Page 21 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

The bedroom was larger than Maeve expected, wider than the modest door implied, and taller too, despite the sloping ceiling.

The stone walls had been painted a soft, creamy hue that warmed the space without betraying its age.

Thick tapestries hung along the north wall, stitched in mossy greens and earthy browns, their edges gently fraying.

Two of them depicted curling vines and strange constellations she didn’t recognise.

A wide bed dominated the far end, nestled beneath a half-moon window where silver dusk filtered through gauzy linen.

The quilt was dark green and plum, threadbare in places but beautifully so, its swirling embroidery softened by time and countless hands.

Folded woollen blankets in more earth tones were stacked neatly at the foot.

An old cedar chest stood nearby, its lid slightly bowed, its surface etched with years of use, and a faint scent of lavender.

A mismatched table and spindle-back chair sat near the hearth, one leg propped up by a yellowing book Maeve suspected had been read a dozen times.

Another volume lay open on the tabletop beside a dark violet stone, smooth, faceted, its surface pulsing faintly with enchantment.

Hovering just above it, a faelight drifted like a firefly at rest, glowing yellow and bobbing gently in the still air, casting ripples of warmth across the scuffed wood.

Aeilanna had explained faelights in the cell.

Maeve had seen them often enough since. But still, seeing magic so bare, so woven into the furniture of a home, made something old and rational in her flinch.

She sat on the windowsill, her back turned to the room.

The window was open a crack, just enough to let in the warm afternoon air and the scent of pine and hearth smoke.

She could see the thinning line of forest in the distance, stretching beyond the fields.

In the sky, shadows moved, broad-winged silhouettes wheeling far above the treetops.

Birds , she told herself. Just really big birds.

Behind her, she heard Eiran move, his boots thudding lightly on the wooden floor. A moment later came the soft whoosh of water, and she turned her head just enough to see him disappear into the adjoining bathroom.

“Don’t touch the taps, love,” he called out. “They’re fussy.”

“Fussy? ”

“Intention magic. One wrong thought and it’s either ice water or an accidental indoor flood.”

She turned properly now, leaning her shoulder against the frame. “So if you’re in a bad mood, the bath just attacks?”

He appeared again in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, shirt slightly damp at the hem.

His hair looked a little ruffled, like he’d been running his hands through it.

Something she remembered him doing that night in Lisbon when he’d got flustered.

“I’d call it temperamental, not murderous,” he said.

“Though you’re a fine one to talk, considering you eviscerated a Glade Stalker with a shitty old dagger. ”

Maeve snorted. “I had help, and this death glare has a reputation.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes sweeping her slowly. Not in the leering way she was used to from men, he was checking she was still whole, still herself.

“You’re covered in blood,” he said gently. “And mud and something I’m pretty sure used to be a wing.”

“Don’t forget the trauma. I’m covered in that too,” she said, wagging a finger.

He smiled, small, rueful. “Oh, I didn’t forget.”

Their eyes met across dappled light of the room. Maeve looked away first, her throat tightening. He didn’t push though, just nodded once and disappeared back into the bathroom. A moment later, steam drifted out, curling into the air like breath.

Maeve brought her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them as she stared through the cracked window.

The landscape beyond stretched still and vast, wrapped in bright light, fields melting into the shadowed forest line in the distance.

Above it, she watched the silhouettes move against the light again, wide-winged and gliding slowly.

Just birds.

But they didn’t move like birds, the movements were too smooth and far too big.

She squinted, trying to name them, but her mind offered no answer.

Her fingers dug into her elbows. That panicked ache again, not quite fear.

Just the slow tightening under her ribs.

That creeping edge she knew too well, it didn’t roar anymore, but it didn’t leave.

She counted the shapes.

One. Two. Three .

Then the clouds.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Anything to tether herself.

The panic didn’t land, but it circled, like those shapes in the sky. She focused on her breathing. Warm air slipping through the windowpane, bringing with it the scent of pine and flowers. This place was safe, she knew that, but her body hadn’t caught up yet, her body still remembered everything.

