Page 66 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

Her pulse fluttered and with a breath of intention, she stripped both of them bare, magic threading through the air like golden filaments, soft and shimmering as it danced over her skin. Their clothes vanished in a flicker of light, leaving them entirely exposed beneath the stars.

Eiran stared like a man undone. “Gods above. Look at you, using your magic so well.”

“I had…inspiration.” Maeve purred with an exaggerated wink.

He reached for her. “Come here.”

Maeve climbed into his lap, knees straddling his thighs, their bare skin touching, sticking with heat.

Their mouths met in a kiss that burned through every vein, slow at first, savouring, tasting and teasing, then frantic, teeth, tongue and fire.

She ground down against him, feeling him hard beneath her, and a moan slipped from her lips as his hands gripped her backside, guiding her movements.

“Eiran…” she whispered.

He tipped his head back, breath ragged. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“Already have.”

Their bodies moved like water and flame, and then he lifted her slightly, lined himself up, and she sank down onto him with a low, broken sound.

They both stilled at the sensation, deep, full and overwhelming.

Her hands braced on his shoulders and his mouth fell open as she rolled her hips, riding him slowly, setting a rhythm that was both reverent and obscene.

“You feel like fucking starlight,” he breathed. “Like heat and heaven and everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Maeve leaned in, teeth grazing his jaw. “Shhh, you talk too much.”

“Then shut me up.”

She did, with her mouth, her hips and the way she clenched around him, tight, wet and perfect. The grove pulsed with their rhythm, magic rising like mist around them .

The Fae-Fire blazed in her blood, making every touch an ache, every thrust an aftershock and he flipped her onto the mossy earth, pressed her down beneath him, and devoured her.

His mouth found her breasts, her throat and her thighs.

He licked her centre, slow and deliberate and she cried out, her back bowing and her fingers clawing at the ground as stars seemed to burst behind her eyes.

It felt like he would never stop and she pleaded that it wouldn’t.

When she came, it was with a bawl muffled against her own arm.

He kissed her through it, holding her still and murmuring things he’d never say in daylight.

She trembled beneath him, undone and shaking and then he moved, lifting and spinning her to the tree, pressing her chest to the bark so hard she gasped.

Her skin scraped on the rough wood, fingers splaying wide as he kicked her legs apart with a growl.

“Stay just like that,” he growled.

The moment she obeyed, he let out a visceral sound, gripped her hips and then he drove into her, deep, brutal and entirely perfect.

Maeve choked on a scream as her body shoved forwards with the force.

The tree shook with it, moss scattering down like rain as he fucked her, rough, fast and savage.

His cock plunged deep, every stroke a claim, every thrust a growl turned flesh.

“Fuck, Maeve,” he snarled, breath hot against her neck. “So tight, so fucking wet. Mine.”

“Yours Eiran…” She gasped, but the words broke apart as he yanked her back onto him, using her body like it was made to be taken like this.

His hand wrapped in her hair, pulling her head back so he could bite her neck, hard.

Her cry cracked the air but he didn’t stop, he was relentless.

One hand holding her down by the neck, the other sliding between her thighs to rub her clit in fast, brutal circles.

She bucked, whimpered, sobbed with how badly she needed it, and he gave it to her.

Every filthy, desperate second of it. She came with a shout, body convulsing, magic ripping through the grove like a wave, shaking the leaves and lighting the roots.

Her legs collapsed, but he held her up, still fucking into her like an animal, wild and unforgiving.

“Not done,” he growled. “Not until I break you.”

He lifted one leg up onto the root for better leverage and pounded into her, his cock so deep, she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but take it and love it and she came again with a moan, her voice gone raw.

He followed with a roar, slamming into her and spilling deep, hips jerking as he emptied inside her, teeth sinking into her shoulder and they stayed like that, shaking and wrecked .

Sweat dripped and her legs barely held. When he finally pulled out, she whimpered, empty, aching and used.

He caught her, dragging her down into the moss with him.

He wrapped around her from behind, chest heaving and breath hot on her neck.

Maeve was marked by bark, marked by him and the grove still pulsed with their magic, no longer sacred, but claimed.

The Fae-Fire was cruel in its pleasure, it kept them aching, hungry and wanting.

He pushed her onto her back and kissed her until she was writhing again, until she sat astride him, greedily guiding him back inside, slick, sore, and needing.

She rode him hard, breath ragged and hair wild.

He lifted her by the hips and thrust up into her, watching her fall apart over and over again.

When they finally collapsed beneath the moon-drenched branches, bodies tangled, hearts still racing, Maeve turned her face into his neck.

“Next time,” she whispered hoarsely, “I’m bringing the bottle.”

Eiran laughed, breathless. “You’re the only intoxicant I’ll ever need.”

?????

Eiran and Maeve, deliciously sore, made their way back to the Keep slowly, hand in hand, the air now warm and laced with lilac.

The celebration inside still pulsed with energy, distant music echoing faintly through the tall stone corridors, but just beyond the great hall’s doors, the terrace opened wide into the night.

There, leaning casually against the stone balustrade stood Fenric and Laren.

Close, but not touching. Their heads were bent towards one another, voices low and eyes bright with whatever quiet truth lived between them.

Maeve slowed her steps, tugging lightly on Eiran’s hand.

“What are they smoking? I saw those in the tavern, and I noticed Bran uses a pipe.”

