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56

A New Oath

Idris

“ M artha was drunk,” Anya said as she led Idris up the steps to the Possum and into the unlit common room.

Hattie was still out celebrating—as was everyone else. It was midnight, and Idris was loose-limbed from all the food, fermented cider, and the long journey here. The inn was quiet, peaceful, and all theirs—save for Wicker, of course, though he wasted no time trotting over to the unlit hearth, where a pile of blankets waited.

Idris could imagine himself coming home like this again and again. The woman ahead of him. The dog sighing by the fireplace. The glistening of bottles behind the bar. The worn floorboards underneath his feet. The pleasant scents of worn wood, washed linen, malted barley. He’d only been to the Pretty Possum Inn & Pub once, and yet it felt more like home than anywhere else.

He’d seen many different ends in his Mirror of Death, but one in particular had always stuck with him: his old body sitting by a hearth strangely similar to the one in the corner there, fading peacefully as he stared at the flames. The Well of Fate had given him a blank slate, and therefore Idris felt free to believe whatever vision he wanted.

This was what he wanted.

To bask in the glorious light of the woman before him and feel settled within the greater sense of belonging that a home—a true home—offered. Idris understood now why Anya spoke so highly of Waldron-on-Wend. It was exactly the sort of place he’d been craving since he was a boy. A community that was not bound by Oath or duty or even family, but by mutual desire, trust, and love. It was infinitely better than solitude.

“You can ignore her ramblings,” Anya continued. “She means well, but she’s also nosy, and somewhat obsessed with my prospects .”

Idris thumbed the ornament in his pocket as he followed Anya deeper into the inn. Underneath the usual pub scents, the Pretty Possum smelled of roses and lemon and the ineffable warmth of its owner.

“I’m honored she considers me a prospect.”

When they reached the bar, Anya turned, placing her palm on Idris’s chest. “I know Waldron”—she waved a hand—“all this—it’s a big adjustment from living in the wilds on your own. We can take this as slowly as you want.”

Idris stepped closer, invading her space, glad to finally have her alone again. He clutched her backside. “I have no intention of taking you slowly.”

Before she had time to react, he hoisted her up, placing her on the counter. With their heights even, he stepped between her knees, barely having to bend down to glide his tongue along her sweet neck. He nosed under her jaw, smelling on her their travels: the sweat of exertion, snow-chilled wind, pine resin, Briar’s fur, and him . Idris.

Fuck , he loved smelling himself on her skin.

“ Idris .” Anya enunciated his name like a swear—and though she was the one with hearing magic, the seductive lowness of her voice claimed something in him that he was happy to give to her.

He growled in her ear, a low rumble of need, making sure she knew exactly what her body did to him. She arched at the sound, clawing at his shoulders and back, pulling him closer.

“I’m serious ,” she said with a note of protest, but the way her body was squirming against him, he didn’t think the conversation would go much further.

He could smell the erotic perfume of her arousal now, too—floral and beckoning—and he was eager to taste it.

“So am I,” Idris said. “Martha’s comments don’t scare me.”

Anya’s lips parted, a tiny show of genuine gladness. If she enjoyed that small truth, maybe she’d relish his full honesty.

“Anya, for the longest time, my life was bound to monsters. Now, it’s bound to a sweeter Fate.” He squeezed her hips, willing her to understand, to listen carefully in spite of the desire building between them. “This is the last Oath I’ll ever take, Dearest, so listen closely.” A smile teased his lips as he stared into her fire-bright eyes. “I, Idris Togren, hereby take the Oath of the Order of Devotion, pledging my love and worship. You are my Fortune, and I will remain beside you until Death.” Fearing that he sounded a little too intense for their first night in Waldron, Idris quickly added, “Or until you cast me away. Whatever happens sooner.”

Anya’s plush lips spread into the fullest, brightest smile he’d ever seen.

“Martha’s comments don’t scare me,” he reiterated. “Do mine scare you?”

Anya shook her head, swiveling around to retrieve a piece of scrap paper and a nub of charcoal from behind the bar. Her tongue traced her upper lip as she scribbled something down.

“What are you writing?” With the way she was holding the paper in her cupped palm, Idris couldn’t make out her script.

“I’m recording your name in my ledger—you know, to make it official.”

Idris laughed. “How many others have sworn fealty?” he asked, playing along.

“How many do you think?”

He brushed an auburn strand of hair from her face. “How many men do I think would bind themselves to you by sacred Oath?” He stroked his chin, pretending to think. “ Legions .”

Anya flushed, then showed him the scrap of paper with his name written on it in smudged charcoal. “Just you,” she said, a corner of her mouth rising. “You’re the only one worthy.”

It was the most perfect thing she could’ve said to him.

For a moment, he was speechless—then he cupped her face and brought his mouth down on hers, claiming her with his tongue. She let out a soft little moan that he was immediately determined to draw out of her a second time—but her hands squeezing his biceps stopped him short.

“Did I ever tell you my Fortune?” Anya asked, her lips grazing his, her breath mingling with his own.

He pulled back, his forehead furrowing. “I don’t think you did.”

“It was water. At the time, I thought it stood for the Wend, but now…maybe it was the Well of Fate? I’m still not sure.”

“Sounds strangely similar to mine,” he observed.

“That’s my point.” She squeezed his arms a little tighter. “I think our Fortunes might’ve been the same.”

His heart twisted at the memory of that day, the terror and desperation he’d felt as he lowered her into the water, and the overwhelming gratitude of holding her now. He grazed her cheek with the backs of his fingers—reverent.

“I think they’re still the same,” Anya went on. “I think my Fate has always been with you, even before I knew you. And now that our Fates are for us to decide, you are still the Fortune and Death I choose.”

He took her jaw in his hand, guiding her face up to meet his mouth again, pouring all his devotion into the kiss. “Ask from me whatever you want,” he said against her lips, “and I’ll happily oblige.”

Her pupils dilated, darkness swallowing up her pale brown irises. “Whatever I want?”

“Whatever you want.”

“What a gentleman,” Anya teased.

Moving swiftly, he gathered the layers of her dress up and ducked his head underneath. She squealed, laughing as he grazed his tongue up the length of her inner thigh. She hiked one leg over his shoulder, exposing all of herself to him under the cover of her dress. Before he reached all the way up, though, he paused to bury his face into the soft flesh of her leg—the one with the scars. The one that had almost caused him to lose her.

“Maybe I spoke too soon,” Anya breathed, her voice muffled to his ears with so many layers of fabric over his head. “Maybe you aren’t a gentleman at all.”

“No,” Idris whispered against her skin, kissing his way closer to her center. “I don’t think I am.”