Page 15

Alaric

Thorn Mountain—The Secret Pool

The water inside the secret pool is warm, rising in curling steam as we sink into the hidden spring beside the falls.

The roar of the cascade is thunder in the distance, but here, in this tucked-away hollow surrounded by stone and trees, it feels private.

Protected.

Not enough.

With a silent breath, I call the winds.

They answer instantly, swirling around us in invisible currents, forming a barrier between our bodies and the rest of the world.

No eyes will see.

No ears will hear.

Not even the creatures of Nightfall will cross the veil I’ve cast.

She is mine. And I will not have any set their covetous eyes on her.

Does that make me a monster? Perhaps. But I’m surprisingly okay with that.

Jules leans back against the smooth rock, her hair damp, curling over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the water—or maybe from me.

She looks up at me with those wide, wondering eyes and smiles like I’ve given her the moon.

I haven’t.

But I will.

“What just happened? It feels different,” she whispers, and I lower myself into the water in front of her, watching her expression shift from coy to something more serious, something searching.

I cup her face, let my thumb trace her lower lip.

Gods, I want to devour her.

But first, she needs to understand.

“I called on my magic to create a barrier around us.”

“Why?”

“Because if anyone else hears you,” I murmur, my voice low, dangerous, “sees you like this— soft, flushed, pliant in my arms —I’ll have to take their lives, Myrrin .”

Her breath catches. The water laps softly against our skin.

“What? Why?”

“Because you are for my pleasure alone.”

She raises a brow, that flirtatious curve of her lips returning, but I see past it. See through it.

“Is that all I am to you?” she asks softly. “Just something to take pleasure from?”

I hesitate.

Not because I don’t know the answer.

But because I do.

And it terrifies me.

She is far more than I meant for her to be.

More than desire.

More than conquest.

More than I deserve.

But this game we play— this edge of truth and temptation , illusion and reality —it’s too dangerous to name what she’s becoming.

So I give her the only answer I can allow.

“You are my viyella .”

The zareth pulses between us at the word.

Ancient. Unyielding. Irrevocable.

And then I move.

In one fluid motion, I grab her hips and lift.

She gasps, clutching my shoulders, her thighs parting as I guide her over me.

I do not fumble. I do not search.

I find her— exactly where I need to be —with the first flex of my hips.

Her body opens for me, her cunt is wet and wanting, and the moment I slide deep into her heat, the world vanishes.

My vision tunnels.

My breath stops.

She moans, a soft sound swallowed by the cocoon of magic we’re wrapped in.

“Alaric,” she whispers like prayer.

I don’t answer.

I just hold her tighter.

And begin to move.

Cupping her ass, I grind against her clit, loving the way her pussy rewards me with a squeeze every time I stroke her just right.

And I can’t stop.

I don’t want to.

I drive into her, deeper, faster, touching her everywhere I can.

Her legs lock around my waist like shackles made of silk and sin.

Thick thighs squeezing, hips lifting greedily to meet every slow, deliberate thrust I give her.

And fuck, the sounds she makes— each gasp, moan, and whimper —is its own kind of spell.

I lick into her mouth, tasting her pleasure, swallowing her need, refusing to give her air because I want to feel her pulse against my tongue.

I want to own her in every breath, every beat.

But my viyella?

She just clutches me tighter.

She takes me like she was made for me.

Like her body was carved by the same gods who wrote our bond in the stars.

And it undoes me.

I’m barely holding on, but still, I want more.

Truth is, I want everything.

This started as a means to an end. An illusion I thought I could conjure like any glamour I’ve ever cast.

But I’m in over my head. I fucking know it. And it’s way too late to stop now.

And even if it causes me to lose focus and Nightfall suffers? I think it might be worth it.

I slow my hips, dragging each thrust until she trembles.

She whines, pleading with her body, her hands fisting my hair.

But I’m not done teasing her yet.

Lowering my head, I wrap my lips around one aching, perfect nipple, suckling her like she’s the only sustenance I’ve ever known.

She arches beneath me, hips bucking.

“Please,” she begs, and it is like music to my ears.

Sweet shadows , she tastes like heat and lightning.

Like the promise of chaos and eternity.

My Myrrin is my favorite fucking flavor. And I intend to savor every bite.

“Oh God,” she moans, ragged and real.

I answer with my teeth.

A sharp nip— just enough to make her flinch .

To make her feel me.

“Say my name when I fuck you, viyella ,” I growl, voice roughened with possession.

She gasps again, trying to rock her hips, but I hold her in place, hand firm on her waist.

“Your name?” she pants. “You call me Myrrin , and v-something. Who even knows what!”

I pause, pulling back enough to meet her eyes. They glitter, defiant and wet with heat.

Gods, I love her fire.

“My name,” I repeat, grinding my hips just enough to make her eyes flutter before I stop and back off a bit.

“I want you to fall apart screaming it.”

She stares at me, narrowing her gaze.

That spark in her isn’t fading. No, it’s catching fire.

“Compromise,” she breathes, lashes low, lips swollen. “What’s something I can say, a male nickname for whatever you call me?”

Her question hits me like a lightning strike.

Unexpected. Perfect.

“Viyen.”

The word escapes before I think. Before I can guard against it.

An ancient title.

A sacred one.

Not lightly spoken.

Not ever.

“Is that what you are to me?” she whispers, voice thick with wonder, hands rising to press flat against my chest—right over the pounding of my traitorous heart.

I thrust deeper, slower, sealing my mouth to hers in a kiss that’s pure possession.

Little minx that she is, she snakes her hand up my spine, caressing my hair, then up further till she is stroking my horns.

Fuck me. My cock gets harder.

I pull back, but I don’t stop her. My lips are brushing hers as I answer, honest and raw and wrecked, “Yesss,” I hiss, unable to rein in the beast within me.

“I am your viyen . As you are my viyella .”

“That sounds permanent,” she whispers, eyes wide and mesmerizing.

“It is, Jules Strano. You may not know what this all means yet, but I know you can feel it. In your body. In your bones. In your human heart and soul. Tell me you do.”

“I do, viyen ,” she whimpers, stroking my horns now, and gods be damned, I am burning for her. “I feel it.”

“Mine,” I snarl, slamming my mouth to hers, driving my cock inside her tight heat in time with my tongue.

And then, I give her what she needs.

What I need.

I fuck her like I’m the storm and she’s the lightning rod.

Like I was forged for this moment. For this woman. For our bond.

The zareth wraps around our bodies like a cord.

And as her walls clamp down, and her cries fill the barrier of wind and magic, I know with bone-deep certainty, I am keeping my viyella.

No matter the cost.