Page 8

Seven

Rhoswyn

“ T his is all very rushed,” Kitarni mumbles, as she lights the incense burners in the temple ante-chamber. “Goddess, Rose, are you sure?”

I look down at my lap, adjusting the loose robe to cover my bare thigh. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I’ve wanted this for so long, and we’re doing it today.”

It’s been a week since Caed woke up, and while I recognise the logic in allowing him to recover from the nathair’s bite and preparing for war, it still feels like too long.

I want to be mated to them. I want my brother out of Elatha’s clutches. He’s been a prisoner for two weeks, and I’ve seen what that’s like.

Mating them is the final step in my insane plan. After this, all that’s left to do is unleash Caed and wait for his orders to compel him to take me again.

The dryad pauses, straightening her robes as she shoots me a knowing smile. “Good. I’d hoped you’d find your confidence while I was gone. Now, do you know what the ritual entails?”

She lowers herself to her knees, so that she’s on the opposite side of the low table in front of me, then begins to mix the sacred oils in a marble bowl.

I take a deep breath. “Yes. Though I wish I could wear clothes.”

It’s fractionally warmer inside the temple, but not by much. The thin robe I’m wearing isn’t helping, and even that will be taken from me soon.

Aside from Drystan’s necklace and Lore’s cap on my head, I’ll be completely nude for the ceremony. The tradition symbolises coming together without barriers or artifice. It also means that my mates will be able to choose exactly where they want to mark me. My fingers trace over the juncture between my neck and shoulder, remembering Jaro’s promise.

What will his mark look like? Butterflies erupt in my stomach all over again picturing it.

“It’s not for long,” Kitarni says, still focused on mixing the ingredients.

“I just hope the minor royals don’t complain that they weren’t invited.”

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want any of them here for this, but I’d rather not start another war.

“Some nobles will grumble, but this is far from unheard of.” The dryad puts down one bottle, then selects another. “Many mates complete the bond in the heat of the moment and then come to the temple for Danu’s blessing.”

“Jaro seemed the most upset that I might be missing out on a big ceremony.”

“Of course,” Kitarni says, adding herbs to the bowl next. “His wolf probably wants the entire realm to witness his claim.” She pauses, cocking her head to the side thoughtfully. “Not unlike redcaps, I suppose. Though, their public claiming is slightly more extreme.”

My mouth turns dry, and my lower belly clenches at the thought of Lore’s idea of a public claiming, but I say nothing. My nerves are high enough as it is without trying to pin down my feelings about that.

At least, the heavy, herbal scent of the incense does take the edge off.

An attendant knocks at the door, and Kitarni abandons her task to answer it. I can’t pay attention to their murmured conversation, because I’m too busy watching the scented oils and herbs swirl in the bowl before me.

Kitarni returns a second later, smiling. “They’re ready for you, but they can wait. Your dust, if you please?”

I nod, reaching back to my wings and collecting the violet sparkles in the palm of my hand before letting them fall lazily into the bowl.

Kitarni closes her eyes, holding her hands over the mixture as she whispers a blessing. When that’s done, she takes a small fat brush from beside it and carries both around to my side of the table.

“Lie down,” she instructs. “And remove your robe.”

Somewhere in the temple, the chimes seem to ring a little louder, adding to the incense and the sense of ritual, of purpose, which underlies everything.

My robe flutters to the ground, leaving me exposed, and I lie back, allowing the Dryad to crouch by my feet.

“Goddess bless your feet, that you may walk her sacred path together with your mates,” she begins, swiping the brush over the soles of my feet in a ticklish stroke that wiggles from my heels to my toes.

The brush dances across my shins, retreating to gather more oil before painting spirals over my kneecaps. The mixture seems to heat wherever it lands as Kitarni swirls patterns up my legs.

“Goddess bless your womb, that together you may share the mysteries of life and pleasure.”

She swirls and dips it against my navel, tracing a path up my belly and over both breasts.

“Goddess bless your heart, that you may treasure your bonds above all else.” Another swish across my sternum, the brush heading for my collarbone and down one arm, then the next. The bristles trace lulling circles over my open palms. “Goddess bless your hands, that they may hold your mates with care.”

Kitarni moves so she’s kneeling above my head. The brush returns briefly to the bowl, collecting the shimmery paste and then returning to land on my face this time. “Goddess bless your lips, that you may speak gently to one another.”

