The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

Roark nods and glances once more around the camp. “This is a good place to stay. Hard to find and sheltered from the battlefield’s view. We expect Goodfellow to try a direct assault on the sídhe through the fields.”

“If he has any power left, he’ll go for the sealing. He’s a flashy bastard with no taste,” Sláine adds. “He’ll want to make a statement.”

“Could you and your warriors support us from the trees?” Roark asks. “A last resort, I assure you. Mother may not regret her actions tonight, but I have no desire to watch you take such losses again.”

Is that actual regret in his voice? I never expected that. I shift on my seat, glancing into the flames before responding. “That sounds reasonable.”

“I’ll send Smith with the battle plans once they’re finalized. I’ll have to draft a second set for you. I don’t want Mother to know yet.”

“I’ll warn the guards to let him pass.” More likely, one of the Hunt will, since they’ve been subtly eavesdropping this whole time.

The conversation seems finished, but Roark lingers. His brow furrows and he blurts out an unexpected question. “You said he was hurt when he returned?”

“His favorite brother gave him permission to walk away from his home and his birthright.”

“We’re still family,” Roark points out. “He’s always welcome home. But he isn’t happy with us.”

“Not like he is with you,” Sláine adds. He gestures to the Hunt. “Family is more than blood.”

“Whatever happens,” Roark says, “we won’t forget who spent centuries protecting Lugh in our stead.” He grows painfully formal, but presses on. “Thank you for keeping him safe. And for letting him be himself.”

The princes leave quickly, their dark forms vanishing into the even darker night. The Hunt reclaim their fire without a word, but they’re all smiling, soft, gentle expressions horrendously out of place on their weathered faces. Armel murmurs he’ll handle the guard. I nod, intent on getting back to bed and scraping out a few hours of sleep. Really, I shouldn’t be surprised to find Lugh awake when I slip back inside the tent.

“How much did you hear?” I ask, stripping out of my clothes once more and crawling under the blankets with him. He’s warm and pliant against me, and my body stirs despite the late hour.

“Roark’s bringing you plans in the morning, which means you agreed to fight.” He skims his hand against my ribs, where the pink lines of the almost fully healed injuries are the worst. “Are you sure about this? Will the clans understand your change of heart?”

“I think so. They’ll understand more when I turn it into a legend about the Faerie Courts’ capitulation to us. Besides, Roark’s promise is specific. It has value.”

“Good.” Except, he doesn’t sound convinced. “Still, I know you don’t trust Roark fully. Why did you agree to it?”

Childhood memories drift forward like gossamer threads. Halfur and I fixing broken fishing nets. His teaching me to split wood after I complained about having to stack it. His bright smile when I snuck him extra rations before he left on his first voyage with Father and the other men. Halfur fighting in the burning village. Dying before my eyes. I clear my throat and answer, “They’re your brothers.”

“Roark told me to go.”

“There’s no escape from the Court for him. His path is set. He wanted you to have a choice. My brother—” Lugh’s hand stills against my ribs and I have to fight around my grief for a moment. When it passes and I can speak again, I continue, “Halfur was older than me. Things were harder then, so we were always working or he was off on a voyage with Father, but it never changed my view of him. I never questioned how much he cared about me and wanted to protect me. Even when he fell to the ljósálfar, he did so putting himself between the enemy and me. I may not like your brothers, but I understand their actions. Most of all, I understand the pain you would feel if you lost them.” I tilt his chin up so our eyes meet. “And I would keep you from such pain forever, if I could.”

He parts willingly with the kiss I steal. I sigh when he combs his fingers through my hair and brush my tongue over his lips, coaxing him to let me taste him. The kiss goes on, growing into something hotter, something bordering on desperation. Lugh crawls a little lower in the blankets, enough so our hips align. Heat licks through my belly, consuming even as the rightness of this settles deep into my bones to comfort me, even as I reach down between us to take him in hand.

He groans and nips at my throat when I begin to stroke. Learning his desire becomes my life’s purpose. The flex of his muscles when I slow, the teasing scrape of his fingernails over my bicep when I speed back up, the sloppy kisses he tries to take through gasping breaths...all details I intend to memorize and practice over and over until I’ve mastered them. He pants into my collarbone, trying to stay quiet and failing in the sweetest way. I falter when his hand brushes mine and lose my earlier rhythm. Not from awkward hesitation at the thought of his touch, but from the overwhelming desire to feel his hand on me, to go over the edge with him and to lie in each other’s arms in the contented lull that comes after.

He freezes and I press against him. “Lugh, I need... I want you to... Gods, touch me, please.”

I kiss him and pull his hand to my cock. His tension disappears and he smiles against my mouth as he explores me. He traces my length from root to tip, wraps his fingers around my girth, and touches me with such reverence I wonder how I’ll last. Time loses all meaning. He continues his attentions until I’m shaking and unable to hold in my rough grunts of pleasure. He pauses when I gasp out how close I am and adjusts his grip, until he has us both in hand.

“Together,” he murmurs, and hums his approval when I mimic him.

“Until the end,” I breathe.

He begins to move and the slide of our skin together is too good. He leads me higher and higher, until I’m arching into him, gasping his name out on a desperate prayer. I move our hands faster, chasing the high of our heat and closeness, and then he’s falling with me. Always with me.

The afterglow buries itself into my muscles and I can’t rouse myself from our bed, even though I know we’re going to be a sticky mess if we don’t clean up. Lugh laughs and takes it on himself to crawl out from under the furs to find something to wipe away our spend. He mutters complaints about the night’s chill and returns quickly with his ruined shirt. He fusses over me with a brilliant joy. I rarely allow him these kinds of moments when I’m not ill from the transformation. I regret my stubbornness now, when he cleans my skin with gentle caresses and runs his fingers through my hair and beard. He kisses my cheek as he settles into my embrace and whispers his love once again. I don’t need to hear him say it. Every touch declares his feelings, probably always has, though I’ve never let myself notice. Tonight, I finally see how Lugh wants to care for me as much as I want to care for him. In the future, he can dote over me all he wants.

The future. A precious gift we may not receive. Gods, even if we fall tomorrow, let us find each other. Give me a sign that we will be together in your golden hall.

No sign comes, no matter how long I wait. I pull Lugh closer, fighting the rising fear of tomorrow’s battle with the reminder that he’s here, safe and sated, in my arms. He must understand, because he doesn’t ask what’s going through my head. He simply wraps an arm around me and squeezes back. We drift off that way, huddled together against the oncoming storm.

Chapter Twenty-Five