Page 6 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
Bare.
Naked.
They were both naked.
Everything stilled around him; he didn’t even breathe as he realized his situation. Their situation.
Moaning rang in his memory, along with grinding bodies, and a desperate need for release. He put his weight on his elbows and looked down to find deep red hair. Tired green eyes blinked up at him.
It was Nia.
She had been using him as a pillow.
Her eyes widened and she scrambled back with a yelp, but didn’t get far. The rope still tied around their wrists snapped tight, yanking him forward. He hit the grass with a grunt, then pushed up onto his hands, dragging her part of the way back with him.
She landed face-first in his bare lap.
Lochlan went very still as his brain went blank and blood rushed south. Ache bloomed, harsh and sudden—a reminder that he’d never found relief. He hadn’t let himself. But now he hardened instantly, involuntarily, and completely inappropriately. His body didn’t care. It knew exactly what it wanted, even as his mind scrambled to slam on the breaks.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted.
She jerked back. Darkness gathered around her and hid her naked body from him. He blinked rapidly, desire battling with awe as he watched her magic come to life. The dark shadows moved like smoke. It was mesmerizing. Trailing petunia suddenly appeared alongside her shadows, the dark velvet petals and vibrant green leaves cocooning her chest and thighs.
“Stop it!” she snapped, attempting to shuffle farther away. Her power sliced through the rope, then the flowers, giving him one more accidental view of her body before it vanished again in blossoms and darkness. He caught a glimpse of faint fingermarks—almost certainly his fingermarks, he realized with a pang—bruising her hips. Her voice echoed in his memory, low and breathless, begging him for more. But he hadn’t let them go that far. They were too drunk. He’d stopped, even when it nearly broke him. Still… the way she’d wrapped her legs around him. He hadn’t meant to leave marks. But seeing the evidence of their night while she looked so wounded filled him with uneasy doubt. “Leave me alone!”
“I’m not—” Lochlan stopped and couldn’t breathe past the pounding in his chest. He brought his right hand up: a thin wisp of darkness danced across his knuckles, twirled around his fingers, and twined with the rope still wrapped around his wrist.
It was a hand-fasting rope.
There were rumors of hasty marriages during supernatural events, but it was laughable to think that could happen to him.
“What the goddess is this?” Nia’s voice was edged with panic as she looked between him and the hand-fasting rope. She had stopped struggling—whether from exhaustion or the weight of their intertwined magic, he wasn’t sure. Her gaze burned into him, demanding answers he didn’t have. “Tell me we didn’t actually do this.”
“What’s mine is yours.” A memory flashed, filled with the sound of husky laughter and the taste of a sweet drink.
Oh fuck, he was married to Nia—practically a stranger. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as his head throbbed. Hastily, he covered his front with his hands and turned his back to her, scanning the grass for his clothes.
She gasped and his skin prickled with heat. His hand shot to cover his ass, but it was a futile effort; his palm barely concealed one cheek. He could only imagine what she was seeing—and thinking. Unease flared in his chest, leaving him feeling more exposed than ever.
Did she notice the scars winding up from his ankles, fading as they reached his knees? Would she ask? Would she care?
The thought made his steps falter, and he nearly missed the scattered remains of a piece of clothing: his underwear. A spot of denim caught his eye a few feet away, and he walked toward it, gathering his scattered belongings. When he picked up a silky purple dress, he hesitated, then brought it to Nia with his eyes firmly shut.
“This can’t be happening,” she muttered, snatching the dress from his outstretched hand. He turned away to give her privacy, pulling his shirt on—inside out, of course.
“Wait,” she said, a note of accusation in her voice. “Are you a wood devil?”
Lochlan froze. He turned back to her, his shirt halfway over his face. “Wood devils don’t exist.”
“A wood devil would say that.” She rubbed her bare arms, shivering.
Without thinking, he gave her his jacket. “I’m a witch,” he said, his tone flat. “If you didn’t notice, my magic has mixed with yours. Which means?—”
“Don’t say it.” She covered her face with both hands, stepping back. “If you say it, it’s real.”
Lochlan flinched. Would he ever get used to the sting of being unwanted?
“I’ll fix this,” he offered quietly.