This close to my nose, the herbs are all I can smell. The scent is close to rosemary, but sweeter with a bitter undercurrent I can’t name.

“Goddess bless your ears, that you may truly listen and seek to understand each other when faced with discord. Goddess bless your eyes, that you may always see a way forward together, even in dark places.”

She has to dodge the band of Lore’s cap as she traces the final spiral across my forehead, but once she’s done, I’m tingling from head to toe.

“Goddess bless your mind, that you may enter into this joining with clarity and pure intent.”

The brush and bowl are discarded, and Kitarni helps me to stand.

“Are you mating these males of your own free will?” the dryad asks, her dry, bark-covered fingers firmly clasping mine.

“Yes,” I whisper, unwilling to speak too loud and break whatever spell the blessing has woven over me.

The dryad beams. “Come on, then. It’s time.”

To say that it feels odd to walk into the main temple in little more than a floaty lace robe is an understatement. It’s even weirder to let it fall away at the door. I suppose it’s a measure of how far I’ve come since I stepped foot in Faerie that I don’t fidget or attempt to cover myself as we approach the rounded stone altar.

Danu is silent in my chest, and my guides are completely absent.

There’s no one here besides Kitarni, my Guard, and me, and I like that more than I thought I would. My heart seems to beat a little faster with every step of my bare feet across the ice, and my wings tremble with nerves.

I can’t even look up, so I trace the frost ferns across the floor with my gaze instead. My breathing is shallow but somehow also deafening.

What if this is the wrong choice? What if I pressured them into it? What if Caed doesn’t want this? I told Jaro to ask—trusting the wolf shifter not to pressure him—but if he goes along with it and then…?

“Rhoswyn,” Kitarni murmurs from beside me. “Look at them.”

Like her permission is all I needed, I glance up.

Silence, pure and complete, pours over my thoughts, like someone came and kidnapped every single wayward doubt, leaving only them .

My Guard is gathered around the altar in the centre of the room, just as naked as me. My eyes meet ones of chestnut brown, amber fire, piercing green, bright scarlet, and finally luminous turquoise, and my shoulders softens as I find absolutely no hesitation in any of them.

The circumstances that led us here are inconsequential.

They want this. I’ve craved it for months. Finally, it’s happening.

Kitarni helps me climb up to lie across the stone, caught in the middle of the five of them. My hands flutter awkwardly, unsure what to do, until the high priestess takes them and folds them gently below my breasts.

This is hardly the first time any of them have seen me like this, but I still feel so exposed. The heat in their gazes helps a little, but this isn’t a physical vulnerability—it’s an emotional one. In a few minutes, our souls will be bared and bound even tighter than they already are. What if they don’t like what they see?

“Kneel,” Kitarni orders. “And recite your Oath.”

They drop as one, and I shiver without their eyes to warm me. A second later, the air heats a little. Drystan’s consideration melts the knot of anxiety balled in my chest.

“My Nicnevin has called, and I answer. I pledge my body, my magic, and my soul to the protection of Danu’s beloved daughter. All that I am is hers. I forsake all others and swear to guard her with my life for as long as she reigns. She is all.”

I’m not crying. It’s just… I’ve never heard the oath in its entirety before, and my chest aches as I realise they had enough faith to swear this all those years ago, even though they knew nothing about who I’d become. Kitarni swipes the tears away discreetly as she kisses my forehead.

“May Danu bless and protect you all.”

She crosses to a low table in the corner, retrieving a tray with five daggers, and then carries it around the altar clockwise, allowing each of my males to take one. There’s a second of tension when Caed accepts his, but he doesn’t make any aggressive moves.

His position on my left gives me a clear view of the tattoo on his arm.

That’s when I see it.

The merest shadow of a stag’s skull in the second frame.

I can’t help the way my jaw goes slack with shock. He notices, and then winks at me.

It’s a tiny, tiny sliver of Drystan’s approval, barely there, but still… When? How? I dart my gaze to my dullahan, but his expression is completely inscrutable. Goddess, we will be talking about this later.

Kitarni bows and backs away, leaving us with the illusion of privacy as they palm the sharp edges of their blades. She’ll stay to witness, then leave once the marks are made.

A slight chuckle draws my attention away from her and down through the valley of my breasts to where Lore is standing at my feet. His hand is already dripping blood on the altar.

