Page 47 of The Second Death of Locke

It was just— He ducked his head back down, his hands on her hips, reacting to every gasp and breath.

He was so confident, so sure of himself.

He’d never been with her, but he knew her, knew her better than she knew herself.

When he moved, it was exactly the right move at exactly the right time, like all of his imaginings of his mouth and hands on her body had perfectly prepared him to bring her as much pleasure as possible.

Grey was caught in the tide of it, the grip of his hands and the soft murmur of his voice, his praise as she wound tighter and tighter under his touch.

She felt the pleasure mounting, growing within her, the precipice looming; then he did something clever with his tongue and she came against him, tugging on his hair, his grip on her hips never easing.

It was just— He rose back up her body with steely determination, and she realized he still had trousers on—a crime , truly—and when she went to touch him, he said please in such a beautiful voice, but she pushed him away and moved to stand.

She made short work of his clothes and pressed him into the chair he’d been sitting in earlier, his gaze on her molten hot as he watched her stand above him.

For all of Kier’s supposed fantasizing, she’d thought of this , too: taking him over, watching his hazel eyes go liquid and warm, waiting for her to possess him with a breath-catching stillness.

She moved to straddle him, her knees framing his hips. His eyes flicked shut as she stroked him, memorizing the velvety smoothness of his skin, the heat of him.

“Please,” he murmured again, his eyes nearly black when he opened them to gaze up at her.

It was just— When she shifted forward, positioned him with one hand while the other rested on his shoulder, when she sank down on him and he moved inside of her, it was as if the tether between them tightened, redoubled, exploded into something shivering and golden.

“Grey,” he sighed, her name the softest of exhalations. She felt the power of her pushing through the tether without her direction. She felt both in control and wildly out of it; both filled to the brim and needing more of him, as much of him as she could take, as soon as possible.

She moved against his body, slowly at first, getting used to the feeling of him inside of her. He shifted his hands to her waist, his gaze never leaving her face, as if he’d never get enough of the sight of her.

Grey could barely think as he moved, pushing up from under her. She leaned down to kiss him, taking his lower lip between her teeth. His grip tightened on her, and she rolled her hips against him, setting a faster pace.

“You are everything I’ve ever wanted,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers.

She shifted, giving herself more space to move against him, and he buried his face in her neck and kissed the juncture of her neck and shoulder until even that wasn’t close enough.

She ceded power, felt the echo of his magic as it fizzled against her skin.

He moved his hands to her hips, pulling her up as he stood and pushed her back onto the windowsill, and she gasped at the change in angle as he paused and readjusted.

“ Yes ,” she moaned, biting his shoulder. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist as he reached with one hand between her thighs, drawing circles with his thumb. She felt the tether inside of her, consuming, burning her alive. “Kier, I need—”

“Let me,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair.

He increased his pressure until she had no thoughts; she was a creature of want and desire and nothing more. The wave crested, pulling her under, and she splintered apart with a half-sob against his shoulder. Kier made a low noise in his throat, breaking rhythm as he shattered inside of her.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. His fingertips skimmed up and down along her back, their breathing uneven but matched as they came back into themselves.

She kissed him on the temple, desperately, raggedly. “Petition accepted,” she said into his damp hair.

“What?”

She leaned back so she could see his face—he was still inside of her, and she still throbbed with the aftershock of him. “Congratulations. You’re the first citizen of Locke.”

He laughed, burying his face in her shoulder. “It’s an honor,” he said, dropping to nip the top of her breast, “to be yours, my lady.”

Time stayed syrupy and still. They cleaned up in the washroom, then she pulled on his shirt and crawled into bed, and he stretched out, still naked and uncaring, his hand skimming over her hip, her waist, the line of her thigh, like he was trying to memorize every part of her by touch.

They talked about nothing, like they would any other day, but then she leaned in and kissed him, and he was there, warm and sure, and just as needy.

Soon he was over her, his weight on his elbows, her leg hitched around his hip, and he was sinking into her all over again.

It wasn’t like she’d imagined it would be, when she had allowed herself to imagine it.

He was more certain than she’d anticipated, but he was eager for her to take the lead, to push him deeper into the bed and set her own pace.

It was less of a battle for dominance and more of an understanding; him sinking into her as much as possible until she gripped his chin, then ceding power easily.

Though she’d never been one to lead with previous partners, she loved controlling him, knowing that every breathy gasp was her doing, that every sharp sound, every profane word from his lips was hers.

After, they lay still, facing one another halfway down the bed.

She was so languorously pleased that she could barely keep her eyes open.

He was too warm for her to press against him—Kier always ran hot—but their fingers were tangled in the space between them.

He did not seem to mind her fidgeting as she constantly knotted and unknotted their hands.

“Where should we go first?” she asked. It was long past dark now, and neither of them had bothered to turn any lights on besides the small golden magelight that Kier had summoned, which left the room mostly in shadow.

She could still see every line of his face, though, mostly from memory.

She lifted her free hand to run her little finger over the scar that always made his mouth do things it shouldn’t. He turned his face to kiss her palm.

“Home first, I think,” he said, “if you don’t mind. It’s been a while. I’d like to visit Lot.”

She nodded. Every time they went home, Kier kissed his ma and his mom and then went quietly out into the garden, kneeling at the foot of a tree, pressing his hand to the marker that bore Lot’s name.

He sat there for an infinite amount of time, talking softly to his brother of all that had passed in the months since he’d last been home.

