Page 78 of The Witch Queen

The instant Carex is gone, Thorne’s at my side again. He presses me against the door, one arm up and body crowding mine like the night of the Solstice dinner. This time, I feel no conflicting emotions, able to fully appreciate the feel of his hard, strong body pressed against mine.

Thorne leans down and whispers in my ear. “Are you really going tospeakwith me about my tactics, witchling? I can think of much more exciting things for you to do with your mouth.” My blood heats, imagining some of those very things.

I lean into him, eyes ablaze. “As long as you are sufficientlypunished, the method means little to me.” The words surprise me.Who is this person flirting with Thorne, because it can’t be me. I’m not this witty.His eyes widen, and unbridled lust rips across his expression. He snares me between his arms and crushes my body with his.

“I have been verybad.Very bad indeed. I’m afraid I’ll needhoursof punishment.” My skin is on fire, my breath coming quickly. I lick my lips, and Thorne’s eyes trace the movement with predatory intent. I can’t keep a shudder of satisfaction from washing over me. An arm wraps around my waist, and he spins me quickly so that he’s behind me. His hands caress my hips slowly and with the awe of a male starved for touch. One hand leaves my hip and slowly wraps up in my hair, pulling my head back with a gentle tug. It’s exhilarating. “Do you know how my cockachedevery time this ass pressed against me in training?” he murmurs, grinding into my backside and increasing the pressure of his tug on my hair. I can feel the way it affects him, hard length pressing into me, and my thighs clench with need. “I would wait for just the right moment to get the upper hand on you, every day looking forward to pressing my body up against yours.” I let out a whimper, and his other hand leaves my hip to cradle my breast. He circles my nipple with his fingers, while his other hand continues to tug my head back into him, forcing me to arch my back toward him in pure need.

“Laurel,” he growls in my ear, and my toes curl. Every nerve in my body is alight, anticipation making me hot and flushed. Now I’m the one grinding against him, and I can practically feel the smugness enter his body. He presses once more into my ass with that hard length. “When you decide you’re ready to accept this, to lay claim to me, I’m going to take you from behind so hard you won’t remember your name.” Lightning sparks in my core, but he releases me. “But not until you’re sure.” With that, he walks away, casually trailing his hand over the back of the leather sofa. Chills race along my body in his absence, and my need demands that I push him down on the chair closest to us and ride him until we both forget who and what we are. But my rationale wins out, and I take a few steadying breaths. “Ready to go speak with Admon?” he asks, eyes shimmering with playfulness and the satisfaction of winning whatever game we’re playing.

“I—er—I need to change.” It’s an excuse to get a moment to collect myself alone in my closet, to pull myself together and attempt to get a handle on this bone deep need. He merely sits down in a chair and picks up a book I left on the side table next to it.

“Take your time.” He waves at me, casual and effortless, like we’ve had a hundred interactions just like this one. For once, I appreciate his ability to command every room he’s in instead of feeling jealous of it. And there’s a tiny voice in the back of my mind that whispers to me what a powerhouse the two of us could be together. I push it down, determined to find out more information about the mating bond before I make any rash decisions.

In my closet, I take a few more deep, steadying breaths, then dress in a fresh pair of tight leather leggings with tall, leather, heeled boots. My black tunic is sleeveless and deeply cut. I shake my hair out of its braid, leaving it loose and wavy around my shoulders. I dab my lips with red lipstick.Two can play at this game.

When I return to the sitting room, Thorne looks me up and down, gaze heating. “Ready?” I say, challenge in my eyes. He continues staring as a cocky grin spreads from ear to ear, like he knows exactly what I’m doing and loves every minute of it.

“Lead the way, witchling.”

“Explain to me the moment you say you knew you were mates,” Admon gently says in his comfortable rooms next to the palace library. We barreled into his room during his dinner, claiming we were mates and asking him for whatever information he might have. The old fae had graciously let us in and offered dinner or drinks, the very picture of nobility. When we declined refreshments, he slowly seated himself across from us and started asking questions, a genuine sense of curiosity lining his queries.

