“You will do no such thing,” Myla argues, standing to place her half-empty cup on the mantle. “You said it yourself: a monastery is the last place anyone will look for pagans like us. You have had a long day, and we make for the Seer in two days. Rest.” Myla pats the bed. “Sit with me for a while, at least.”
Bryar takes a deep breath and absently grinds his jaw, weighing the risks of abandoning his post before looking back at her. “Only for a bit,” he responds, sitting with a sigh.
Hesitantly at first, she moves alongside him and begins working at the fastenings of his armor, helping him shed layer after layer of weight. Exhausted to the core, he sits, allowing her to help. When at last his armor, tunic, and boots are discarded, she moves to the cut on his arm, unwrapping it. In silence, she tends the wound, washing it with clean water from her basin and rewrapping it.
When she finishes and stands back to examine her handiwork, his eyes, rimmed with tears, knock the wind from her. After stripping the hard, cold warrior down to his barest self, nothing remains but a grieving man.
A lump catches in Myla’s throat and she presses a palm gently to his rough cheek, wiping a tear with her thumb. “Bryar,” she whispers, “tell me what you need.”
He says nothing. Instead, she is stunned by the raw vulnerability as his arms wrap around her waist and his head presses against her chest. Though he makes no sound, his shoulders shake with sobs. Myla wraps her arms around his head, holding him close, hoping if she hugs him tight enough, she will hold his broken pieces in place.
“I am so sorry,” she whispers into his hair after a while. “I wish I could take your hurt.”
He pulls back now, looking up at her. “Hurting is what makes us human, Myla. I do not want it taken away; I just do not want the guilt.”
The same guilt she felt earlier . “You have nothing to feel guilty for.”
“Our best friends are likely dead,” he heaves, “and so many men I trained from boys were slaughtered. If I had not walked in . . . I have everything to feel guilty for.”
A stinging sensation forms, and Myla blinks quickly, ridding her eyes of the tears. “I am so sorry.” She chokes on the words, and it is Bryar who now wipes the tears from her cheeks.
“It is not your fault,” he insists adamantly. “We were all just doing our jobs, you included.”
“Doing your job is not supposed to hurt this much,” she answers, cupping his hand against her face and leaning into his touch. “I am so tired of hurting all the time. For once, I want to feel something other than pain.”
His hand lingers, held in place by hers, and the sorrow on his face is replaced by a deeply starved look. Her skin pebbles with exhilaration as his countenance shifts. She is all at once aware of the thinness of her nightgown and the way little is hidden with the glare of the fireplace passing through the thin material. Bryar swallows hard, looking up at her as they are still fixed in what was only moments ago, a comforting hug, but now feels different.
“Take my pain tonight,” she whispers, pressing her forehead against his, “and I shall take yours.”
“Myla.” His brow furrows and she can feel a tremble pass through him as he battles temptation. The following is nearly laughed, “We are in a monastery right now. I bet a year’s wages it is a sin to these people for us to even be alone right now. Not to mention . . .” He clears his throat. “You are nearly naked here in my arms already.”
Unabashed, Myla leans to press parted lips to his neck and whispers, “Then I guess it is a good thing I pay your wages, we do not worship their god, and you have seen me naked before.” Slow and calculated, Myla pushes him flat against the bed and moves on top of him, her thighs pressing on either side of his firm abdomen.
Bryar’s body quivers with desire as her soft lips leave a trail of fire along his neck, and one delicate kiss against his mouth, causing his breath to hitch. His hands, filled with longing, grip her hips, drawing her body flush against his, and the taste of her lingers on his lips as he breathes her name.
“ Myla .”
His hand is firm and possessive on back of her neck, drawing her into a slow, attentive kiss which melts her body against his like warm honey. From the nape of her neck, Bryar’s hand slowly travels down the contour of her back, barely grazing her with the tips of his fingers as he chases the tension of her muscles away.
Her hips sway intentionally now, rolling forwards and back against him until he hardens beneath her. His response is exhilarating and quickens her breath in slight, raspy gasps. What was slow, soft and hesitant turns to fire, sparks kindling into a lapping blaze.
Between breathless kisses and roaming hands exploring the dips and curves of his sculpted body, Myla finds the self-control to pull away from him, her eyes fixated on the green of his. He studies her back, looking deeper than a gaze should allow.
