Her skirt had only a few leather strands left. For Thronos’s sake, she shifted the garment to cover her front, which gave her an ass-less skirt.
He flicked his gaze over her torso. “You’re burned worse than I thought. You need to rest and regenerate.”
“Where? We have no idea what dangers surround us.”
“Then we need to get to higher ground while my wing heals.” He surveyed the horizon.
She saw only flat terrain, a sheet of slate-gray stone that matched the dismal sky. “If there is higher ground.” But he could see farther than she could.
“Come on.” He took her hand in his.
Though the rock had countless craters—just ideal for her acid-eaten stiletto boots—she said, “I can walk on my own.”
“I know you can.” He kept her hand. After that Pandemonian hell zone, he seemed to have a constant need to touch her.
Still fearing something would take her away from him?
Whatever he’d seen had changed this man. So what would happen to him once they ultimately separated . . . ?
For now, hand in hand, they set off, wending around larger holes.
“What if this is another dream?” she asked. “That hallucination was so realistic.” You know, Thro, the one where we were having hot interspecies action.
He nodded. “I feel as if I’ve known you. Almost.”
“We’re lucky that none of it happened. You didn’t commit any offendments. I didn’t almost get pregnant.”
“If we weren’t bespelled, then why did we feel such frenzy for each other?”
She didn’t have to read his mind to know that the guy in Thronos wanted the two orgasms he’d given her to, well, count. “Placebo effect maybe? All I know is that Feveris—or faux Feveris—changes nothing.”
“I think I’m your mate just as much as you are mine.” Cocky Thronos was back.
She repeated her standard reply. “Sorceri don’t have mates.”
When he opened his mouth to argue, she held up her free hand. “I’m too tired for this, Thronos. At least wait until all my skin regenerates before you hassle me.”
With a scowl, he started forward once more, toward a horizon of nothingness.
Nïx had told her to set worlds aflame. What could Lanthe possibly affect in a place like this? And she hadn’t exactly been a torch in that belly.
Lanthe had thought she could at least learn from this experience, from her travels. All she’d learned from faux Feveris was that Thronos could be sexy as sin, and that he had a very talented—pointed—tongue.
Oh, and that being intimate with him had been life altering.
For her.
When they’d lain in each other’s arms . . . as if nothing had ever torn them apart . . .
As the terrain grew even more challenging, he took her arm, helping her along. Gods, her awareness of him had gone through the roof. She could not, could not, could not be falling for Thronos.
Doomed did not even begin to describe a future together with him.
If she told Sabine, “I want to be with a Vrekener,” her sister would have no doubt that Lanthe had been brainwashed. Which would make Sabine and Rydstrom murderous.
How could Lanthe keep them from killing Thronos? Oh, wait—she couldn’t.
A briny gust of wind howled over the flats, chilling her bare skin. To escape her current dismal reality, she lost herself in thoughts of her sister and their new extended family, bracing for homesickness. She missed Sabine to the point of pain. She missed Rydstrom, their bedrock of stability. She missed her gurgling nieces with their downy blond hair and wide violet eyes.
The elder by seconds was called Brianna, Bri for short, and the younger was Alyson, or Aly. Cadeon and Holly had wanted to name their girls after loved ones, but in the end, the appeal of three-syllable names that could be shortened to three-letter nicknames was too overwhelming for Holly (she had an OCD thing for threes, thwarted in itself by twins).
Aly and Bri were little badasses. Everyone had been worried about the Pravus making attempts on their lives—as the vessel of this Accession, Holly had certainly been besieged by them—but there’d been no cause for alarm.
Lanthe’s nieces were super brilliant, could already trace. If they sensed danger—or bath time—they would simply teleport their diapered butts away.
When hungry, they traced right to their mother’s breast, which still freaked out the rather staid Holly. Cadeon thought it was uproarious, would croon praise to them. The twins and the boobs.
Rydstrom’s ne’er-do-well mercenary brother had finally done well, abandoning his soldier-of-fortune past to build a life and start a family with his mate. Like Rydstrom and Sabine, Cadeon and Holly were as opposite as they could be.
Maybe the differences kept things interesting. Lanthe’s gaze was helplessly drawn to Thronos.
But none of their factions were at war. None of their siblings would want to murder significant others.
She felt . . . despairing over the future. Because she couldn’t have Thronos? She wished she didn’t know how warm his chest was when he held her close—or what it would be like to make love to him.
Lanthe was a sorceress who wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. . . .
Not to be.
Despair promptly turned to resentment. Thronos had done this to her.
Made her wonder. Made her imagine more.
After several minutes of silence, he said, “I can’t stop thinking about Feveris.”
She yanked her hand from his. “Try!” When another gust hit them, she glared at her surroundings and kicked a stone. “This whole ordeal is like motherf**king Time Bandits, and I’m over it!”
“Don’t know who those bandits are, Lanthe.”
“Of course you don’t.” Because he’d never watched a movie in his eternal life.
They had nothing in common, except for some shared childhood experiences and recent hallucinatory orgasms.
Extremes.
Thronos now knew what it would be like to lose Melanthe forever, powerless to save her, forced to watch her die.
But he’d also glimpsed what it would be like to claim her as his woman. Neither experience had actually happened, which made him question if he were truly here with her even now. And she wondered why he kept touching her?
In their last two realms, he and Melanthe had been tested together—making him feel closer to her. Yet she was drawing away.
The situation wasn’t helping. Her skin was wounded. She must be freezing from regeneration, and still half shocked over where they’d been.
