Page 43 of The Last Wish of Bristol Keats
Her mouth skimmed the bristle of his chin, nipping at his jawline, her breaths warm against his wet skin. “Thank you for this,” she whispered, “but I don’t want you to worry about me, Tyghan. I’m a knight now, remember?”
For twelve full hours. “Got it, Keats,” he answered, and brought his mouth to hers, their tongues barely touching, caressing, a delicate signal passing between them but with a message that was as deep as the ocean.I love you.
Bristol leaned back into the circle of Tyghan’s arms. He locked them gently beneath her breasts and she lazily rested her head on his shoulder. “Take me for a tour of your lake.”
They floated together, Tyghan’s legs gently moving them along, gliding like there was no hurry, no tomorrow, no up, no down, only the gentle sounds of the falling water and them—exploring the secret place and each other. The shoreline, the fig trees, his finger skimming her lips, her mouth closing around it. The mossy banks, the passion flowers, her hand pressed to his chest, letting his heartbeat become her own. His mouth breathing air into hers when they dipped beneath the surface, the music she heard in her head, as languid as his thumb strumming the knots of her spine. Gravity gave up its laws to them; the stars pressed closer, curious at this new center of the universe.
Yearnings. Dreams. The past. The future. Time folded over on itself.
They circled the lake again, because one time wasn’t enough, the thin moon sinking lower in the sky. The climbing clematis, the giant oak, his teeth dragging across her shoulder, his knees spreading her legs, her nails scraping over his back, their words few.
They stumbled onto the bank, the moss a velvet cushion beneath their backs, the heel of his palm stroking her while his fingers pushed inside her, every touchpoint aching with pleasure, her muscles loosening and tightening all at once. Her pelvis rocked forward against his touch.
Their mouths met over and over again, as they gripped each other and the ground for purchase, because they needed more, because there were never enough ways to know each other. Bristol lifted her knees, her legs circling around his back, to let him in deeper, his arms straddling her shoulders, looking down at her, memorizing her face as he pushed in. Slow. Slow. Torturously slow. Pulling out just as slow, memorizing the feel of her. But then pushing back faster, harder. Pounding, deeper, his breaths shuddering, his eyes narrowing, her hips lifting higher. “Look at me,” he said, “look at me.” And then harder, the glorious ache between her legs building, her back arching, the throb exploding, his eyes a thousand blue splinters flashing in her vision, his gaze still sinking into hers as his thrusts came harder, the hoarse moans, and finally his head thrown back, coming undone, coming into her. And even when he reached a crashing height, it wasn’t over. He still pushed, his throbs receding like a slow tide, his moans softening.
Finally, he pulled out, and fell back beside her, panting. “You’re going to kill me one day, Bristol Keats.”
She smiled. “But what a way to go?”
The frog croaked, hoping to disturb the amorous couple. It had little effect. He hadn’t always been a frog, and still had vague memories of walking on two legs before a curse changed all that. It wasn’t so bad being a frog, at least not here, but he didn’t like sharing his paradise with others. They needed to move on. He croaked again, louder, to no avail, their whispers and laughter cutting into his tiny frog heart, reminding him of lost love and bad choices. He hopped off into the shadows, trying to ease the pain in his warty chest and to convince himself that life as a frog was preferable to a broken heart.
Bristol stared into the sky, smiling at the croaking somewhere in the darkness.
“Therearecreatures here,” she whispered.
“None that can ever harm you.”
Rivers of heat warmed her. The way he said it, like a declaration, a vow, a warrior at her side poised to slay any threat. Her fingers inched across the mossy blanket, searching for his hand, her palm pressing onto his knuckles, the peace of the stars settling into her bones. All of this only two nightjumps away. Nightjumps she nearly rejected, but courage and trust turned them into something beautiful, into the best decision she ever made.
“I’m ready,” she whispered.
“To go back?”
“To see the markings.”
Tyghan stood behind her, knee-deep in the water, angling his palm between her back and the waterfall, focusing the light of the moon and stars onto it like a reflective mirror. “You don’t have to do this,” he said for the second time. We can—”
“I do, Tyghan. Not just for all of you. But for me too.”
“All right.” He took a deep breath. “Ready?”
Her chest fluttered with a lifetime of warnings drilled into her by her parents.Look away. Run. This truth is too big for you. Too dangerous. Some things you don’t need to know.
But running never made the problem go away. It just delayed the inevitable, giving it more power. She couldn’t go back to the illusion of a ladybug birthmark. She didn’t want to. Whatever she had to face, she had to face it now. And somehow that decision was freeing, a giddiness overtaking her, like when she made the decision to return to the Willoughby Inn and strike a deal with the fae. She was taking back a portion of power.
“I’m ready,” she said. “Show me.”
The image in the waterfall rippled, trying to focus. Tyghan blew out an even breath likehewas trying to focus. Maybe this was harder for him than it was for her. He had already had time to think about what the markings meant—and maybe he feared the worst.
This would be the first time she had seen the tick since the day it was revealed to her in Madame Chastain’s treatment room all those weeks ago. Its hideous dark shadow loomed in her memory again, and queasiness lifted her stomach like she was plunging down a roller coaster. She swallowed, refusing to be dissuaded.
She heard Tyghan’s strained breaths behind her and the air grew heavier, sound turning to syrup, and everything seemed to slow—including the waterfall. It shimmered now, like a glassy sheet of water, and she could almost feel the sweat on Tyghan’s brow as he commanded the elements around them, drawing in the shadows, directing the light, a reluctant demigod revealing one of the things he couldn’t control—who or what she was.
Her blurred back came into view, sharpening breath by breath, until the image was as crystal clear as her dressing room mirror. The first thing she noticed was the dim shadow of the tick at the small of her back, barely visible now, like it had burrowed deeper into her so no one could find it. The dimness made it less horrific. But then her gaze rose.
She stared, trying to discern what it was, and she became a child again, looking at her mother in a motel bathroom and seeing something that didn’t make sense. But this time she didn’t scream and run. Skirting the edges of her shoulder blades were golden marks, diamond shapes, and trailing down her spine was a line of more diamonds. They almost looked like—
Her stomach lurched.