Eiran followed her gaze, then gave a soft huff of amusement. “They’re called pixie-burns,” he said. “Same thing as human cigarettes. Not as deadly though, just enough to loosen the jaw and lighten the mood. Bran prefers it in a pipe, we take the piss but he insists.”

Maeve watched as Laren passed the slim, glittering roll back to Fenric, her fingers brushing his, the motion casual but full of subtext. Smoke shimmered between them, faintly green in the moonlight.

“What’s the story there?” she asked.

Eiran didn’t answer at first. Just watched them with a look that was more fond than exasperated.

“They’re in love,” he said finally. “Fenric’s been besotted for years.

Laren too, though she’d never admit it. He asked her to bind over a century ago, she refused, told him she needed time and adventure.

She told him to move on, that she wouldn’t hold him. ”

“But he didn’t?” Maeve asked.

“No, still hasn’t,” Eiran murmured. “They’re not mates, but the closest thing to it. They love each other enough to make everything else bend. He waits as she runs, and somehow, they always find their way back here.”

The mates looked at them, at the casual lean of Laren’s body, the way Fenric’s mouth curled when she laughed and at the invisible shared breath stretched tight between them. There was something sacred about that kind of devotion.

Maeve stepped forwards and called out, “Evening.”

Fenric turned first, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Evening, indeed. You two look like you’ve either been fighting or fucking. Knowing you pair, probably both.”

“Definitely both,” Laren said, flicking her wineglass towards them with mock solemnity. “Let me guess, trip to Eldrisil, so… Fae-Fire?”

“The one and only,” Maeve replied, unable to hide her smile.

“That explains the shine,” Fenric said, eyes narrowing in amused suspicion.

Maeve turned to Laren, blushing. “Can I ask you something?”

Laren nodded. “Of course, Maeve.”

“Why do you not have a dragon? Jeipier told me you didn’t add to the thunder when you arrived. Just Elenwe’s paired, Zairathe.”

Laren swirled the last of her wine in her goblet. “Even at the age of five, I knew I didn’t want to be paired with a beast. I don’t want to be bound to anything that would require me, control me and hold me. I don’t want to be kept in one place for the sake of feelings.”

Fenric frowned and Eiran stepped closer, his voice steady. “Bonds don’t behave like that, Laren. A bond doesn’t hold, it provides. It doesn’t trap, it offers. Love doesn’t take away your fire, it feeds it. It can make you and the other burn brighter.”

Maeve blinked, surprised, but she smiled. “It’s a thread. Silken and warm. It feels like coming home to yourself in someone else’s arms. ”

Eiran turned to Maeve, hand on hers. “Being connected to your love, it’s not confinement, it’s freedom that you choose, again and again… forever.”

Laren stared at them both, something in her face dropping, just a little, a breath caught between disbelief and wonder before saying, “Fae-Fire indeed.”

Branfil arrived then, pipe in hand, the sweet scent of lavender smoke curling around him. “Young people these days,” he said, puffing lazily. “Drinking Fae-Fire like it’s lemonade.”

“We’re almost the same age, Bran!” Eiran called back.

“Only in body.”

Moments later, the doors opened again, and Orilan and Elenwe stepped out, followed by Calen and Soren, already mid-banter.

“I’m telling you,” Calen was saying, “you only won the goblet tower because you fucking cheated.”

“How do you cheat at balancing cups?” Soren demanded.

“Very carefully, you cheating fuck!”

Elenwe gave an exaggerated sigh. “We have defended the eastern borders against six uprisings and one kraken horde, and this is what keeps you occupied?”

“Important work, Mother,” Laren said, deadpan. “The future of the realm rests on who can drink the most without breaking glassware.”

Orilan barked a laugh, eyes dancing. “Well said.”

They all sat, goblets refreshed, voices warm. The air shimmered with peace, Hayvalaine and Taelin emerged next, arm in arm, with Aeilanna and Nolenne trailing behind, their fingers laced.

Hayvalaine paused, taking in the crowd. “Why has the party migrated out here?”

“Soren got sweaty failing to balance goblets,” Calen said helpfully.

“And the moon is showing off tonight,” Branfil added.

Soren pointed upward. “Look.”

The sky unfurled above them, vast, velvet and endless. Stars burned in unfamiliar constellations, the moon hung low and full, casting an ivory hush across their faces .

“Reminds me of you, Laren,” Fenric said, gazing into her eyes. “Beautiful, powerful and always pulling me in.”

“Bloody hell, Fen, give it a rest.” Calen said, then he turned to Hayvalaine. “Do you know the gender of the baby yet?”

“Yes.” Hayvalaine smiled, radiant. “Another boy.”

Aeilanna groaned. “Another bloody brother?”

“That makes six,” Nolenne muttered. “Should we start a militia?”

“You and I will have to hold the line,” Laren said to Maeve, lifting her glass.

Maeve clinked hers against it. “Us? The ones of chaos.”

“Poor realm,” Fenric sighed dramatically. “It doesn’t stand a bloody chance.”

“It never did,” Orilan said, but there was laughter in his voice.

Elenwe gave Laren a long look, the kind that held pride and something fiercer beneath it. Laren caught it, nodded once, that was all that was needed between them.

The family lingered there a long time, the chill held back by bodies, wine, and a large brazier Soren produced with one movement of his head.

Talk shifted from light to longing, from laughter to memory and from battles fought to futures not yet written, and beneath the sky, with the world trembling just beyond the horizon, they stayed.