Page 117 of The Savage Queen

He smiled, flashing his fangs. “Ask me what lies I would tell if I could.”

The fae king twirled Aisling, stopping her so her back faced him, finding her waist and bringing her flush against him once more. Her spine against his abdomen.

Lir found the slits in her dress and slipped his hands underneath, sliding his palms to the round curve of her hips. Elegant fingers pressing against her skin, the sensation coursing through her muscles and dizzying the mind.

Aisling inhaled sharply, leaning the back of her head against his shoulder. An invitation for him to slowly graze her neck with his fangs. The pulse in his throat, beating against her own with increased need.

“Very well,” she said, her voice thick with wanting. “What lies would you tell if you could?”

Against her own volition, Aisling pressed her backside against him and moved. Lir let loose a noise Aisling could only describe as half exhale, half growl, his heart thrashing against her shoulder blades. The music, the spirits, the surrounding realm churning, bubbling in a forge that revolved around Aisling and Lir as they danced. As their thread pulled, groaning, and fraying with desire.

Lir reached through her arms from where he stood behind her, grazing the naked flesh where her neckline began with the back of his knuckles––intentionally or not, Aisling couldn’t tell.

He grabbed her throat, then her jaw, turning her head so she could see the darkening of his eyes as they bled black with yearning.

“I’d lie and say I care nothing for you,” he said. “I’d tell you I want nothing to do with you. That I pray you stay as far from me as this realm could take you. I’d lie and say I wish I never thought of you. That you didn’t possess my every waking thought.”

Lir’s hands traveled further, finding the inside of her thighs as she danced against him. Pressing the tips of his fingers into the soft flesh between her legs, just beneath her apex, as though forcing himself to stop short. As though begging whatever will remained to shackle his need. His every movement more protective than the last as the spirits celebrated around them, closing in. Splashed them both in fae wine and petals from the hanging branches above. The smoke purling into Aisling’s lungs till the chamber burned in a soft gold as they shifted, moved, glided through the hall in a mess of limbs, of wetted fangs, of hot pulses, and reckless whispers.

He released her legs, moved his hands up till one pressed her lower abdomen, moving her hips back so her backside shifted against the hardness of him. Aisling inhaled sharply. So, Lir slid his free hand and held her throat gently, turning her head so it faced him.

“Whatever it is you truly covet, Lir: power, vengeance, both at once,” Aisling said. “Our binding will risk it all. Would be a damnation.”

Lir leaned forward, as though to kiss her. To taste her lips but forced himself short.

“For a kiss,” Lir said, “I’d damn the world.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t lie.”

“I can’t.”

The music broke and the sea of spirits cheered, clapping their hands. And in the abrupt shift, Lir and Aisling broke apart.

Aisling, flushed, adjusted her dress, forcing herself to stand on weak knees. Lir also composed himself, posture shifting back into the barbarian lord of the fae before her eyes. As though their dance had been nothing more than the work of the love potions Aisling and the Tilrish children would brew with spices and champagne they’d stolen from their family’s banquets.

Aisling couldn’t deny the sight of his walls building once more stung. Needled into her chest. Everything, her gown, her pinned hair, the festival, she and Lir, were just a phantom, bursting into mist at the insinuation of a passing breeze. Just pretend.

Yet it was for the best, Aisling knew, no matter how painful. For caring for the fae king was a death sentence—a promise of heartbreak.

But Aisling didn’t have the luxury of time to dwell on her own feelings or lack thereof. Her attention was swiftly diverted by the jeering of the spirits around her. Fists in the air, a storm of petals descending from the vaulted ceilings, punctuated by butterflies of all size and color.

A spirit couple stood at the top of an imperial staircase.

They were miraculous, shifting in the light, their edges bleeding like mist. The female smiled at the male. The dimples framing her pearlescent beam, familiar. Her beauty familiar, feline, and resplendently lovely, clad in a dress made entirely from the wind and accented with highland mist. Spirals of silver hair spilling down her back, and beneath her headdress, a crown that sprouted two snowy owl wings from both temples, partially covered by a red veil.

Beside her, the male worshiped her with a mere glance. He was breathtaking as well, sage green eyes crinkled by the force ofhis smile. Brushing aside his shoulder-length dark hair to reveal a pair of twin axes at his back.

Hiraeth.

Aisling paused, whipping her attention to Lir.

The fae king was entranced, ceasing all movement. His lips parted open and eyes glazed the longer he forgot to blink.

Aisling herself felt as though her stomach were in her throat. Recognition dawning.

This was Ina and Bres, their spirits reliving theirSnaidhmfor all eternity.

Aisling wasn’t certain if Lir was enraged or overjoyed, heart aching or filled with sorrow. Only that he froze, watching his parents with undiluted attention. But Aisling and Lir couldn’t remain here, for already the spirits’ attention was sliding to them despite the dance having ended. Lingering would only result in their death.

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