Two Twisted Crowns (The Shepherd King, #2)(81)

Ione’s face was unreadable. “The King will never allow a wedding. My kin are traitors. Infected.”

“So are his,” Elm bit back. “My father has always kept the infection close, so long as it served him. Ravyn, Emory—his own nephews, infected.” Elm sucked his teeth. “There are many things the King does not want made public. Should he wish them to remain quiet, he will not challenge me on this.”

Ione rounded the throne. Elm parted his legs, and she stood between them. “And if I hadn’t saved your life?” she whispered, gazing down upon him. “Are you so honorable that you would marry me, a stranger who’s been nothing but cold to you, just because your father skipped a few words in a marriage contract?”

His eyes glided over her mouth. “Charitable of you to think me honorable.”

“You are.”

“And you’re hardly a stranger.”

“You don’t know the real me.”

Elm softened his voice. “I know there is a warmth in you not even the Maiden can confine. No one who feels nothing would work so tirelessly to get their feelings back. I also know you love Elspeth—and not despite her infection. You simply love her.” He ran his thumb over Ione’s bottom lip. “I think, behind the Maiden, you love a great many things, Ione Hawthorn. Even this wretched kingdom.”

When she let out a breath, Elm leaned forward, traced his nose over her jawline—whispered into her ear. “I’d like to know the real you. Whenever you’re ready.”

Ione went still and didn’t speak. The silence settled into Elm, shaking his resolve. “I’ll make no demands of you,” he managed. “When you release yourself from the Maiden and find you still do not care for me, we need never—”

“You think I don’t care for you?”

His breath stole away from him. He looked into her eyes. “Do you?”

There was no reading her face. But in that moment, Elm was certain Ione was warring with something. Maybe it was the Maiden’s chill. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the same thing he was warring with.

Hope. Delicate and thread-thin.

Ione lowered her head, brushed her mouth over his. “I’d like to try.”

Tightness fisted Elm’s chest. “I’d be your King, but always your servant. Never your keeper.” He arched up, dragging his knuckles down her chin, making her lips part for him. “Think about it, Hawthorn.”

When she spoke, her voice was full of air. “I don’t want to think right now, Elm.”

He reached into her hair and pulled the pin out. Yellow gold, it fell down her back. Elm wrapped it around his fist like a bandage. “Then don’t.”

He kissed her, without pageantry. Ione sighed into this mouth, and Elm hauled her onto his lap, marveling once more how she utterly filled his hands. Her knees pinned his sides, and when she thrust her hips forward, her soft against his hard, she pushed Elm deeper into the throne.

“You look good in this chair.” She glanced down through her lashes at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Under me.”

Elm tugged her hair, baring her throat to him. He dragged his bottom lip up the warm column—took in a full breath of her. “That’s the idea,” he murmured into her skin.

Ione pressed harder into him. Rolled her pelvis over his lap.

Muscles spasmed everywhere. “Ione.”

“Is this what you want?” Both of them were breathing hard. “Me? Here?”

It took all of Elm’s fraying self-restraint to pull back. His body was pleading to the point of pain to be inside her. But he couldn’t. Not with the part of her he wanted most still locked away. He shook his head. “When I bed you, Ione, I want you to feel it.”

A flush blossomed from the torturous neckline of her dress, floating up her throat into her face. But her expression was blank.

“I’d like to know the real you,” Elm said again. He kissed her slowly, intently. “I’ve wanted to know you since I saw you all those years ago, riding in the wood, mud on your ankles.”

Ione pulled back. Whatever she saw on Elm’s face made her eyes widen. She sat up, finding his hand, lacing their fingers. “Come with me.”

She led the way out of the throne room. The King’s court was still in the great hall, drinking and dancing, unaware that their new High Prince, moments ago, might have gladly debased himself atop the throne.

Ione pulled him up the stairs. When they got to her room, she shut the door and latched it, pushing Elm up against the wood. She kissed him once, hard, then pulled back.

“It’s going to hurt,” she said, “when the Maiden lets me go. When all the feelings I haven’t felt come rushing in. Are you sure you want to see that?”

The moment held Elm in place. Even his breath had gone shallow. Ione dipped her hand into her bodice. When she pulled it back, the Maiden was between her fingers. “Do you?”

He managed only one word. “Please.”

Never breaking their gaze, Ione held a finger up to her Maiden Card. With three taps, she released herself from its magic.





Chapter Thirty-Seven

Elspeth





The moment Petyr sought to enter the alderwood, the trees barred his way. It seemed the Spirit of the Wood would not let anyone who was not already infected into her lair.