Page 8 of Heartsong
“Assault you? Assaultyou?” Her voice had gone high-pitched, a cadence even Frey, whose mother and sister had passed when he was young, knew was dangerous when it came to women.
“Yes, assault me. I assume you were aiming for my cock just then. The angle was wrong and I am likely too tall for that maneuver.” Not that he intended to give her any reason to strike at him again.
She screeched again, a horrid sound he was growing to hate.
“Let me go!”
“I cannot,” he said. “Not when I’ve waited so long for you,cân fy nghalon.”
Her movements ceased so suddenly that Frey had to catch his balance. Widening his stance, he peered down at his mate, curious what she’d do next. Those luminous, dark eyes were scowling at him. Also something he was coming to dislike.
“Whatare you?” she demanded. “You have wings! And horns!”
“And claws and fangs,” he agreed, flashing his at her in a smirk. If possible, her face paled even further, and she seemed to ball up in his arms, as if to get away from him.
Stop frightening her, dolt.
“I am a guardian. My kind, we were made to protect. You have no need to fear me.Especiallynot you, my heartsong.”
“I don’t…you were a statue ten minutes ago!”
A dark growl worked up his chest, one he couldn’t bite back even as he felt her shudder in fear at the sound.
“Yes. My kind was cursed over a thousand years ago. We’ve rotted in our stone prisons ever since. I do not know how or why I have come to be here, but I can only think it the work of the goddesses. They have brought me to you.”
“W-what?” She started wriggling again.
“You awoke me, my heartsong. Your touch…when I felt it on my leg, the curse released me. Iwoke.”
She shook her head, more vehemently than Frey thought necessary, and to his horror, her eyes began to glitter with tears.
“No,” she groaned, “no no no no—that’s not possible. Statues don’t come to life!”
“My kind aren’t statues. We are guardians, first made by the Pritani Celts of Albion and cursed by the Faerie Queen.”
A hysterical sound, not quite a laugh, burst from her mouth. “Celts. Faerie Queen. With magick, I suppose.”
“Rock, blood, and magick made us, yes. The Faerie Queen stole ours, those of us she did not slay, rendering us stone. None of us knew how to break our curse, but we have solved it tonight, you and I.”
She blinked up at him, her head lolling from side to side in denial.
“No…”
“You are my mate, my heartsong.”
“No…”
“Your touch woke me from the stone sleep.”
“No no no—”
“I am Frey,” he said over her rambling, “of the Clawtip clan. Proud son of Uther and Angharad, descendant of Cadfan the Rock-Born, and your mate.”
Another odd sound, a sort of long, low whine, came out of his mate’s chest. Frey tried not to be too offended—he understood what a story he told and honestly couldn’t quite believe this was happening himself. Any moment now, he expected to wake up from this dream of holding his mate close to his beating heart. Soon, he’d be back in that quiet room he’d spent centuries in, the silence of the curse deafening.
He held her a little tighter, desperate for that not to be so.
He needed this to be real, for her to be real. He couldn’t go back.
