by Grace Draven
The kisses they shared in the garden were nothing compared to the ones they exchanged now. Jahna’s hands plunged into Radimar’s hair to hold his head still while she sucked his tongue into her mouth and rocked her body against his in a plea she couldn’t express with words.
They fell back on the bed in a tangle of skirts and cloak. Those were soon thrown to the side, peeled off Jahna’s body with frantic tugs and in one instance, the sharp edge of a knife on knotted lacings. Radimar’s garb followed and they were soon skin to skin, entwined together under layers of blankets and furs.
Radimar eased the covers back for a moment so he could see Jahna’s nude body in the candlelight. The room’s cold air made her pink nipples harden, and gooseflesh pebbled the curves of her breasts. A rapid pulse beat in her neck, and the shadowed hollow of her throat beckoned him to kiss her there. “You are beautiful, Jahna. I’ve always thought so.”
She slid her arms around him with a happy sigh, arching to get closer when he kissed her from the top of her head to her narrow feet and all the sensitive places in between.
The covers were suffocating and the candle burned low when Radimar rose above her on his elbows and stared down at her flushed face with the glassy eyes and lips swollen from his deep kisses. His erection nudged against her opening, demanding entrance. He ignored the urge and leaned down to plant feather kisses across her eyebrows, the bridge of her nose and her chin.
Jahna did the same to him, until impatient with his delay, she slid her legs up the side of his hips and bent her knees. The movement opened her more fully to him, and he gasped with delight.
“The women say it can hurt the first time.” Her fingers flexed against his sides. “I don’t care. I want you inside me.” She urged him forward, thighs flexing hard.
He resisted, despite his body nearly screeching at him to end such sweet torture.
“Patience, Jahna.” He gave her a reassuring peck on the lips when she groaned. “It can hurt if a woman’s lover is imprudent and clumsy. I am neither of those things.”
He set to proving his claim by his possession of her body. Her eyes rounded at the first slow, inexorable thrust, half-closed at the second, then rolled back at the third as she moaned his name.
He mimicked the sounds she made in a deeper voice, as caught in the ecstasy of making love to her as she was. His hands worked magic on her body, along with his lips and tongue. She cried out at the first shock of her climax and again at the crash of its aftermath.
Radimar followed right behind her, the sounds he uttered no longer words but the hard, shuddering gasps that squeezed the air out of his lungs and turned his bones to water. Once he could breathe again, he slid an arm under her back and rolled so that she lay atop him in a tangle of sweaty limbs and blankets. He was still seated deep inside her. The pain of his withdrawal was something he couldn’t prevent, no matter how careful he was, so he delayed the inevitable, more than content to feel her sweet body hold him in its embrace.
A lock of her hair fell forward to brush his nose, and he tucked it back behind her ear. She stared at him, a look of wonder in her eyes. “I don’t think I’m jealous of Sodrin and Manarys anymore,” she said with a burgeoning smile.
EPILOGUE
The Sun at midnight
Jahna stood at the small window in Radimar’s equally small chamber and stared at the night sky, lit so brightly by the sorcerous flames of the Firehound spectacle that the stars faded. In the bailey and on the loggias, the celebrants for the festival and the guests of Sodrin’s wedding cheered the sight and raised their goblets in a toast to the bringer of light as it tore the hem of Darkness and spilled the sun onto the world.
As with all the years before this one, Jahna was content to watch it all from a distance, only this time, she wasn’t alone. Behind her, her lover sprawled on the narrow bed in exhausted slumber. His red hair spilled across the pillows like a sunset, and she ignored the glory of the Firehound to admire the glory of Radimar’s body illuminated by the light of a single candle.
He had drawn every eye at Sodrin’s wedding this evening, more than she did, for which she would ever be grateful. Thank the gods for silk sashes and the handsome redheads who wore them. Jahna sat beside him during the ceremony, happy for her brother and his new wife, even happier for herself.
She had left Radimar just before dawn, when the palace was still quiet, its servants just rising to begin their tasks, its guests just falling into bed or passed out on their pillows after a long night of revelry. Jahna had wanted to remain, but her body was sore and sticky, and she desperately needed a bath. The temptation to stay and loll in bed with Radimar had almost been more than she could resist. If she didn’t have a wedding to prepare for and attend, she would have given in to that desire.
Sodrin had estimated far more time than it actually took for Radimar to approach him. Jahna had been straightening imaginary wrinkles out of her brother’s wedding garb when a servant announced that the swordmaster of Ilinfan wished to speak to him.
Jahna feared she’d break her own fingers, they were tangled so tightly together as the two men clasped forearms in greeting. Radimar didn’t waste a moment. He wished Sodrin all blessings in his marriage and thanked him for the sash and the honor Sodrin bequeath him in the giving of it. His face was grim and set.
“Lord Uhlfrida, I’ve asked Jahna to be my wife. She has accepted. For her sake, I ask for your blessing.” His eyes narrowed, the tone of his invoice implying that blessing or not, Jahna would be his wife.
