Page 34 of A Song of Saints and Swans
Spring needs to arrive soon!
“What‘s the matter?” Anthia propped herself up on her elbows—concern forming a wrinkle between her brows. “Where did your vines go?”
I glanced at my skin in alarm, no longer able to see my vines at all.
Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Realizing my swan was still waiting for a reply, I blurted out, “I’m just nervous, that’s all.”
Not completely a lie…
A sly grin crept over her face. “Don’t be nervous, Jarilo, god of springtime, war, andfertility.All you need to do is fill me with that thick cock while your vines hold me open for you.”
My panic instantly dissipated, leaving pure lust and blessed calm in its wake. “Yes,Anhel,”I whispered, falling into the same state I thought only Rena could help me achieve. “I only exist to serve you.”
Until I no longer exist.
As my words of adoration floated toward the Prav like a prayer, I lined myself up and slid inside the most perfect creature I’d ever encountered.
Curling my body around hers, I brushed my lips over her mouth again, greedily capturing the moan that escaped as I bottomed out. Licking my way inside, I rolled my hips, finding the perfect angle to bring her the most pleasure.
“Yes,” she breathed as her thighs tightened around me, and that was all the permission I needed.
Knowing she was strong enough to take it, I withdrew only to plunge in again, harder and deeper, every point of contact lighting me up, tasting like immortality itself. Instantly recharged, my vines reappeared, snaking toward her arms and legs—holding her steady so I could worship her.
Like the goddess she is.
Everything that wasn’t Anthia ceased to exist as my rhythm turned more forceful, more wild. Vines tightened around her wrists, dragging them over her head like a pretty prize, while others twisted around her calves and thighs, capturing her ankles behind me and lifting her hips to meet me thrust for thrust. Another set of vines snuck between us, teasing her nipples and clit until she began tightening around me.
I lost myself to my primal nature, to the sound of distant drums transporting me to the time when all that mattered were the full moons and seasonal cycles, and how much blood, sweat, and cum I gave to the rituals of man.
“Yes, yes, please, Jarilo, yes…” she chanted, calling me closer to the brink.
Her voice was like a Rusalka’s song—urging me to sink my teeth into her skin and take what was mine. But I refused to bind her to me if I was only going to die.
Biting the inside of my mouth so hard I tasted blood, I rode my angel through one orgasm, then another.
I’ll give you everything.
Instead of claiming her like my soul was desperate to do, I filled her with everything I had—silently vowing to spend every second I had left making her feel whole again.
So you can continue to shine, long after I’ve faded into dust.
Don’t Shoot the Messengers
MARENA
Even when she was still a human, Vasi was an expert on mortality. One couldn’t grow up in the harsh conditions she had and not have a unique understanding of how fleeting your existence was.
Watching your mother die at a young age will have that effect on someone.
It was when her own step sisters sent her to her doom that she first met the Baba Yaga—and first glimpsed her three fated Riders. The clever girl cheated death that day, and again years later when I rescued her from Koschei. And then again, when the Yaga tried to send her to the Nav, only to have Vasi drag the old hag along and return alone—victorious.
If anyone has nine lives, it’s Vasilisa the Brave.
Given her intimacy with death, the witch immediately understood my suspicions about Margo’s demise. That Konstantin believed absinthe from an unregulated distillery killed her only supported my theory.
The distillery Vasi and her men were investigating produced vodka, not absinthe, but all that meant was the remaining heads of the defunct Facility were broadening their net.
