Page 29 of Unravelled
“Maybe,” came the lazy response, voice smooth, amused. “Still doesn’t mean it has to be our problem.”
A pause, then a slow, tease, “Bharalyn thrives because it doesn’t get tangled in other kingdoms’ affairs.”
Mira scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You cannot seriously believe that.” Her hand swept in a grand gesture, too grand, sending a half-finished drink dangerously close to toppling.
“These people, our ancestors’ people, deserve better! They should be able to sell their fish for a fair price! FAIR. PRICE.”
Another wide sweep of her arm, nearly knocking over a candle this time. “Not get scraps while some fancy bastards swim, swim, in their profits like smug little fish kings!” She paused, frowning. “Wait. Do fish have kings?”
A loud thunk as a cup slammed onto the table. A slow, wicked grin followed. “You know what I care about?” A hand clapped to a chest, fingers splayed dramatically. “Getting more mead before you convince me to overthrow the fish monarchy.”
“I would never. For I Am a Fish King Loyalist!”
With great drunken conviction, a fist was raised. “Fish King! Fish King! Fish King!” A sudden tilt, a hushed, conspiratorial whisper breathed against Mira’s ear. “But… are there fish kings?”
Another gaze flicked to her, full of mischief, urging her on, daring her to take it further. Mira smirked, locking eyes.
“If so…” she mused, leaning in, voice heavy with conspiracy. “They must be stopped.” A spark of inspiration flared, eyes widening, the fire of a grand mission taking hold. A finger jabbed toward nothing in particular.
“That’s it. I’ll find him. I will find the Fish King… and I will steal his mead.” A pause, a slow, knowing nod. “Because you know he’s hoarding the good stuff.”
And then, with all the conviction of a drunken hero, one of them pushed to his feet, swaying slightly before straightening and marching toward the bar, half-shouting, “Fish King! Show yourself, you fishy coward!” Laughter, low and warm, curled around her.
A shift. A change in the air. The firelight flickered, shadows stretching, twisting as something unspoken crept between them. A voice, low, edged with need.
“You get this fire in your eyes when you argue.” A pause, a breath, hot and deliberate. “It's addictive.” A beat. A glance, closer now. “Navigators, I need to touch you.”
A slow drag of lips against her neck. A sharp inhale. Fingertips tracing over the fabric, up her thigh, teasing, unhurried. The scandalous slit of her black dress, the one they loved, had already ridden up around her legs, granting easy access. A soft, breathy sound escaped her as she shifted, hips pressing instinctively into the touch.
Another hand, warm, curved around her back, pulling her closer, fingers skimming over the bare skin. Hot breath at her ear, voice thick with hunger. “I adore you, Mira… particularly with you in my lap.” She felt his fingers slide inside her as she gasped. She couldn't help clamping down, nails digging into his arms. Her gaze flicked toward the crowd, toward the oblivious revelers just feet away.
“We’re not alone,” she whispered, breathless, a warning laced in her voice. A quiet chuckle, sinful, unrepentant.
“They can’t see us,” came the response, low, teasing, hungry. Hands tightened at her hips, holding her in place. “But if they could?” A slow thrust, a deliberate drag of sensation. “Let them watch.”
Heat shot through her, spiraling, unrelenting. She let her head fall back against a shoulder, breath catching in a soft, helpless sound. A mouth ghosted against her throat. A deep, knowing chuckle. The words purred against her skin.
“Do you need more?” Her answer was a shuddering gasp, fingers grasping at the fabric of someone’s tunic. Desperate, needy. The hand on her back shifted and she was pulled fully into a lap, as his fingers leisurely pumped into her.
Lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Beg Mira....” came the demand, dark and dangerous. Pleasure was building rapidly. “I'll give you want you want, if you beg me...”
Her pleasure peaked through her like a storm, leaving her shaking, her body arching into him as the world blurred around her. She collapsed back against a broad chest, breath unsteady, still reeling.
A slow exhale. She felt his fingers withdrawing with deliberate care. A low, indulgent hum. Then, lips parting around slick fingers, sucking them clean with slow, sinful reverence.
???
Mira jolted, the memory clinging to her skin like a phantom touch. The warmth of her memory with Tharion vanished too quickly, leaving only the echo of their last kiss. The stillness, the unmoving weight of his lips against hers.
Tharion had wanted her once. She knew that. Felt it in every memory, but now? Beneath the sting of rejection bloomed a deeper fear. What if he doesn’t remember? What if the version of him she’d loved was gone? What if the man she was seeing in fragments had been buried beneath fractured memories and the wreckage Sarelle left behind? What if all that remained now was this silent stranger, this echo, who barely looked at her, who didn’t kiss her.
She exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over her face as she finally reached their quarters. The moment she stepped inside, exhaustion crashed over her, her body aching, her mind still tangled in the web of past and present. She collapsed onto the bed, boots still on, the sheets too soft beneath her.
As she closed her eyes, Mira tried, tried, to summon a memory of Tharion. When he had looked at her like she was the only person that mattered. When his touch had made her feel wanted, known, loved. But nothing came. No warmth. No clarity. Only shadows. Ren flashed through her mind. Unbidden. Unshakable. The ghost of him lingered in the library, where golden light spilled across ancient stone and dust danced in silence. Where his voice had wrapped around her name.
No matter how hard she tried to force the memory she wanted, all she could see was Ren.
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