Sodrin adopted a serious expression before turning to Jahna, eyebrows rising and falling in a teasing wiggle. He raised a single finger and mouthed to her “One day.”
She hid her laughter behind a cough.
Sodrin faced Radimar once more. “I don’t know, Radimar.” His serious tone belied the amused expression he’d shown to Jahna. “Do you think she can make you happy?”
Caught off guard by the strange question, Radimar blinked before he rolled his eyes and grinned at Sodrin who grinned back. “If it weren’t your wedding day, I’d beat you with the flat of my sword for that stunt, your lordship.”
Unrepentant, Sodrin shoved them both out the door “I promise not to give orders to hunt you down and kill you Radimar if you elope with Jahna, as long as you do so after my wedding.”
The ceremony was a grand affair, and Jahna was relieved when it was over. Radimar sneaked them both out of the post-wedding celebrations to take sanctuary in his tiny broom-closet room. He was even faster at removing their wedding clothes and demonstrating to Jahna just how much he missed her.
He slept the sleep of the sated now, and she turned back to the window, hugging the blanket she’d stolen from the bed close around her naked body. Her toes curled against the floor’s icy stone, made even colder by the snowy air that swirled through the open window.
The Firehound story, told in flame and music, was nearing its end. Soon, all the torches would be guttered and the candles snuffed as the Darkness held symbolic sway, and the world waited within the shadows of the darkest midnight.
A muscular arm wrapped around her middle and pulled her back against a wall of hard muscle. Radimar leaned down to whisper in her ear. “You’ll catch your death standing there.”
Jahna tilted her head to one side so that he could nuzzle her neck. “No I won’t. Besides, we won’t be here much longer. It’s almost the darkest midnight.”
As if the crowd heard her words, the sorcerers wielded their spells and snuffed all the light in and around the palace. Except for the glitter of stars and a pale sliver of moon, the night was black as a crow’s wing. A waiting hush reigned until a whip crack of fire arched over the palace’s highest point and was followed by the flaming shape of the colossal Firehound racing across the sky. Torches and candles flared to life once more at the command of the sorcerers’ invocations and the celebrants roared their approval.
Jahna turned in Radimar’s arms and raised her face for a kiss. “See,” she
said against his lips. “The longest night is over.”
He drew back to stare at her for several moments in silence. “It is, sweet Jahna. It is indeed.” He kissed her then, and behind her closed lids, Jahna saw the sun.
About Grace Draven
Grace Draven is a Louisiana native living in Texas with her husband, kids and a big, doofus dog. She has loved storytelling since forever and is a fan of the fictional bad boy. She is the winner of the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice for Best Fantasy Romance of 2014 and 2016 and a USA Today Bestselling author.
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More titles by Grace Draven can be found here:
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The Chosen
by
Thea Harrison
In her visions, Lily sees two men fighting for her tiny country’s allegiance: the wolf and the tiger, each deadly, each cunning. One will bring Ys chaos and death, one a gentler path—but she’s destined to love whichever she chooses. The Midwinter masque is upon them, and the wolf is at her door…
Copyright © 2017 by Teddy Harrison LLC
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Thank you for reading!
~ 1 ~
Magic blew in on the winter wind.
As Lily stepped through great iron-bound doors and onto the slippery dock outside, the wind tugged at a lock of her hair. She breathed in deeply. The air was cold and damp, and the briny scent of the sea filled her nostrils.
Margot and the rest of the group followed her, instinctively clustering together for warmth.
Inside Camaeline Abbey, a rotation of priestesses kept a constant web of protections cast over the people who had taken shelter within, as well as the entire island. Camael was the goddess of the Hearth, and the abbey was full of brightness, warmth, companionship, and comfort.
Inside, the magic seemed little more than a nuisance.
Beyond the abbey walls was a different story. Here in the open, the atmosphere felt edgier, more perilous, as if imbued with malice.
Margot paused by Lily’s elbow, glancing at the sky.
Damned weather magic, Margot said telepathically. The caster has a hell of a range. It feels diffuse, lacking a central direction. I can’t get a clear read on where it’s originating from—can you?
Over the past six months, she and Margot had developed the habit of carrying on telepathic conversations. As long as they stood within twenty or so feet of each other, they could share insights and compare opinions in complete privacy. It was a useful trait, especially when they were around other people.
Frowning, Lily spoke slowly, feeling her way through the problem. I would need to travel some distance to be sure, but I think it’s likely several weather mages are working together. If they’re scattered across the countryside, we wouldn’t be able to track the magic back to a single source.
Several weather mages working to cast banned magic? Margot’s jaw tightened. Sometimes I hate it when you make sense.
Lily smiled at her ruefully. You only hate it when you don’t like my conclusions.
True enough. Margot made a face. Who do you think is behind it, Guerlan or Braugne?
Tension pinched the back of Lily’s neck, threatening to turn into a stress headache. I truly have no idea. It could be coming from either one—or perhaps even another kingdom is behind it.
