Page 53 of A Crown So Cursed
I nod. “Together,” I echo, and drink her in, in no hurry to claim what I know she will give. Why rush when I never want this to end?
She takes my hand, leads me to the bed, her gaze never leaving mine.
The light—strange and spectral—limns her hair in a halo.
She is as changed as she is unchanged, and it delights me beyond all reason. I came to know and love the mortal as much as I did her counterpart.
Her hair falls into her face, and I brush it back, exposing the stubborn set of her jaw and the tremor at the edge of her lips. I want to devour that tremor, taste it, but I linger, worshipping the shape of her shoulders, the hollow of her throat, memorizing every curve anew.
She lies back, watching me, a smile turning her lips. She knows the effect she has, her eyes alive with triumph and mischief and hunger. She moves with the surety of a woman who has commanded armies, but she yields to me now, inviting me to worship at her altar.
And I do.
With infinite care, I stretch beside her, tracing the hollow above her collarbone. She shudders, exhaling a ragged breath, and my body grows harder, straining for her—no, for us. For this is not merely a union, but a reunion: her body, mine, and mine, hers.
“I've missed this... and you... so much.”
It’s impossible to say which of us has spoken, so complete is our accord.
Her hand covers mine, pressing it to her cheek, and the gesture is more eloquent than any vow. My heart hammers, overwhelmed by the force of what I feel. “We're here now,” she says. “Together. And nothing will part us again.”
The fire in her voice ignites something feral within me. With a growl, I roll atop her, pressing her body beneath mine. She melts into me, arms tight around my neck, clinging with desperation to match my own. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply—her scent, lavender and spices, is a balm.
My fingers tangle in her hair, anchoring me to this moment, this reality where she is finally, truly mine again.
“My love,” I whisper against her lips, feeling her shiver.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders. “My king,” she breathes. “My home.”
And for a time, we simply lie together, lost in the sanctuary of our embrace, my mind racing with memories—our first meeting in Aengus’ court, stolen moments in moonlit gardens, the agony of our first parting. Every trial, every heartache, has led us here. Slowly, I pull back to search her eyes. “I swear to you, Gwendolyn—no force in this world or any other will part us again. And…there is a ritual,” I add, voice low. “It binds two souls, intertwining our essences beyond any carnal act.” My thumb traces her cheek as I speak, each circle sending a tremor through her.
“Tell me more…” Her gaze never wavers.
“Through this, we share not only our lives, but our very beings. Our strengths, our weaknesses, our magic—we are one.”
She laughs, bright and wicked. “Even our bodies?”
I laugh too, the sound raw. “No. Thank the gods.”
The laughter fades, and the silence that follows is thick with anticipation. I take her face in my hands, thumb caressing her cheekbone, and she leans into my touch. “Yes,” she whispers, squeezing my hand. “A thousand times, yes…”
Her words strike me like a spell. She trembles, but her gaze is iron, as though two eternities might merge in a single breath. “You understand that once done, it may never be undone? We are bound for eternity, through this life and the next?” I draw her close, eager to begin. “My brave, beautiful queen,” I whisper. “You never cease to amaze me.” I brush her lips with mine—a feather-light kiss, reverent with the knowledge of all we have been, and all we have lost.
My hands tremble as I map the contours of her face—the sweep of her cheekbones.
She meets my gaze. “Yes,” she says again, barely more than a breath.
“Do you remember the night in the Druid village when we…”
“Yes,” she says, smiling, and it is all I need.
“We started, but never finished,” I say. And then slowly, I untie her robe, baring the curves of her breasts. Her nipples harden in the cool air, and my fingers trace the line of her neck. “Ready?” I ask, voice thick with hunger.
Gwendolyn nods, her heart thundering in time with mine. I lean in, lips at her ear, fangs teasing her lobe. “It may hurt,mo chroí,” I warn, savoring the endearment.
Her pulse stutters, and she nods, eyes locked with mine—a trust so deep it shames me. My fangs graze her flesh, and she closes her eyes, bracing. I bite, sinking my teeth into the space above her heart. The taste of her—sweet, wild, absolute—floods my senses. This is communion beyond blood; it is the mingling of our very selves. I feel the moment pain surrenders to pleasure, as the Aether of my life pours into her.
My cock hardens to agony, if it were not already so. I know what she feels. I crave it for myself—that wild surge, ancient and pure, burning through her.