“I have spent five years catching glimpses of you, waiting for a brief smile and thriving off it alone until the next smile or the next word—and they were never enough to heal me,” she whispers, hoping the dead do not hear.
“Heal you?” he asks, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.
“To heal the shattered mess that was made of me when my father told me it could not be you.” Myla leaves no time for a response, silencing whatever he is about to say with a kiss, her tongue moving with his. His body radiates heat, not the natural kind, but the kind that awakens through magic when his body does.
Bryar wraps strong arms around her and in a fluid motion, he sits upright, linking his arms beneath her so he can stand. Stunned, Myla grips his sides with her legs, holding on tightly as he pushes her against the wall with an unintentional thud, then lowers her to her feet.
His mouth finds her neck, then her shoulders where the shift still covers her. He kisses her gently there, then with a nimble flick of his fingers, he nudges the material off, watching, satisfied, as it slips to the floor at her feet.
For a moment he stands back, examining her, his hunter’s eyes expertly taking stock of the ways her body has changed and matured. A hand traces the rise of her collarbone, drifting lower and lower until he cups her breasts, massaging them reverently, causing warmth to pool between her thighs. Myla licks her lips hungrily. Her gaze travels from his chiseled midsection to the taut bulge of his trousers and hunger turns to insatiable starvation.
Sensing her need, his hands stroke lightly up and down her sides, teasing her senses. His magic, simmering now, steams from his body, coating hers in a hot mist, leaving her skin slick and glistening in the firelight.
At last, Bryar’s fingertips find a hold on her hips as he drops to his knees before her. The fluid motion sends flutters of anticipation through her stomach, and she lets her head fall back against the wall, waiting for his kiss there.
His attentions begin against her belly, slow kisses awakening her. Each shift of his hands, holding her in place, stokes a fierce heat in their wake. An intoxicating kind that makes his touches more electrifying, nearly burning her but not quite. Myla tangles slender fingers through his thick mess of curls, urging him lower.
He growls a laugh, looking up at her. “You are not in charge here,” he reminds her, pressing his thumbs to the inside of her thighs, nudging her open. “But I have been a patient man, and I do not want to wait any longer. So, I will oblige.”
It is a gentle kiss at first, slow and tender followed by an expert flick of his tongue against her core, already honeyed with warm arousal. Myla’s head falls back against the wall, her lips parted as he coaxes breathless, desperate moans from her. The stubble on his cheeks grazes the sensitive skin inside her thighs as he drowns in her pleasure.
Myla is on the brink of combusting already when his hand moves upward, his fingers adding to the aching until there is a shock wave of throbbing tight around them. She gasps, one hand bracing her body against the hearth to her left and another knotted in his hair, supporting her trembling thighs.
Bryar leaves her with no time to recover before he stands, a strong arm sliding around her waist and guiding her to the bed. Careful not to create too much noise and alert the pious men just outside the room, they lower themselves into the comfort of the bed. Bryar’s hands waste no time in pulling her close, her red-hot skin coated with sweat from his heat, and that of pure ecstasy.
A soft moan escapes her as she sucks in a needy breath, but he silences her with a firm kiss, his teeth gently bearing into her bottom lip.
Eagerly, she drags her nails down his chest and fumbles with the laces of his trousers, frantic for their union. Myla pushes him to his back, and he concedes control, peering up at her.
“Do you hurt still?” she whispers, taking him in her hand and stroking upwards, and down again until he throbs in her hand, evoking a deep moan from him.
His head falls back, and he nods. “Terribly.”
With a touch as soft as velvet, she repeats the motion, satisfied as he grows even harder. Leaning to press her lips to his, she whispers, “And now?”
“Unbearably,” he growls, nipping at her lips.
Trembling with anticipation, Myla moves forward, aligning her hips with his before slowly lowering herself onto him. The first thrust is deep, and coaxes a unanimous gasp from them both.
“How about now?” she asks finally, an ecstatic smile stretching across her face as he simply responds with another passionate thrust. “Good,” she replies, digging fingers into his chiseled abdomen. “But just to be safe,” her hips roll forward in unison with his in a slow tease, her thighs flexing as she moves up and down around him.
