Page 22 of Ember and Eclipse
“I don’t want to,” she argued and pulled herself loose from him, bumping into a table of drunken revelers as she did. The sooner they went upstairs, the sooner she’d have to think about her fate. And she wanted to find Silas and explain, even if she couldn’t tell him the full truth of the matter for his own safety.
Leeda, bless her, was there in a second, holding a round of drinks on a wooden tray. “Everyone hush!” she barked. It took a moment for the cacophony to die down. “These two are celebrating, so our next toast is to them. What’s the special occasion?” She looked expectantly between them, and Rel could feel the eyes of the tavern on them.
Devdan stared at her, too, a smile playing on his lips.
“Oh, uh, our anniversary. Married. We’ve been together for—”
“A year,” Devdan finished for her.
“A year!” Leeda crooned, then pressed cups into their hands and let those around them grab from the tray.
Raising her own cup up, the waitress shouted, “To star-crossed lovers!”
“And tangled sheets!” a patron responded loudly, drowning out anyone else’s response.
Rel drank, swallowing the contents quickly, the attention on her making her feel unsteady. Gods, she wished she could explain to Silas, or the whole damn tavern, that this wasn’t real, and—
“Well, kiss her!” Leeda shouted, and then a chorus of it took up, punctuated by fists pounding on the tables. “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!”
Devdan sat his chalice down and leaned against the table, dropping his height to something more reasonable. Then, he grabbed her low on her waist and pulled her into him, his legs bracketing her on either side. Running his thumb along her cheekbone before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he leaned down.
Too close. So close they shared breath. She attempted to pull away, but he held her firm. “Just know, this is your fault,” he murmured low, his lips whispering against her mouth. And then he kissed her.
It was a harsh kiss. The kind enemies gave in dimly lit taverns or only in the moment before killing each other. But it was opposed by the lingering sweetness of their drinks and his soft, warm lips.
The tavern erupted in cheers and encouragement.
When he pulled back, his lips brushed over hers again as he said, “Let’s go to bed.”
To anyone else, it would sound like the passion of a husband who was in love with his wife. But she knew better. She backed away, shaking her head. Going with him felt like giving up. It felt likedying.
“When my wife doesn’t listen to me, I just swat her bottom a few times. She straightens her act up real quick,” a short, thick man barked from the table Devdan leaned against. Laughter and agreements came from the men around him.
A roguish smile appeared on the hunter’s lips, causing her to take another step away. He stood up, closing the distance between them much faster than she could escape.
He hauled her up over his shoulder in a single swift movement. Her head swam from the sudden motion and being upside down. His hold was tight around her, and she finally struggled against him, her fists pounding against his lower back. She didn’t care that they were making a spectacle.
“Put me—”
Even through the layer of fabric, she felt the sting of his hand on her backside. Once. Twice. The shock froze her, and heat rushed from her neck to her face. Out of embarrassment, but mostly out of rage.
“There you go!” the man bellowed.
They were in the stairwell a moment later, and Rel lifted her head to look at where she had last seen Silas, but he wasn’t there.
Devdan easily traversed the stairs, and the sound of the festivities below became duller with each step.
“Youspankedme,” she finally said, incredulously, hitting him with her fists again to punctuate the words.
“And I’ll do it again if you don’t stop hitting me.”
“Put me down,” she ordered, and then she bit him, drawing a satisfying grunt from him. His arm tightened around her, and he gave her a yank, ripping her teeth from him. All she managed was to get his tunic stuck in her mouth.
But that wasn’t what made her wrath take over her body. He landed the next swat on her other cheek, the sting sharp and warm. She reached for one of the daggers at his waist, committed to killing him right then and there, but couldn’t quite pull it from the sheath at this angle. Resigned and dizzy from the last drink, she fell against him, waiting to be on her feet again before she fought him.
“You really can’t handle your spirits,” he mused, ignoring her demandandher murder attempt.
“I handle them”—a hiccough—“just fine.”
