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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ROOK

Pyrah's absence wakes me. I have slept alone for years, but without her beside me, I feel cold and empty-handed.

I go outside. It’s dawn, and sunrise paints the sky pale gold. She's standing by the cliff, watching the day begin. The mist thins at the cliff’s edge, just enough to give us a view of the blue sky above and the nameless lake below. The air has the icy, crisp scent of possibility.

“How are you this morning?" I ask.

"Better." She exhales in a cloud of white. "It doesn't hurt so much."

"I'm glad." It was difficult for me to watch her in pain, though I tried to keep my worry from my face.

She stares far, far down at the lake below. “It’s strange, not being able to shift into a dragon. I miss flying.”

I hold her by the wrist as a precaution. “Be careful, woman. I can’t save you if you plummet over the cliff.”

“I’m not that close to the edge.” But perhaps heeding my warning, she moves away. “What’s for breakfast?”

“There must be fish in that lake.”

We take the path that zigzags down the cliff and leads us to the lake below. Pyrah sits by the shore and hugs her knees against her chest. Wind tosses her hair into her eyes, and I brush it from her face.

"Cold?" I ask.

"Yes," she admits.

“I can build a fire to keep you warm.”

“It won’t be as fast as dragonfire,” she jokes.

I bite back a smile. “I know.”

I gather up pieces of driftwood by the lake and arrange them for a campfire in a circle of stones.

There's an art to starting a fire, particularly in challenging conditions such as these.

Damp clings to the rocky shore of the lake.

With my dagger, I carve a stick for tinder, shaving it into thin curls of wood.

When I take out my fire steel, Pyrah watches me, her eyes bright in anticipation of flames.

I hit the fire steel with a piece of flint.

Sparks leap onto the tinder, though they fade away within seconds.

I strike the steel again, harder, and this time the sparks survive.

I cradle them in my hands, protecting them from the wind, and blow gently until they glow brighter.

Smoke wisps from the tinder as it starts to burn.

Not bad. Only took two tries .

I feed the fire more wood, until it grows big enough that the wind does not defeat it but only makes it stronger.

“That was fast for a fire steel,” she says. “Even for a dragon, I'm impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“I like watching you work. There's nothing so attractive as a man doing his job well.”

“You flatter me,” I deadpan. I gaze out over the lake. “What kind of fish swim in these waters? Have you ever gone fishing?”

“No, never.” She tilts her head, her eyes lovely in the morning light.

“My mother was a red dragon, like me, and she taught me how to hunt the creatures of the land. Though my father must have known how to fish, as a blue seadrake. They have a fondness for water.” She stares out over the lake.

“Perhaps that was why I was drawn to this place.” She shrugs.

“Honestly, I don't feel much like a seadrake. When people look at me, all they see is a red dragon, and I was raised in the ways of the firedraken.”

She's not wrong. It's impossible to ignore her crimson scales or her flame-colored hair. Both of her forms, dragon or woman, scream firedrake to me. But I understand why she feels conflicted about her identity.

“Sometimes,” I admit, “I don't feel human at all.”

“But your father raised you in the castle. King Everhart must have shown you what it meant to be a human man.”

My teeth gritted, I keep the memories of my childhood at bay. “You presume that King Everhart had what they call humanity.”

She looks into my eyes as if searching for an answer. “What happened to you when you were a child? What did the king do to you?”

I shake my head. “Let's not speak of such things before breakfast.”

Let's never speak of such things, I think, though I don’t say that out loud.

It remains, at best, uncomfortable for me to remember what it was like growing up in the castle as a demon, and as the bastard son of the king.

It hurts to remember my father’s cold disdain for me, as if I were too difficult for him to love.

Even now, I doubt that I’m worthy of love. I know it must not be true, but it feels true in the marrow of my bones.

“Rook…” she trails off, clearly not sure what to say to me.

If I told her more about my childhood, it would do nothing but darken the morning sunshine. I might not be able to articulate what happened to me, or worse, she might not understand me. Not even my sister knows everything.

Time to change the subject. I turn my attention back to the lake. “It should be interesting to find what’s lurking below the surface.”

“You have a fishing rod?” she asks.