His entire body tenses as he pushes himself into a sitting motion, drawing her against him so his mouth can find hers, then flipping her onto her back so he once again commands the pace and rhythm. There is a harmony their bodies create, moving together in a tangle of touches and kisses, thrusts, and moans. Bryar masterfully evokes gasps and whimpers from her. Myla reaches above, grasping the solid headboard to brace against the force of his body worshiping hers, pushing deeper and deeper inside her with each forward motion, until it is difficult to tell where she ends and he begins.
Sunken gloriously in the pillows and linens of the mattress, Myla digs her teeth into her lip to remain silent. Despite her best efforts to refrain from crying out, begging him to move with her deeper and faster. The throbbing between her legs is euphoric and demands she moan his name. Passion and pleasure lay claim to the bed, like a battlefield where their magic unfurls from their bodies, mingling unbridled. Myla’s light illuminates them and Bryar’s proves the bedding superfluous.
When at last, like a thunderous roll, pleasure at her core spills, and the earth itself ceases to spin on its axis, Bryar is forced to press a hand gently over her mouth, hushing her. An endeavor that proves futile as he reaches his own release and his body shudders while her name falls from his lips reverently.
Myla doubts they will have a place to sleep tomorrow night if they were half as loud as she suspects.
He does not remove himself at once, instead, panting and both coated with sweat from the warmth of his magic, slow kisses stoke the flame.
“Do you think they will forgive us if we repent in the morning?” Bryar asks once their breathing has steadied. His question is met with small giggles.
Elsewhere in the monastery, a humble row of monks is knelt heads bowed, praying with sanctimonious dedication, none the wiser to the religious experience taking place in the room above their heads.
Myla teeters on the edge of sleep, resisting the call only to bathe in the feeling of Bryar’s hands absently gliding up and down the side of her naked body.
Silently, Bryar draws designs across her skin the way he used to when they were younger. Myla presses a light finger against his temple. “Will you tell me what you are thinking?”
He rolls to face her head-on, the glint of the fire creating sharp lines across his disciplined body. “You said you broke when your father said it could not be me. Do you mean you asked him?”
She nods slowly, lowering her head into the crook of his neck. “Yes, I did.”
“You asked your father if you could forgo a marriage to the king for . . . someone untitled?” There is a glint of humor in his voice.
“When he told me I was to marry Caius, I cried. You know I do not do that much, so father was suspicious. I am afraid he dragged the truth from me. I never told him it was you, but he knew there was someone.”
Bryar stiffens. “How much of the truth did you tell him?”
Myla tilts her head upward to land a quick kiss before answering. “I left the more delicate details to my mother, who had to ensure negotiations did not include checking my virginal state. I cried myself sick for two weeks. And when the wedding day arrived, I cried once more, then never again.”
His arms tighten in a comforting embrace. “I could not tell by looking at you. You were very . . . stoic from the wedding on.”
Silence follows as Myla considers admitting stoicism had nothing to do with it; it was a matter of survival. “Caius knew about it all, you know.”
“About me?”
“Not you specifically. I did not want to risk him reassigning you, or worse. But there were times we would drink too much and tell each other things we never would when we were sober. I learned those were the times it was safe to tell him that my heart missed another. He did not seem to mind.”
Perhaps because she was merely a means to an end for him. Her heart did not matter at all.
Bryar strokes strands of her hair down her back, watching her lips move as she speaks. It is clear he tries to work that out in his own mind, wrestling with something deeper. “What an odd arrangement you had with him,” he says finally. “I never would have guessed he was the kind of man you could admit that to.”
“It was not love, that was for sure,” she answers, barely loud enough for him to hear, afraid the Gods might strike her dead for her ungratefulness. “Friendship maybe, honesty, yes. But I never loved him.” Myla rationalizes all of the things she wishes she could say, but is too scared to admit, hoping if she gives them an explanation, they will not hurt so badly.
Bryar is silent before speaking again, his words calculated and carefully chosen. “I was supposed to stand guard beside your chamber the night of the wedding, during the consummation viewing.”
Myla gasps, sitting upright. “You were not!”
“I did not ,” he clarifies. “I was drunk in the cellars and ended up being on squire training for a month as punishment.” His eyes travel past her collarbone to her exposed breasts and, before speaking again, he reaches out to draw her closer. “Never mind any of that. I am in pain again and need my cure.”