She was probably starving as well. He had no idea when they’d last eaten. How many days or weeks were we within that beast? Already, he’d suspected Pandemonian time moved differently. He could only guess how long he and Melanthe had been missing.
He helped her over a gulley, his thoughts ricocheting among four things: concern for her immediate safety, reliving her death in those harrowing loops, recalling his pride as she’d manipulated those demons to save him—and relishing how she’d responded to him in their dream of Feveris.
For the latter, he lowered his mental shield, letting her hear his musings loud and clear.
He replayed her wet heat kissing the head of his shaft . . . the pressure of her sex beginning to squeeze the crown as he inched inside . . . her pulse racing because she’d needed him too . . .
“It wasn’t real!” she insisted.
“It feels bloody real!” No one got his wings up like she did! “Damn it, I know your taste. I know your moans. Why are you so eager to deny what we felt?”
It was as if she considered herself weak because she’d surrendered to it. And all I feel is strong.
“Because it never happened!” Brows raised in challenge, she said, “If that hallucination truly took place, then shouldn’t Nïx’s lock of hair be in my pocket?” She dug into the waterlogged leather strip, one of the last remaining.
She pulled out a lock of Valkyrie hair.
He gaped. Could Feveris have been real?
Melanthe pinched her brow with confusion. “No, no. Nïx must’ve planted this on me when she attacked me on the island. She could’ve slipped this in when I was unconscious. Or maybe she was in the beast herself?” Melanthe shoved it back in her pocket. “Don’t look at me like that!”
“Like I made you scream with pleasure?” He closed in on her. “Face it, sorceress, I nearly claimed you as mine—and you loved it.” They were toe to toe. “You wanted me inside you. You wanted more. Nothing can ever take that away.”
“That would’ve been disastrous!” She looked half enraged, half wary.
He reached forward to brush his thumb over her bottom lip. “I want to get us back to where we were before we got interrupted.”
“A male wanting sex from me.” She jerked away from him. “How novel.”
“You know I want more than just sex.” He grabbed her upper arm, drawing her close once more. “I want everything from you.”
Her lips parted, but then she seemed to collect herself. “Just because Sorceri don’t dwell on regrets doesn’t mean we set ourselves up for them either. What you want to happen between us just . . . can’t. We’re too different. Our families and factions would never accept this.”
“Maybe a relationship between another sorceress and a Vrekener would prove impossible. But we’ve been through too much. We’ve earned each other. You can’t deny that. If you took away all the strife surrounding us, could you accept me?”
She didn’t reply, wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Look at me, Melanthe.”
When she eventually faced him, he stared into her eyes, seeing that same vulnerability he’d beheld when he’d been about to claim her.
He thought he was beginning to understand it. . . .
In Pandemonia, he’d discovered his mate yearned for love. She’d never found it with another—and she clearly wouldn’t settle for anything less. She’d told him she would give her heart only to the right male.
I’m that male.
Looking at her now, he comprehended that she felt vulnerable—because her heart was already in play. He believed he could make Melanthe fall in love with him, claiming something from her all his own.
“Let me go, Thronos.”
“And if I say never?” In that moment, he realized exactly how he should handle her sorcery in the Skye. The solution was so blindingly obvious, he almost slapped his forehead.
With a groan of frustration, she kicked his shin; he cupped her nape, pulling her close for an overdue kiss—
A metal net descended over them.
He yelled, splaying his wings, snaring himself in the weighted lines.
“Oh, gods, it’s like the tentacles!” She dropped to the ground, cringing away from the mesh. “Get it off, get it off!”
“Trying!” When he clawed the metal, sparks erupted. Mystically protected.
Just as he scented foreign creatures over the sparks, Melanthe cried, “Stheno sentries!”
Before he could reach her, she’d been snatched out from under the net. He lunged for her, thrashing to get free, until one of the towering creatures propped Melanthe up like a doll to hold a trident at her neck.
They were surrounded by a dozen vicious Sthenos, nine-foot-tall gorgons with crimson sea snakes for hair. Each sentry carried a trident.
“Release us,” Melanthe commanded, blue light emanating from her eyes and hands. Nothing. “Release us now!”
The largest Stheno, and obvious leader, said, “Your powers will not work on us, sorceress. We have been divinely shielded.”
Time to fight, then. His gaze flicked as he calculated his next several moves—until the Stheno holding his mate threatened her with more than a trident.
Sea snakes coiled down to drape over one of her graceful shoulders, their fangs bared, forked tongues twitching.
Melanthe swallowed. “Their poison . . . I might not recover from it.”
He froze, holding up his hands.
The leader said, “You’ve erred by trespassing in Sargasoe, kingdom of Nereus.”
“The sea god?” Melanthe asked.
“The deity Nereus, our lord and master. You will attend him in his keep, where he holds feasts of celebration. Depending on His Highness’s mood, you will either be guests—or the entertainment.”
FORTY-ONE
The Sthenos had bound and blindfolded their captives, making the descent from towering cliff to sea level even more perilous for Lanthe. She wanted to tell them that she could never, ever find her way back to Nereus’s keep. But they hadn’t exactly been chatty.
—What is this god like?— Thronos asked her on their unending trek along a beach.
Lanthe supposed the Vrekener was getting over his telepathy hang-up. —Nereus is a party-hearty trickster, like a cross between Pan and Loki. He’s notorious for his games and manipulations.—
—What happens if we’re “entertainment”?—
—Probably something that’ll make you want to take a boiling shower and scrub your skin with steel wool. Let’s just put it this way: I don’t think I’ll be able to twerk my way out of this.—