“I don’t need one. Wait here.”

I hike back up to the cave, where I left my belongings.

I’m fond of fishing with a crossbow, so I already have the right gear—a spool of silk line and barbed bolts.

They cost more gold than I care to admit out loud, but I consider them essential to surviving out in the wilderness for weeks at a time.

Only a fool would wade into a lake wearing leather trousers, so I unbuckle my belt and strip them off.

In their place, I wear a kilt, the traditional fashion for men in Chymeria.

Of course, a true prince would wear the royal colors—black and purple—but since I'm a bastard prince, a commoner's gray will have to suffice.

I buckle my belt, holster my crossbow on my back, and return to the lake.

When Pyrah sees me, her jaw drops. “You aren't wearing those tight leather trousers any longer.” Her gaze travels over my body. “Damn.”

“Damn?” I repeat.

“I can't decide if I like the trousers or the kilt better.”

I shrug. “This was a practical decision.”

I take my crossbow from my back, load one of the barbed bolts, and tie the silk fishing line just above the fletching. The other end of the line leads to a spool hooked to my belt.

I will get only one shot. If I fail, I will have to return to shore and reload.

I unlace my boots. Barefoot, I wade into the icy waters of the lake. It must be fed by glacial melt. I don't go in too deep, since I don't want to freeze my balls off. They have already made a tactical retreat closer to my body heat.

By the shore, the water looks crystal clear, all the way down to the silt at the bottom. Insects hover around the surface, a good omen for fish. I wade slowly through the water and keep the ripples to a minimum.

There.

A trout swims beneath the shadows of a tree. I bring my crossbow to my shoulder. Taking into account the distortion of light underwater, I aim just below the fish. A breath escapes my lungs. My finger squeezes the trigger.

The bolt strikes true. The trout thrashes in the water, but it can’t escape.

I let the line go slack, allowing it to unwind from the spool, before the trout begins to tire itself. I drag the fish out of the water and haul it onto the shore. Unsheathing one of my daggers, I deliver a mercy killing and close my eyes in silent thanks. This animal died so that we may eat.

Prey should always be respected.

Nothing tastes better than fish cooked over the fire in the wilderness. While Pyrah savors every bite, pride swells inside my chest. I have no greater purpose in my life than making her happy.

Finished with her food, she licks her fingers clean. That's distracting, though it's worse how she keeps inspecting my kilt.

"You're staring," I say, unable to hide my amusement.

“I can't help it,” she murmurs. “You decided to put on a kilt.”

I arch one eyebrow. "The kilt is traditional Chymerian clothing."

"I know." She wipes her thumb across her lower lip. “Tell me, do you follow all the traditions? Do you wear nothing underneath?”

"Why not find out for yourself?”

Her quick intake of breath betrays her desire. “Here? By the lake?”

"That's exactly what I mean.”

Pyrah kneels before me and places her hand on my thigh, just below the hem of my kilt. Blood rushes to my cock. My shadow wings unfurl, betraying my arousal. Damn these incubus instincts.

She smiles, clearly pleased by my undeniable reaction. Her fingers trace the edge of my kilt. My cock stiffens and strains toward her touch, tenting the cloth in a way that's impossible to ignore.

She kisses the inside of my thigh, right where my pulse pounds in the artery there. Her eyes darken with desire. “I have a confession.”

“Tell me.” I speak in a rough, hoarse voice, little better than an animalistic growl. I want to bend her over and fuck her like an animal .

She hesitates, her cheeks a pink color. Pretty. “I have been wanting to ask you something.”

“Ask me anything.”

“I want… I want to…” she trails off, her eyelashes fluttering.

“To what?” I ask, intrigued.

She takes a deep breath. “I want to take you in my mouth.” Her voice is husky. “I want to taste you.”

My heart pounds against my ribs. We have been intimate in a variety of ways, explored each other’s bodies with a passion that never seems to fade. But this…this is new territory. Uncharted waters.

“We’ve never…”

“I know.” Her gaze finally meets mine, vulnerability flickering in her eyes. “Would you like that?”

I swallow hard, my throat working. Lust spikes my blood and threatens to drown out all logic and reason. The thought of her lips on me, the heat of her mouth around my cock… It brings me closer to spilling my seed right here and now.