She understood from that initial visit after Lot died that the first trip to his grave, that great outpour, had to be done when Kier was alone.

In the days following, she sat with him, gently running her fingers through the grass as they talked to Lot, in the way she used to run her fingers through his hair while they all lazed in the sun together.

“And Mom has been pressing,” he said. “Ma hasn’t been well—we should spend a few weeks, at least. Get our bearings. Make a plan.”

“I’ve been meaning to write to Imarta,” Grey said, feeling that familiar guilt—but it was easy to pick up when they saw each other.

Every time she returned, her adopted mother looked up as she came through the door and said only, Well?

Where’d you go? No redactions, please (even though there were always redactions; they were necessary), and fussed over her until she left again.

“I sent her a letter,” Kier said. “Before we left camp.”

“Of course you did.” He was always better at being someone’s child.

“And then?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

Grey sighed. And then . She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. “And then, I suppose we need a boat.”

“I think we need more than a boat,” Kier said carefully.

“I don’t know what the process is,” Grey confessed.

“I know. We have time to figure it out,” Kier said. “But you’re sure the bulk of it didn’t… explode?”

“There were explosions,” Grey said, “from the sheer force of power. But no, I don’t think so. It’s there, in the sea, waiting for me to come back.”

Kier thought on this. “Maybe something will feel right when we get there. Or maybe your gods will give you the answer.”

“Maybe.” She closed her eyes, all desire for sleep erased by the memories that surfaced. She highly doubted her gods would want anything to do with her anymore. “You never asked me how it happened. And even since… finding out about what I can do, you haven’t asked how I did it.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t think it was my place.”

“And it changed nothing? Knowing I was the one who destroyed the Isle?” She opened her eyes, staring straight up, remembering how Severin grabbed her hand, then the two of them running, running, running.

“I think I’ve always known.”

She remembered the sweat on her back and the smell of burning wood, burning meat, burning hair—everything was aflame all the way up to the Ghostwood, then they were in the cellar and she couldn’t see the fire anymore.

“You always thought so low of me? That I would kill my entire line? Destroy my home?”

He rolled over, drawing her close against his chest, shifting her to lie on her side. He stroked her cheek, his touch whisper-light. “No,” he said. “I always knew you were a survivor.”

She searched his face, uncertain what she was looking for.

“My father wanted Severin to have a choice,” she said, the words falling from her lips.

“They tried to protect us, protect my parents, when everything went so wrong… Eprain sent a suitor, but it was just death in disguise. I remember her. Severin killed her himself, and I can’t imagine how…

” She drew a shaky breath. “Locke, my mother, rose like a storm cloud to face them, but it was too late. They used breakbloom to break the tethers.”

“Grey,” he said, so tenderly it hurt. “You don’t have to tell me this.”

She felt the tears on her cheeks, hot and endless. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. “I remember the sound. Their boots. I remember their blood. Sev’s hands—he held me so tight it left a bruise, the only thing left of him when I made it to Scaela.

“I know everyone thinks it was my mother who took the Isle down, but she and my father were already dead. I felt them the second they died, like great torches extinguished. And I think… I think Sev knew what he was doing, what it would cost.”

“You were already Locke,” Kier said, understanding.

Grey nodded. “And Severin knew what we could do together. So he told me to pull as much power from the wells around me as I could, and from the Isle itself. He shielded me, and I let the power explode. It was the only way to save Locke: to submerge it entirely. All three of them, Severin, Mam, Pa; and my grandmother, too. They all died so I could live.”

Kier wiped the tears away before they could collect in her hair. “They did it because they loved you, Grey,” he said.

She looked up at his face, reaching to trace the line of his temple. “But that’s not the kind of love I want. I don’t want sacrifice. I don’t want anyone else to die for me.”

I don’t want you to die for me , she did not say.

He leaned in to kiss her, tender and sweet. “I’d happily perish for you any day of the week, Flynn,” he said, seeing right through her.

She moved her hand to the back of his neck, cradling his head. “You’re a fool,” she said very carefully, “but if you insist on putting yourself in danger for me… I don’t want you to be my mage.” His face immediately shifted into caution. “No—not like that.”

“Grey?”

She wriggled closer, throwing her leg over his hip. His hand immediately went to her thigh. “I want you as my commander, Kier. If we’re able to resurrect the Isle, I want to know that it will be safe again, and I want it to be you.”

He studied her face. “Any commander or master you want will come,” he said carefully. “If you would have them. You could take from Cleoc Strata, from Scaela—gods, even Nestria would offer, if it meant a treaty.”

She shook her head. “I don’t care. I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone in the world like I trust you.”

He leaned forward to kiss her. “I already have your name in my heart, Locke,” he said. “It would be the greatest honor to carry your banner.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to think about it?”

“No.”

She nuzzled into his chest, relishing the fact that she could just be here, against him, skin to skin as his arms folded around her. “It’s probably not the ideal retirement.”

He sighed, suffering as always, then rolled onto his back, tugging her along with him so she rested on his chest. “We both knew from the start that retirement would be short-lived.”

“A hero and a genius, Seward.”

“I have other talents besides my bravery and intellect, you know.”

Grey bit gently at his collarbone. “Oh? Can I get a demonstration?”

He paused as if thinking about it. “Can I get a raise?”

“You don’t even have a salary yet.”

His fingers traced down her hip. “Not yet .”

She snorted. “Bribery never suited you.” But she did not argue with his methods.