Page 42 of Oathborn
Sweet, foolish Dae, who would always believe the best in people. No, rest would not come for Tivre, not until he was dead. Tivre kissed him again, just to know what that hope tasted like, before blurting out, “Did you know this bed folds down? From the wall? I can show you, and—”
Uninterested in Rhydonian technology, Daeden pulled him back down. With one hand he set to work on Tivre’s belt. As much as he would have enjoyed explaining more about the marvel of modern trains, Tivre decided that Daeden’s current pursuit was acceptable, as well.
It had been months since they’d last kissed, and Tivre found himself surprisingly overcome with emotion at how right, how good it felt with Daeden. Which was stupid, given that kissing an Oathborn was never a good idea, especially when one was plotting to undermine the Queen.
Then, Daeden did that lip-biting maneuver that he was so damn skilled at, and most rational thoughts fled Tivre’s brain. He let out a low growl, matching Daeden’s intensity, and tangled his hands in the golden hair, tugging gently.
Daeden asked, between kisses down Tivre’s neck, “How long do we have before the girls come back?”
“If I lock the door, a few hours.”
“Do it. Zelle will be safe with a new Oathborn at her side.”
That was the problem. Zari wasn’t an Oathborn. Unlike Daeden, she had no superior skills, no innate senses to keep herself safe. There wasn’t a drop of fae blood in her, either, which meant no magic for her to rely on. An Oathborn was an apex predator. Zari was about as dangerous as a potato.
Still, she was with Hazelle, and the train itself was safe, as far as Tivre could tell. Whatever flickers of magic he’d perceived must have been Hazelle and Daeden. The broken magic? That was surely Javen, but he couldn’t have followed the train, not when Tivre had woven spells around the whole station to cloak his trail.
Daeden furrowed his eyebrows at the zipper on Tivre’s trousers. This was the first time he would have encountered such a thing, unlike Tivre, who’d unlaced, unbuckled, and unzipped all manners of Rhydonian clothing. Dropping his hand, Tivre undid it for him, and was rewarded with his lover’s delightful ministrations.
Tivre focused once more on Daeden, on his lips, his muscular body, all of him so perfect and so dangerous. No matter what sweet words the fae had said, Daeden was Oathborn first, and a fae of flesh and blood and beating heart second. Then again, at least Daeden had a heart. Tivre was sure his own had turned to stone ages ago.
The way Daeden touched him, coaxed him toward release, though, made Tivre wish he could care more, made him wish he could promise Daeden that nothing would come between them again. Such things would be lies, though.
Destiny always had a way of ruining any affection Tivre held toward someone.
“Wait,” Tivre whispered, for he was close to the edge and wanted this small, wonderful moment to last. “Kiss me again.”
Daeden moved up on the bed until their faces were level, and did as asked, his fingers running through Tivre’s hair. When their romance had first begun, Daeden never dared to touch the white locks, as every fae was taught the snow-colored hair was a mark of divine favor. Now, he was far braver.
Except at this moment, he was frowning. “Your glamour is slipping,” Daeden commented, wrapping a lock around his finger. The brown color was sliding away, leaving it white once more.
“I know,” Tivre muttered.
“And you’re unarmed. I was at least expecting you to have a few knives on your belt.”
Also true, apart from any magic he might summon. “Dae, trust me. Anything you can point out, I’m probably aware of.”
The wonderful heat of the moment dissipated, as Daeden, once more the trained warrior, seemed to take in just how unprepared, at least in his eyes, Tivre was. With a disgruntled snort, Daeden moved off the bed.
Tivre sighed. “I’m trying my—” A sharp, sudden spike, another hint of magic pushing against his wards cut him off, stealing his breath as swiftly as a punch to the gut. “Did someone follow you?”
Daeden shook his head. He closed his eyes, listening, attuned to everything around him. “I don’t sense anyone.”
Which meant whoever, or whatever, had interfered with Tivre’s wards was powerful enough to also cloak their presence from an Oathborn.
If Tivre wanted to find out… he’d need more power. Right now, his magic reserves were drained. This far south he had only one choice; to surrender to the goddess’ will and beg them to allow him a bit of their deeper power.
It was risky. Impossible for a normal fae, but he was a Godspeaker. His life was spent with the divine barely out of reach. Just as an exhausted person might feel the pull of sleep, even when trying to stay awake, Tivre always sensed the goddesses. When he gave in, the barrier to the divine shattered. Magic filled his senses, coloring everything with silver light, overlaying past and present, memories and dreams, with the fragile, current reality.
There was Dae, a soft steady pillar of faint green light, and Hazelle, a bright beacon of pink. Each fae’s signature magic color made them easy to spot. Zari’s glamour let him track her, like a hound on a scent. What else was there? Were other fae approaching?
As Tivre spread his senses, so too, did the tide double its pull on him. It roared in his ears, filled his ears, his mouth, the tides taking him. He gasped for air, eyes opening to nothing but a wall of silver. No past, no future. No people, even. Just the soft hum of the goddesses, lulling him to sleep.
“Tivre,” A familiar voice. Calloused, strong hands holding his. “Come back.”
He wanted to. Didn’t he? Returning would mean leaving this beautiful star-filled ocean, with its silence, its peace.
Rest,a lovely voice purred.Stay here.
