Page 28

Uldrek sank to his knees before me, his forehead pressing against my hip for a moment in a gesture that felt almost reverent. His hands circled my waist, strong and sure, then slid around to spread across my lower back.

He looked up at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded, my hand coming to rest against his cheek.

With deliberate care, he lifted the hem of my skirt just enough to expose my ankles, then my calves. His hands were warm against my skin as they traveled upward, leaving trails of sensation in their wake. When they reached my thighs, I couldn't suppress a small sound of pleasure.

He paused, looking up at me again. "Still good?"

I nodded, unable to form words around the tightness in my throat.

His hands continued their journey, sliding around to grip the backs of my thighs with gentle pressure. Then he leaned forward, kissing the exposed skin just above my knee. The contrast of his warm mouth and the cool air made me shiver.

"Cold?" he murmured against my skin.

I shook my head. "No. Not cold."

He hummed in acknowledgment, his mouth traveling higher, each kiss more lingering than the last. When he reached the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, my hands found their way into his hair, holding on as much for stability as for connection.

We stayed like that—me standing, him kneeling, my skirt gathered in his hands as his mouth mapped every inch of me. It wasn't about taking or being taken; it was about discovery. About choice. Each touch was a question, each breath an answer.

When his mouth pressed against me through the thin fabric of my undergarments, I gasped, my head falling back against the wall. He paused, checking my reaction, then continued with more purpose, the pressure and heat of his mouth building a tension I hadn't allowed myself to feel in years.

My fingers tightened in his hair, urging him closer. He responded by hooking his fingers around the edge of my undergarments and drawing them down, exposing me fully to his gaze.

His breath warmed my skin as he looked at me, and for a heartbeat, I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. I didn’t look away.

His voice, low and hoarse, rumbled against my thigh. “Still with me?”

I nodded. “Yes.” Then, quieter: “Please.”

That word used to feel dangerous. Now, it felt like power.

One of his hands stayed at my hip while the other slid down to lift my leg—gently, carefully—guiding it over his shoulder. The shift opened me, angled me toward his mouth. I gasped at the stretch, the sudden intimacy of it. I felt exposed and rooted all at once.

“You alright?” he murmured, his lips brushing the inside of my thigh.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Stars, yes.”

He didn’t hesitate after that.

His mouth met me with heat and hunger—slow at first, teasing, then deeper, more insistent.

His tongue licked a slow, deliberate line through my folds before circling my clit, soft at first, then firmer.

He worked me with a rhythm that had intention behind it—no guesswork, no nerves—just precision and pressure and a quiet certainty that unraveled me second by second.

I braced myself more firmly against the wall, one hand gripping the windowsill, the other still tangled in his hair. My hips had a mind of their own, canting forward, seeking more—more heat, more pressure, more of him.

He growled low in his throat, the vibration sinking into me, and then his hand shifted from my hip.

Thick fingers skimmed up the inside of my thigh—slow, steady, patient. He didn’t push. He gave me time to feel every inch of his touch. When he reached the slick heat of me, he paused, just resting there.

My body tensed—not with fear, but with need—and he felt it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”

He eased a finger inside me, slowly, carefully. I gasped—not in pain, but in the stretch. Even just his finger was bigger than I was used to. Thicker. I had to focus on softening around him, letting my body open.

The way he looked up at me—half-lidded, dark with want—undid something in me. There was hunger there, yes, but also restraint. Reverence. As if he thought he might break me, and wanted to be worthy of the risk.

He worked that single finger in and out, shallow and patient, giving me time to adjust. Then, gradually, he added another.

I let out a soft cry, and his free hand cupped the back of my thigh, steadying me, holding me open as he buried his mouth against me again.

His fingers moved in rhythm with his tongue—deep and slow inside me, firm and unrelenting against my clit. The dual sensation pushed me higher than I expected, faster than I was ready for.

The stretch still burned a little, but the heat of it twisted into pleasure, and that only made everything sharper. His tusks occasionally grazed my inner thighs, not painful, just grazing—just there. Constant reminders of his shape, his difference, his presence.

My moans turned to whimpers. My legs began to shake. I couldn’t hold still anymore.

“Uldrek—” I gasped.

His fingers curled inside me, pressing into a spot that made me see stars. His mouth latched harder onto me, his tongue relentless now.

My climax hit like a storm breaking. I cried out—louder than I meant to, legs locking around his shoulders, fingers clenched hard in his hair. My hips jerked and ground against his mouth, riding every wave he gave me.

He didn’t stop. He held me through it, fingers still moving gently inside me, his mouth slowing only when my body began to shake with oversensitivity. I sagged back against the wall, breath ragged, heart pounding, a soft sob escaping me before I could stop it.

Not from pain. Not from fear.

From release.

From relief.

He pulled back slowly, easing his fingers from my body with a care that made me ache all over again. He pressed one last kiss to the inside of my thigh, then stood—tall and steady, despite the way his breath came heavy through parted lips.