“I realized first, after I drew her blood. As soon as I scented it, this bottomless awareness washed over me, like she was the answer to a question I’d been asking all my life,” Thorne says, wonder back in his gaze as he looks over at me. How can he feel so calm and in awe when he talks about it? I’m baffled. My instincts—the voices that sound so similar to my parents—are screaming at me to run from this bond, to not let Thorne in.

“Was it the same for you, Laurel?” Admon asks, breaking me out of my spiraling. Admon’s eyes twinkle with knowing.

“No,” I say slowly. “Thorne had to guide me there.”

“There?” Admon asks. “Is it a place?” His curious observation remains focused on me, parental in his attention.

“In a way, it is. I have this source of magic, buried deep within me, that I only really realized existed today, though I think I might have sensed it before. Especially since Thorne arrived. And when I focus on that source, I feel a swirling around it, like something’s trying to get in. That source whispered to me what we were.” Thorne looks at me with his brows furrowed. Admon notices.

“Is it a different experience for you?” Admon asks Thorne.

“The whispering is the same,” Thorne begins. “That’s how it started, right when I scented her blood. And I feel a source of magic too, something that I never realized I had. Now that it’s changed, I can remember feeling it my whole life. But the form of the source has changed for me. It used to be almost like a rock of light. Static and unmoving. Now, it’s constantly churning, and I feel a cord connecting me to Laurel.”

Admon frowns, lost in thought. “You do not feel such a cord?” he asks me. I shake my head.

“The cord, or thread, or whatever it is. It’s what helped me find Laurel after she left,” Thorne adds. “I focused on it, and it helped me find Laurel. The whispering intensified as I got closer to her, telling me she was in danger.”

Admon looks sharply at Thorne, concern for me written clearly across his features. “She was in danger? How so?”

“I don’t understand it,” Thorne says slowly, brow furrowed in concentration and eyes wandering, like he’s remembering the moments in the cave. “When I reached her, it was like all the aether was being sucked out of her. I somehow knew if I didn’t do something, I was…” Thorne chokes. “I was going to lose her.” His eyes drop to his lap, expression shuttering with grief. I stare at Thorne and the raw emotion on his face. I don’t understand how he could have such deepfeelingsso quickly.

“And how did you save her?” Admon asks.

“I pulled as much aether together as I could into the surrounding light—more aether than I’ve ever controlled—and had it cover her body with healing power,” Thorne says matter-of-factly, as if that’s a totally normal thing to do. “Then I willed the aether to disperse into her, willed it to fill her back up.” Now it’s my turn to stare at Thorne with awe and confusion.

“How long did it take her to recover after you pushed the healing aether into her?” Admon asks, still showing signs of concern that make me nervous.

“Not very long. Just a few seconds.” Thorne squeezes my hand as if to assure himself I’m still there.

“Then we’re very lucky indeed that your magic worked so quickly. I’ve never heard of such a thing. This was incredibly dangerous, Laurel,” he chastises, and I lower my head in shame. “You know better than to isolate yourself when you’re feeling out of control with your magic.” His words are stern, the voice he used when I was young and he was my teacher. I pick at my nails, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. He’s right—one of the first lessons we ever had was the importance of finding someone to help me if I felt like I was losing control. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Admon adds, voice tender.

A strange feeling crawls along my skin, like my magic is trying to tell me something. The whispers that come from the source of my magic start up, but they’re incoherent. Admon abruptly stands, then walks out of the room. I look at Thorne, who just shrugs at me. We wait in silence for a few minutes before Admon returns, carrying a massive book. He thunks it down on his dining table. As he cracks the pages open, dust shoots in all directions.

“This is an ancient text we have on the fables of the fae,” Admon informs us. “It details all the myths of our kind, and I remember there is an entire section on fae mates. There may be some truth to these tales. At the very least, it’s all we have.”

I stand behind him, looking down at the characters written across the page. “What language is this?”

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