But I must confess the truth to her first. “I've never let anyone do this to me before."

Pyrah blinks, her eyes round with shock. “Never? Not once?”

I shake my head. “I’m an incubus. Trust doesn't come easily to demons like me. We're the ones who take, who dominate."

“But…” She struggles for words. “But you’ve been with so many lovers."

I shrug, looking away. "My past lovers… They were meaningless.”

“Really?”

I hunt for the right words. "They wanted what an incubus could give them. The pleasure, the escape, the thrill of bedding a demon. And I took what I needed in return—their desire, their lust."

Pyrah stays kneeling before me. Her eyes shine as she peers up at me. "That sounds lonely."

"It was transactional." The admission burns in my throat. "They didn't care about my pleasure. I was a means to an end, nothing more. And I accepted that. There were never any consequences. They never wanted anything real.”

Her fingers stroke my thigh. "But this is different?"

"Everything about you is different." I cup her face, my thumb brushing her cheek. "You see me. Not just the demon, not just the bastard prince. You see me ."

"Rook..." She leans into my touch.

"No one has ever wanted to please me the way you do. No one has ever cared enough to try." My voice roughens. "What we have... It's not a transaction. It's not about taking or consuming."

Her eyes gleam. "You know, I love it when you devour me." She leans closer, her voice a sultry whisper. “I would love to devour you. Would you let me try?”

There's no way in hell I would refuse her request. “Yes.”

“I might need some help,” she admits. “Tell me what to do.”

"We can figure this out together.”

She slides her hand beneath my kilt, finally, her fingers curling around my hard cock.

I hiss in a breath, the muscles in my abdomen tensing at the contact.

With her other hand, she tugs aside my kilt and exposes my erection.

She kisses the crown of my cock, then laps at it with her tongue, just the slightest lick.

"Like this?" she whispers, pausing to glance up at me.

I grunt. "Just like that.”

She bends down again, her silky hair brushing against my thighs. Her hot, wet breath caresses me. I'm trembling with anticipation, ready to feel her mouth on me.

"Pyrah," I growl, a warning and a plea all at once.

She looks up at me, her eyes filled with a heady mix of desire and curiosity. "Tell me if I do something wrong," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Just…go slow.”

She nods, her eyes never leaving mine. Her lips slide around my cock as she takes me into her mouth.

"Fuck." The word escapes me, a cross between a groan and a sigh.

Her mouth is a revelation, a hot, wet haven that turns my blood to molten iron.

My knees threaten to buckle, and I lock them in place, fighting to stay upright as she takes me deeper.

The sight of her, on her knees, her blue eyes looking up at me with a mix of innocence and desire, is almost too much to bear.

I'm not in control here. Not like I usually am. It's a strange feeling, giving up the reins, letting her set the pace. But there's a thrill in it, too. A sense of discovery, of vulnerability that I've never allowed myself to feel before.

"Pyrah," I groan, my voice barely recognizable. My hands find their way into her hair, not to guide her but to anchor myself. Her name becomes a chant on my lips, a prayer to whatever gods might be listening. "Pyrah, fuck..."

She hums around me, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through my body. My hips jerk involuntarily, and I force myself to still, to let her explore at her own pace. It's torture, the sweetest kind, and I'm drowning in it.

Her tongue swirls around the crown of my cock, teasing, tasting. She's tentative at first but grows bolder with each stroke. I can feel her confidence building, her enthusiasm growing. It's intoxicating, this shared journey of discovery.

My shadow wings stretch out behind me. But for once they are not a sign of my dominance, my control. They are a sign of my surrender.

I'm at her mercy, completely and utterly. And it's terrifying. And exhilarating. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Pyrah," I groan, my voice pure gravel. "You're killing me, woman."

She pulls back just enough to look up at me. "Is that a bad thing?"

My cock throbs, begging for her touch again, still glistening from her spit. "Not at all," I manage to say. "But if you keep doing that, I might come inside your mouth.”

“Good.”

She takes me deeper, her eyes meeting mine with fierce determination. The sight of her like this—my dragon shifter on her knees for me—brings me even closer to the brink.