Page 16 of Crown of Light and Ashes
I melt into him, my body remembering his even after months apart. The kiss deepens gradually, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips before I part them with a soft sigh. My hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath rough linen. His arm circles my waist, drawing me closer until there's no space left between us.
"Nesi," he whispers against my mouth, my name a prayer and a plea. His hands slide beneath my tunic, calloused palms warm against my skin. "We don't have much time."
"Then don't waste it talking," I murmur, pulling him down to the soft moss beside the stream. In this moment, I don't care about my mission or my duty. I need to feel something real, something that belongs just to me, before I surrender to a life bound to a man I despise.
Aslan's mouth trails down my neck as I arch beneath him. We undress each other with desperation and need, our bodies remembering this dance despite the months apart. His skin is golden in the filtered light, marked with scars I know the stories behind. I trace them with my fingertips, each one a mission survived, a moment when death came close but failed to claim him.
When he enters me, I gasp, clutching his shoulders. Our bodies move together in perfect rhythm, a harmony we've perfected over years of stolen moments like this. I lose myself in the sensation, in the weight of him above me, in the sound of his breath catching when I move just so.
"Look at me," he whispers, and I open my eyes to meet his gaze. The raw emotion I find there makes my chest ache. We're not just lovers seeking release; we're two people clinging to something precious before the tide of duty and politics tears us apart.
"Stay with me," I breathe, though I know it's impossible. "Just for now, stay with me."
"Always," he promises, his movements growing more urgent. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, trying to memorize the feel of him, the scent of him, the taste of his skin against my lips.
The clearing around us fades away, the boundary between Shadow and Light irrelevant as we create our own world in this moment. Nothing exists beyond his touch, his breath mingling with mine, the building tension coiling tighter with each movement.
Aslan thrusts into me, and I'm so close to coming, but a deep voice shatters everything.
"Don't stop on my account."
Chapter Five
Mine
Kaan
I DON'T RUN. Shadow Lords don't fucking run.
But as I move through the forest with uncharacteristic urgency, my strides are longer and more purposeful than I've ever permitted anyone to witness. The shadows around me writhe and twist, responding to the rage that burns cold in my chest. Black tendrils lash out at passing trees, leaving deep scars in ancient bark. Wildlife scatters before me, sensing the predator in their midst.
My bride. On her wedding day. With another man.
The guards who reported her missing are already dead. Their screams were brief—I didn't have time for creativity. Just enough to satisfy the initial surge of fury that threatened to consume the entire east wing of the palace.
My shadows found her quickly. They always find what I seek.They whispered her location to me, painting images in my mind of a border clearing where light and shadow meet. But they showed me more—showed me she wasn't alone.
I slow as I near the clearing, my shadows extending ahead of me, silent scouts reporting back with every heartbeat. What they reveal makes my blood freeze, then boil.
She's there, my Light Court bride, pinned beneath a man on the forest floor. Her hair—that glorious dark hair I've imagined wrapped around my fist—spreads across the ground like spilled ink. Her golden eyes are closed, her lips parted in pleasure as the man moves against her. Between her thighs. Inside what is mine.
The shadows around me convulse, sharp as blades and hungry for blood.
I inhale slowly, bringing the rage under control. Not to diminish it—no, I'll need every ounce of that fury—but to shape it, hone it into something precise and devastating. I want to savor what comes next.
I step into the clearing.
The man—boy, really, with his light brown hair and pathetic attempt at a warrior's build—notices me first. He freezes mid-thrust, his eyes widening in recognition and terror. Good. He should know who's come to end him.
"Don't stop on my account," I say, my voice deceptively calm. "Though I must admit, your technique could use improvement. Thenagain—" I gesture dismissively at his body, "—one can only work with the tools one has been given."
Nesilhan shoves him away, scrambling to cover herself with her discarded tunic. The sharp intake of her breath, the horror blooming in those golden eyes I've dreamed of—it's almost worth the betrayal, just to see that perfect composure finally shatter.
"Kaan," she whispers, and the fear in her voice is intoxicating.
The man—her lover—positions himself between us, drawing a pathetic short sword from somewhere among their scattered clothing.
"Stay back," he warns, as if he has any authority here, as if he isn't a dead man already breathing on borrowed time.