Margot gave her a brief, grim glance. Curtly she gestured to the group, and everyone settled into their assigned positions.
Shivering, Lily tucked the errant strand of hair behind her ear with a gloved hand as she stepped into place. Along with the rest, she turned her attention to the large, squat barge that had launched from the docks of the coastal town of Calles.
The barge’s blunt prow crunched through the thin sheets of ice floating on the shallow sea around the island of Camaeline Abbey.
Winter solstice was still a week and a half away. Usually it was a season of celebration, culminating in the Masque of the Gods. This year the weather had turned unseasonably bitter, fueled over the past month by the bouts of magic cast by the unknown mages, and nobody felt like celebrating anything.
Within the next moon, the water between the island and the mainland would be frozen solid for the first time in generations. According to reports, the harvest in all the six kingdoms of Ys had been sparse, and now they faced lethal temperatures.
Lily thought of the small farmsteads dotting the countryside. If the weather mages weren’t stopped, many of them would lose much-needed livestock this winter. Probably family members as well.
There was a reason why weather magic was banned. According to international treaty, weather mages were supposed to cast only under royal decree to avert natural disaster.
With Braugne and Guerlan at the brink of war, the implications behind the current weather spells were frightening. Had the king of Guerlan broken treaties and brought a cursed winter to Ys, or had Braugne?
Whoever was behind the weather casting, they had to realize they would be killing people. And if that wasn’t bad enough, now the barge that plowed so inexorably toward them carried the infamous Wolf of Braugne himself to the abbey’s doorstep, along with a company of his armored soldiers.
They had ridden over the snow-covered horizon just after midday. If they had arrived a little later, they could have walked across the narrow strait. Instead, the soldiers manning the oars had to work to force the barge through the floating sheets of ice.
Lily glanced at her companions. Margot stood at the forefront of the group, watching as the barge drew closer. The young redheaded prime minister of the Camaeline Council was a striking sight in her fur-lined ivory cloak and matching gloves.
Six priestesses stood with Margot, three on either side, the women flanked by armed Defenders of the Hearth. Lily was the middle priestess on the left, just another woman among others.
Unlike Margot, nothing about her stood out. Her cloak was a humble brown, although thank the gods, it was lined and warm enough, and underneath it she wore sturdy winter boots, black trousers, and a thigh-length quilted winter jacket over a plain white tunic.
She was shorter than Margot, and darker, with olive skin, brown eyes, and fine brown hair that refused to grow past her shoulder blades or remain respectably confined by pins. In the summer, she spent as much time as she could outside, often barefoot, and the sun had tanned her to a deep nut brown.
There were a thousand women like her—a hundred thousand—working in farmers’ fields, minding shops, and tending to the highborn in their manors and castles.
Pleased with her anonymity, she tucked both hands inside her cloak. She was also pleased to see the other priestesses standing with the same straight-backed pride as Margot, as did the armed Defenders who flanked them.
In direct contrast to their composed appearance, the air churned around the group, filled with images only Lily could see.
What she called the psyches of each individual hovered above and behind their heads, like shadows thrown on a wall.
When she and Margot had been children in the abbey school, Margot’s psyche had been that of a gaunt, starving figure, and it had overshadowed her youthful beauty, at least in Lily’s eyes. No one else had been aware of it, and as Margot came from a wealthy, noble family, they would have been hard-pressed to believe Lily if she had told them.
Things had changed once Margot accepted the newly created position of prime minister of the abbey council. As soon as she had a place and a function where she was loved and needed, her psyche had filled out. No longe
r starving, it had turned fierce and protective.
The psyches of the other priestesses and the Defenders were restless with banked aggression, nerves, and outright fear, but none of it showed in their set faces.
Behind them, the gates to the abbey had been closed and barred in compliance with the Chosen’s orders. The gates were set into ancient stone walls that bordered the cliffs at the island’s edge.
In the nearest watchtower, members of the abbey council, other priestesses, workers, and townsfolk watched the impending confrontation through tall windows.
The stage for the meeting was set and the audience assembled. If nothing else, this should make interesting theater.
Within a few moments, the barge had neared enough that Lily could make out the features of various soldiers. They stood at parade rest.
The man at their head captured her attention.
The Wolf of Braugne was younger than she had expected, perhaps not yet thirty. He stood with his broadsword drawn, the tip planted in the planks between his feet, both gauntleted hands wrapped around the hilt. His dark hair was windswept, his hard face weathered from the elements.
Stories of him had tumbled across the six kingdoms. They had grown more horrific with each retelling. At midsummer, the Wolf’s brother, the ruler and lord of Braugne, had died in a catastrophic avalanche that collapsed a salt mine as well as destroying a portion of the nearby town.
Then the first whispers about the event had reached the abbey, followed by other voices that grew stronger and louder. People started saying the tragic avalanche had been no accident. In an act of pure, calculated evil, the Wolf had murdered his brother, the lord of Braugne, and even now he marched across Ys in a bid for power, executing those who would oppose him, including their children and babies, and burning their homes to the ground.