Page 46 of The Second Death of Locke

nineteen

A FTER DINNER, SHE SUFFERED through a particularly dull (and possibly pointed) conversation with the commander about the importance of propriety and did her best to avoid Master Pickett, who she heard commenting to another officer that he must’ve misremembered the appearance, coloring and gender of the honored Captain Seward’s Hand—though of course, he noted, two of those three factors could have changed.

More than once, she looked up to see the High Lord’s eyes on her, mouth furrowed into a frown within his red beard.

When the dancing started, she was well and truly done—she suffered through one waltz with Eron before she threw caution to the winds and went to free Kier from his admirers.

It took her a moment to break through the circle to find him standing in the middle, sparkling wine in both hands. “Captain,” she said, lowering her eyes demurely.

“Officer Fastria,” Kier said. He handed her one of the half-drunk glasses of bubbly wine; she brushed his knuckles with hers when she took it and flicked her eyes to the door.

“I believe you have duties yet, for the High Lady?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, easily slipping from the conversation. “I did promise to speak to her. If you’ll excuse me…”

They escaped from the circle, and Kier linked his arm in Grey’s.

They found Ola and Eron, drunk in a corner, watching Brit spin in circles with a mage from another encampment, with very different but equal versions of longing plainly written on their faces.

Grey filed that detail away for later digestion.

She gripped Eron’s chin in her hand. “Please don’t disgrace me,” she begged, before she kissed him on the cheek.

“I wouldn’t dare .”

“Be safe,” Ola slurred gravely as Grey stepped back to Kier’s side. “In all ways that apply.”

“Still none of your business,” Kier said cheerfully. “But I will take your suggestion to heart.”

They slipped into the wet chill of the night, then into one of the dozens of carriages that waited outside.

Kier gave the driver the name of the inn.

They sat opposite one another, legs alternating, as they lurched into motion.

Grey wanted very badly to grab him by his coat and pull him toward her, but they were in a windowed carriage, and perhaps she just wanted to look at him a little longer.

His face mirrored the emotion she felt through the tether, something like awe and wonder and reluctant impatience.

Her blood thrummed hot in her cheeks, in her stomach; her whole body felt electric and restless.

When they reached the inn, Grey stumbled out, feeling drunk on something other than alcohol. She kept her composure all the way up to their room, where her fingers fumbled with the key until Kier took it and slid it home.

Inside, door locked behind them, they regarded one another.

“So,” he said, carefully laying the key on top of the wardrobe.

“So,” she said, watching his every move.

They stared at each other. She didn’t understand this shyness (hands in his intestines, etc.), but now that they were alone, she could not shake it. She inhaled sharply, unsteadily when he leaned forward to take her hand. He brought it to his lips, brushed a kiss on her knuckles.

“Is this more how you imagined it?” she asked.

Kier laughed. “Grey, you’re a treasure beyond any imagining.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Captain Seward,” she said, because if she let herself believe him, there would be no recovery. “I still have all my clothes on.” He moved to pull her closer, but she shook her head. “Stand still.”

She brought her hands to his jacket, sliding under, pushing it over his shoulders. Grey leaned in to kiss that soft space at the edge of his jaw, the one she’d been so fixated on earlier, relishing his sharp inhalation. She pulled his jacket off and tossed it behind her, onto the bed.

“Grey,” he started. His hands went to her back, fumbling for the laces of her dress.

“Mm, no.” She pushed them away. She was dedicated to enjoying this, and she’d been imagining getting Kier’s body under her hands for years. She would not be deprived of the joy of tormenting him.

He stood still, his breathing erratic, as she unfastened the buttons of his shirt. She ran her fingers along the obsidian of the moon. He watched her hungrily, hands clenched at his sides—he wanted to touch her, she knew, but even more, he wanted her to have her way.

She slid off his shirt, and the muscles of his stomach tensed as her hands skimmed over him.

She kissed the line of his collarbone, flicking her tongue over the hollow of his throat, relishing the sound he made.

Every single one of their sparring matches was written into his dense muscle; every battle showed on his skin.