I looked up at him, dazed, barely able to think. My legs didn’t feel like mine.

He cupped my face with those same hands—still warm, still smelling of me—and kissed me. Deep, slow, tasting of skin and sweat and want. And something else, too. Something close to awe.

When he pulled back, I exhaled hard and let out a breathless laugh. “Well,” I managed, “we’ll take this one.”

Uldrek’s grin was crooked, flushed with heat and something softer underneath. “Hope it comes with curtains,” he said, brushing his thumb across my lower lip. “We’re gonna need ‘em.”

I leaned forward, letting my forehead rest against his chest. His heartbeat was a steady thud beneath his shirt, grounding me.

We stood there for a long moment, held in the hush of dust-moted light and new breath. No urgency now. Just warmth. Just after.

Just us.

The sunlight had dimmed by degrees when we left the cottage.

I didn’t notice at first, but as we made our way back toward Tinderpost House, a chill crept into the air—not sharp enough to bite, but bracing.

The breeze had shifted. Damp. Salt-tinged.

There was no sea near Everwood, but suddenly, I could taste brine on the back of my tongue like a warning.

I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders, but the shiver that moved down my spine wasn’t from cold.

Uldrek noticed but didn’t press. Just adjusted his steps so we walked shoulder to shoulder, brushing more than once as the narrow lane wound beneath the curling branches of dusk-dimmed trees.

A pair of crows flapped overhead, silhouetted against the deepening sky, and the hush that followed felt… expectant.

As we reached the edge of Tinderpost’s yard, I saw Hobbie standing at the gate.

She didn’t say anything when she saw us.

Just stepped forward, both hands cupped around a bundled scrap of cloth.

Her face was unreadable, but her silence carried a kind of gravity—like a pot left to simmer too long on the stove, never boiling over but too still to ignore.

Uldrek slowed beside me. I took a step toward her.

“What is it?” I asked.

Hobbie didn’t answer right away. She just held the bundle out, her small hands steady as stone.

I accepted it carefully, unfolding the bite of homespun.

Inside lay one of her protective charms—twine wrapped around bundled herbs, fastened with a loop of copper thread.

It was one of the small ones she’d made soon after Ellie’s fever passed, hung over the cradle with a charmed whisper and a muttered dismissal of ceremony.

Now, it was blackened at the corners, the metal thread warped, and the sweet scent of sage and fennel replaced by an acrid, bitter edge.

Hobbie’s voice was low, matter-of-fact. “Didn’t burn from inside.”

I looked up. Her mouth was pressed into a line that wasn't quite tight, but firm.

“Something reached,” she continued. “From afar, maybe. But deliberate. Not stray. Not chance.”

Uldrek moved behind me. His hand settled against my shoulder, the pressure firm but gentle.

“Was Ellie—?” I started, throat dry.

“Asleep,” Hobbie cut in. “Didn’t stir. That charm broke before it crossed the cradle’s ward line. Magic held.”

I swallowed hard and smoothed a frayed edge of the wrapping with my thumb. “And you’re sure it wasn’t—”

“Nothing local,” she said, flat. “Not the kind of reach folk here know. And not cast close.”

I heard Uldrek breathe in behind me, slow and low, like preparing for something he hoped wouldn’t come.

“Which means?” he asked.

“Means someone is looking,” Hobbie replied. “And they’re getting closer.”

The evening hush seemed to press in tighter, muting the rustle of tree branches, the creak of porch planks. Distant laughter drifted from the house, soft and unaware.

For a long moment, none of us moved.

The charm in my hands felt heavier than its weight ought to allow. My fingers tightened around it instinctively, shielding it from the wind, though I knew it had already lost its power.

Uldrek didn’t speak, but his hand remained on my shoulder, not urging, just there—anchoring me to the ground I stood on and to the shape of the now.

Hobbie turned, her shawl snapping slightly in the breeze. “I’ll reweave the ward,” she said. “Better anchored. I’ll use hawthorn and silverthorn this time,” she added grimly. “Let’s see them reach through that without shedding skin.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, only tucked her hands beneath her arms and slipped past us, disappearing toward the back of the house with all the grace and grimness of a war priest twice her size.

I stood there, the charm still in my hand, the dusk deepening around us.

Uldrek’s voice came at last, low enough that it barely touched the wind. “You think it was him.”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

But I did.

Only one man had reason to reach now.

“I need to be stronger,” I said, the words raw in my throat—not a vow, not a fear, just fact.

After a beat, Uldrek reached down and very carefully took the ruined charm from my hands, tucking it into his coat. Then, softly, “We’ll sharpen you. Blade to flint.”

Somewhere behind us, a lamp was being lit in the Tinderpost kitchen—its soft golden glow spilling into the yard, catching on the breeches of the herb bushes, the rain-beaded leaves, the worn iron gate that marked the threshold between safety and the world.

I turned to face it.

The warmth was still there in my chest somewhere—of kisses, yes, and tea and linen and laughter. But now it was layered with steel. With knowing.

He might come.

And I would not run.