“Love, the bath’s ready,” Eiran called softly. “You’ll feel better once it’s out of your hair…literally.”

Maeve rose from the windowsill and walked to the threshold between the bedroom and bathroom, steam curling around her like tendrils of mist. Then, wordlessly, she reached for the hem of her tunic, the one Nolenne had stashed for the escape.

Coarse, practical, already stained from the journey and now ruined with blood.

Eiran stayed where he was. Still, but his posture had changed, tighter, more alert.

She slowly pulled the tunic over her head, the fabric caught briefly on her elbow, then slipped free.

Air kissing her bare skin and her breasts rose and fell with each breath, full, heavy, marked with freckles and bruises.

The light caught on the soft curves of her chest, the softness of her stomach, the faint shimmer of sweat and grime clinging to her.

Her leggings followed, peeled down over the light spread of dark hair between her hips, her thighs, her calves, until they pooled at her ankles and she stepped free of them, naked, filthy and scarred.

Eiran didn’t speak. His breath taken somewhere between her removing the tunic and standing fully bare before him.

His jaw clenched as his eyes moved over her, slow and reverent.

He saw everything, the generous curves of her body, the faint stretch marks on her inner thighs.

The pale scars, some thin and pink, others darker and jagged, the burn marks on her side.

“I should go,” he said finally, voice low, strained, hoarse.

Maeve met his gaze, chest rising faster now. “Please don’t,” she whispered.

A tremble threaded through her words, uncertainty, need and the naked weight of gifted trust. He stepped forwards, slowly. As if something elemental had pulled him, his eyes darkening and fury flickering behind the heat.

“They hurt you,” he said, his gaze fixed on the scars. “They touched you and I wasn’t there.”

“Oh, Eiran,” Maeve murmured. “We didn’t know each other. You’re here now.”

His hand lifted, fingers hovering just above her shoulder. He didn’t touch her, but the wish was there, aching in the air between them. His gaze swept again, slower this time trying to memorise her and then his eyes lingered at her mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Soft, strong, brutal and so bloody beautiful. I don’t know what to do with it all.”

Maeve closed the gap between them, her bare chest brushed his shirt, warm skin pressing lightly to cool, damp cloth.

She was flushed and wholly, unapologetically being herself.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want anyone to see me again,” she said, her voice barely above a breath. “Not like this, not now…”

Eiran’s hand rose, and this time, he touched her.

Fingertips at her jaw, tilting her face to his, his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth.

“They don’t get to keep any part of you,” he said, voice low and burning.

“Not your body, not your breath, certainly not the fire they tried to steal and couldn’t snuff.

Not one fucking spark. You survived, you’re here. ”

His other hand slid to her waist, rough palm resting on the slight curve of her stomach. He didn’t pull her closer, but his touch anchored her, claimed nothing and offered everything. His eyes were still on her mouth, as if he were trying not to fall.

“Eiran,” she whispered, breath catching.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate, until his lips hovered over hers, close enough that her mouth tingled with anticipation. “Tell me to stop,” he said. “And I will.”

She didn’t, instead, she kissed him, firm and certain.

The kiss hit like a spell, it was otherworldly and Maeve gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt as if she could anchor herself to him, to the moment.

Eiran answered with a low growl from deep in his chest, his hands sliding to her hips, then lower.

He grasped her bare arse in both hands, firm and possessive and, before she could catch her breath, he lifted her.

She squeaked in surprise, arms flying around his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Her skin brushed his leathers, cool and soft, sending shivers across her thighs.

“You could’ve bloody warned me,” she whispered breathlessly into his ear.

“You squeaked,” he murmured with a grin, nuzzling her temple as he stepped further into the bathroom. “Like a tiny woodland creature.”

“I squealed,” she corrected archly. “Powerfully and with much dignity.”

He laughed, the sound easy and warm. “Of course, the battle cry of a feral fae queen. My feral fae queen.”

“I’m not fae,” she muttered, resting her cheek against his shoulder.

“You will be,” he said, so softly it almost vanished beneath the hiss of bathwater.