They rushed out of the bailey and over the drawbridge. Wind blew Ione’s hair behind her like a thousand beckoning ribbons, and Elm let out a breath. He always felt washed clean, riding away from Stone.
Autumn was slipping, the frost slow to melt. Soon, it wouldn’t melt at all. They kept to the main road for a quarter of a mile, and then, so fast Ione had to jerk her reins, Elm veered his horse west, down an embankment. When they bottomed out, he took the path he’d long since memorized. Then, across a grassy plain, Elm unleashed his horse.
They cantered through the open field, parting the mist with their speed.
Ione spurred her horse—caught him until they rode neck and neck. Her eyes were wide, yellow hair a storm. But just as Elm began to worry the speed was too much, she tilted her head back, deficient of all pageantry—
And laughed.
The sound rolled through her body into Elm, undoing his last brick, his last barb. Ione’s face was wide open, not a hint of ice or restraint. Her eyes were creased and her freckled nose wrinkled, the gap between her front teeth visible as she smiled. Elm took in the sight of her—memorized her—praying he could get to his sketchbook before the lines of her smile faded from his memory.
He doubted they ever would.
She must have felt his stare, because when Ione shifted in her saddle and looked at him, her gaze was expectant.
Elm reached over, snagged her reins. It was impossible to kiss on horseback, but he leaned over—brushed his mouth over hers—kissed her just the same.
Ione tugged the reins. When the horses stopped, Elm dismounted and reached up for her waist. She slid from her saddle into his grasp, crashing her mouth down upon his. “Thank you for this, Elm,” she whispered into his lips. “For everything.”
He’d never get used to how it felt, hearing her say his name. Heady, sweet, wistful.
They made it to a copse of trees before sprawling out in the grass, fumbling with one another’s clothes. Salt stung the air. Elm kept his horsehair charm woven tightly around his wrist and Ione hers on its mended chain around her neck.
They rolled, caged in each other’s arms. Elm pinned her to the ground and put a knee between her legs, guiding them open, whispering words of adoration into her mouth, words like warm and divine and I can’t fucking breathe when you look at me, Ione.
Ione’s hand slid under his tunic and up his back, pressing into the lean muscles along his spine and shoulders—the places he’d taken beatings as a boy. When she freed him from his tunic, her eyes traveled over his bare chest, studying its contours. Fingers wove into his mess of auburn hair. Her voice was hushed, coated in awe. “You’re beautiful.”
“No. That word is only for you.” Elm leaned back and pulled her onto his lap like he had on the throne. Only now, there was no shadow forged of rowan trees looming over them. There was fresh air, mist. Mourning doves cooed. A gossamer breeze came in waves. It draped itself over Elm, pushing the wild hairs along Ione’s forehead into his face. Everything was gentle, soft.
Delicate.
Elm found the knot at the end of her bodice. There would be no knife. No tearing of fabric. He took his time, his fingers slow as he loosened her laces.
Ione didn’t rush him. She was too busy memorizing his face. Running her fingers over it. Searching, measuring. When her bodice fell, dragging her dress down with it and leaving her bare to the waist, her hazel eyes were still on him.
“The way you’re looking at me,” he said, cupping her chin, “terrifies me.”
“Why?” She ran a hand down his neck, his chest, the line between his abdomen muscles. “Did no one ever love you before, Elm?”
“Not like this.” Closer. He needed her closer. “There’s never been anything like this.”
Elm lay on his back atop his cloak. He dragged Ione’s leggings off and she straddled him, light hovering over her yellow hair. He reveled in how warm she was, how perfect the weight of her was against his body, how delicious it felt when she freed him of his pants.
Her eyes went wide. She dropped her hand—measured him anew. “Elm.”
He hissed through his teeth and pressed a hand over her lips. “Careful what you say. You’ll spend me too soon with that wicked mouth of yours.” He pulled her down, kissed her slowly. “I want this to last, Ione.”
She braced herself on his chest, and when they started, it was agonizingly slow. Elm watched her face, looking for pain, ready to stop the moment he saw any. But Ione eased onto him, hips tilting this way and that, finding her comfort, which became Elm’s comfort, too. Inch by inch, she descended. And every memory of pleasure Elm had ever carried fractured in his mind, replaced by this. By her.
He held her hips. When he arched up into her, Ione sucked in a breath. He froze. “Did that—Are you—”
“You won’t hurt me. There won’t be any pain between us.” She dragged her thumb over his bottom lip. Elm nipped it, and she smiled. “Unless we’re in the mood for it.”
“They’ll be time for all manner of sordid things, Miss Hawthorn. For now, just—” His voice quieted. “Just keep looking at me.”
When Elm started moving inside of her, he couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Yellow hair was spilling everywhere and Ione’s face was flushed and so vulnerable, hazel eyes searching him, that he felt his chest constrict.
The slowness didn’t last. There was too much need—too much newness—between them. Elm stroked his thumb over her sex, his fingers digging into her bottom and hips as he moved with her, caught between savoring the moment and the unsatiable need for more.
He reared up, grasping the back of her neck. “What do you feel, Ione?”
Like a rush of wings, she sighed. “Everything.”
Elm thrust harder, dragging his mouth over her jaw, her throat. “I’m yours. Even if you won’t be Queen—I’m yours.”
Ione’s eyelids fluttered, her pace quickening. Elm palmed her breasts, meeting the hummingbird thrum of her heartbeat with his mouth. She fell back onto their clothes, pulling Elm on top of her, wrapping her legs around his waist. Her breaths came faster, laborious, and then she wasn’t breathing at all, tensing around him.
Elm looked down through a haze. Ione’s brow furrowed, her eyes still on him. She opened her mouth, let out a sharp cry—
Pressure, so much pressure, Elm felt every muscle clench, then powerfully unwind. His head crashed forward onto her breast. He bared his teeth, a curse slipping out—
And saw stars.
Ione folded him in her arms. When they’d stopped panting, they shared lazy kisses, pleasure-spent. And it was so heartbreakingly perfect, that moment with her, that Elm told her everything.
About his childhood, the death of his mother, the horrors of what happened after. About hating Hauth and his father. About wanting to die until the Yews took him in. He told her about becoming a Destrier. About Emory’s infection and his slow degeneration. About Providence Cards, and how the King had planned to spill Emory’s blood to unite the Deck.
About Elspeth. Her magic. The voice—the Shepherd King—she carried in her mind.
About the Twin Alders, and how Ravyn and Jespyr had gone to find it. And how Elm, the new heir, would do everything in his power to fight for them when they returned.