I have no idea where he wants to make his mark—I told my mates they could decide amongst themselves—but my only request was that mine would be visible. I blushed when I asked, but the way they reacted told me they didn’t mind at all.

“My blood to your blood; now we are one. Mate to mate. Nicnevin to Guard. What Danu has decreed, none may tear asunder.”

The chant is ancient, simple, and lyrical in the fae language. All six of us echo the words, and I watch as they slice into their skin. Drystan chooses his palm, like Lore, and Caed picks the wrist on his unmarked arm. I expect Jaro, behind me, to do the same, but he holds the blade to his throat and slices across in a neat line from ear to ear, just beneath his beard.

“…blood to your blood…”

I keep chanting, swallowing back my nerves as his fangs lengthen. I look away, not because I’m scared of his wolf, but more because I’m searching for the final, quietest member of my Guard.

Bree is on my right, flicking away the lute tattoo over his heart to make room for the knife before he digs it deeply into his own chest. Blood drips everywhere as they advance on me, and I brace myself, knowing this will hurt.

“…Nicnevin to Guard…”

Jaro’s words are right against my ear. Lore’s hands tracing up my calves. Fingers capture my wrists and spread my arms out.

“Mate to mate.”

The pain, when it comes, is sharp. It radiates out from my inner thigh, my palms, my neck, and my chest.

But, Goddess, it’s nothing .

Insignificant.

Because they’re here with me. Inside me. The Call is magnified a hundredfold until I can feel them with every breath. The chant dies, because none of us can focus on anything beyond the numinous connection taking shape between us.

Jaro’s teeth leave my throat, and the blades are dropped in a symphony of metal hitting ice. I’m pretty sure Caed has collapsed to his knees.

Their skin on mine is no longer just a buzz, but a hundred sparks that light me up from within, illuminating the place where our souls are tethered together. Five impressions of awe float to me, followed by matching echoes of pure devotion that make me weep. The bonds that were separate are almost merged, with only the slimmest of barriers between them, and tentatively I reach out to one of them.

It’s Drystan. I know straight away by the sheer bossiness that radiates from it. But underneath… Goddess, underneath is so much love that it hurts.

I barely have a chance to take that in before a surge of anger hits me. Jaro loses control, leaping over the altar in a flash of fur and fangs.

He barrels straight into Caed, whose frustration, self-loathing, and relief hits me as the room is filled with snarls. My Fomorian must’ve been compelled to use our distraction and his new weapon to fulfil Elatha’s orders, but Jaro’s intervention stopped the attempt before it could really even begin.

“Blue, you only have to stab her once.” Lore tsks, and his amusement hits me next. “But if you’re feeling stabby, I can help with that.”

Caed’s answering hiss of pain steals my breath. Then finally, the quietest bond perks up.

Gentle hands cradle my shoulders, helping me to sit as unfiltered adoration and awe floods me.

“You okay, dragonfly?” Bree asks.

I want to answer him. I should answer him, but I’m still overwhelmed. The sparks of his gentle handling are messing with my curiously hyper-sensitive body, muddling my thoughts. In front of me, Jaro’s wolf is standing on Caed’s chest, pinning him to the floor as Lore crouches beside them, drawing the ornamental dagger out of a new wound on my Fomorian’s shoulder.

Something in me revolts, and my redcap hesitates, his attention flicking between me, the knife, and the damage he’s just done. Remorse follows a second later, and he borrows his cap, shoving it at the Fomorian’s wound like some kind of convenient apology.

“Give her a second,” Drystan murmurs. “We only had one bond to get used to, and we were already accustomed to the Call.”

They’ve felt my fear before, he means, and the reminder gives me an idea.

Without hesitating to wonder if such a thing is even possible, I take every single fluttering affectionate and loving feeling I have for them and messily attempt to funnel them down the bonds.

Jaro’s wolf tosses his head back and howls a victory cry that shakes the temple to its very foundations, almost drowning out Bree’s harsh inhale and Drystan’s low noise of disbelief.

“Oooh,” Lore croons. “Little pet, are we playing?”

“Lore, don’t—” But Drystan’s orders are ignored as usual as the redcap pours three millennia of pent-up anticipation and devotion down the bond.

Shit. I think I’m coming. Or am I just overwhelmed? My brain—already frazzled from the new connections—fractures, then gives up under the intensity.