She swallowed hard, remembering all of them, a thousand recollections of his blood, his magic and her power, which had carved him from the boy she’d once longed for into the man she had now, under her hands.

“Do I get a turn?” he asked, amused, as she trailed her hands over the planes of his chest, the trail of fine dark hair from his navel, the scars on his abdomen.

“If you’re good,” she said, skimming a thumb over his nipple, then drawing his mouth to hers to swallow his answering gasp. What a treasured thing it was, to hear that noise from him—to know it belonged to her and her alone.

“ Grey ,” he murmured against her lips.

She bit his bottom lip. “Your turn,” she allowed.

Kier did not waste his time as he pulled her flush against him.

He was insistent, undoing the laces of her dress with record speed, pushing it off her shoulders to pool at her feet.

She tangled one hand in his hair, the other on his shoulder, half for balance.

Her knees were unstable with the maddening slide of his tongue against hers.

He was still wearing too many clothes, which was a disaster, so her fingers went to the laces of his trousers as he wrestled her out of her chemise, breaking the kiss with a laugh. Then he was looking at her again, and the pure adoration on his face knocked the wind right out of her.

She fought the instinct to cover herself, keeping her shoulders square, her hands on his shoulders.

He looked at her like he hadn’t seen her skin a thousand times, every single day, in a million contexts.

Like all of this was new—like he didn’t know the shape of the scar on her ribs or the lines of her body.

His hand cupped her breast reverently, one thumb sweeping back and forth over her until she ached with tension.

This time when she kissed him there was a new desperation.

He stumbled, pushing her toward the window—thankfully he’d drawn the curtains before they left, or else those in the courtyard would be treated to a show—and boosted her so she was sitting on the wide windowsill, her back pressed to the fabric of the curtains.

He rocked against her, still too many layers between them, but she felt him hard against her, and she groaned into his mouth.

He paused, pulling back just enough so he could see her, cupping her face with his hand. “Is this what you want?”

She dragged his head down so she could nip at his ear. “This is the only thing I want.”

He laughed, the sound warm and relieved.

He hesitated for a second. As she started to ask if he was okay, he went for her pack.

She watched him rummage for her healer’s kit, then squint at the labels.

He shook a measure of contraceptive herbs into his palm and took them with water, wincing at the bitter taste.

She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him back, pausing to bite at his collarbone. “Thanks.”

“Ola reminded me,” he said, running his hands up her back in a way that made her shiver.

“Please,” she said, pulling him down so she could kiss him on the mouth. “Do not bring Ola into this.”

He laughed, warm and clear, then moved one hand toward the waist of her shorts. “May I?”

“Please.”

He slipped his thumbs under the edge, then pulled them down, his hands skimming over her legs. His palms rested on her thighs for half a second before he pulled her legs apart.

“Kier—” She reached for him, but then he dropped to his knees and pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. She gasped, tangling her hand in his hair.

“I used to dream about this,” he murmured against her skin, hitching her thighs over his shoulders.

“Used to?” she forced herself to ask as he ran a hand from knee to hip.

It was not worth telling him that she had imagined it too—her shyness was still cloying, even though she read the desire in his eyes when he looked at her.

But it was hard for her to believe that he’d spent years sleeping by her side, orbiting her, thinking of her in this way, even dreaming of her, and nothing between them had changed until now.

“Mm. In my younger years, when I thought I could imagine the taste of you.”

Grey blushed, shy despite herself. She had never really spoken with past bedmates—it had been about relief, a mutually assured satisfaction, rather than genuine love or affection. Certainly, none of them had cared for her—not like this. “How long?”

He skimmed his nose over her skin, sighing against it. “Oh, just the better part of a decade.”

What absolute fools they were. All that time, and they could have been doing this .

She sucked in a breath as he kissed and bit his way between her legs, her head falling back when he put his mouth on her.

“How does it compare?” she barely managed to ask through the quiet supernova that erupted in her brain. It felt—it felt like magic, like power; it felt better than the swelling of heat when she found the power tethered around her and pulled.

Kier pulled back to kiss her hip. “Infinitely better in real life.”