Marriage of the Fae Ch. 05

I respectfully ask the Council of the Grass Clan to extend graciousness in this matter.

Eila Brigid Stiofán.

It took an illicit interspecies marriage for me to learn of my mother's whereabouts. If that isn't just like her, then I don't think I could tell you what is.

Noelle leans in again. "What is it? Your mother?"

"Hush," I tell her.

"Let her see it, Prince Rhys. It directly concerns her," Jerome presses.

I sigh and pass the paper to Noelle. She clutches it tightly in her small hands as she reads. "Your mother wants to see us?"

"I'm sure she's curious about the situation," Jerome says. "It's not anything to be concerned about, though we should leave within the next few days if we want to arrive in a timely manner."

"Ah, yes, time to drop everything and dash to my mother's side at her whim," I muse aloud. "How long has it been since she showed any interest in my affairs, Jerome?"

"With all due respect, Prince Rhys, now is not quite the time to be facetious. Are you planning on disregarding your mother's request?"

"Of course not. That would be inappropriate." I glance down at the knit-browed cause of our shared grief, who's still holding the missive in white-knuckled fingers. "What of Noelle? The Red Gem Clan is not one into which I would throw a beginner, especially in times like these."

"What's wrong with the Red Gem Clan?" Noelle's voice is breathy and insistent, like that of someone on the verge of panicking.

I grip her arm in warning. "Hush, I'm thinking."

"Rhys!" Jerome's voice takes on an edge. He doesn't often use my name without my title. "For shame!"

I glance down. My hand is wrapped tightly around her arm, too tightly, enveloping the circumference of the tiny thing. She's trembling.

My hand comes open in an instant, like the hinge of an animal trap. She backs away, edging toward Jerome. Jerome places a hand on Noelle's shoulder, a muscle twitching in his jaw, and she seems to relax into it, as if it's a protection. The cursed thread at my breastbone throbs with a certain anger.

"I will speak with Princess Siobhan to see if she can't give Noelle another lesson tonight. If Noelle is able to pick up a few customs and perhaps meet with the Council before your departure, some of this...anxiety...may fade," Jerome says evenly. He emphasizes anxiety as if it's not the first word he would choose.

"Good," I say. Noelle is silent. I find I cannot look at her face.

"Very well. I have a few matters to attend to, then." Jerome looks down at Noelle.

"I'm okay," she tells him.

He nods slowly before backing away, then finally turning to walk back into the Council building. He leaves us alone, surrounded by the towering trees.

"Let me take you back to our rooms," I say to her.

"I thought we had an agreement," is her reply.

"We did, and I did not honor it." I reach out my hand to her. "Please, sweetheart. Let's go home."

I knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment the words passed my lips. "That is not my home," she says darkly.

Well done, idiot prince. The thread at my chest seems to follow the rising level of tension between us. "Noelle. Let me make this right."

Under any other circumstances I know she wouldn't hesitate to run from me, dashing off to guard her anger and hurt. Her tense position, the tightness of her shoulders, tell me she'd like nothing more. But she can't. We're both trapped here, tethered to each other, with nothing but confusion and fury and a terrible, wonderful string between us. How did my parents manage it for so many years, the oppressive force of this bond? Even between a pair of Fae, each considerably stronger than a human, there must have been some residual tugging, enough to drive anyone to frustration. Perhaps the strain of it all was what sent my mother running off to foreign lands the moment my father passed.

She stares up at me with those dark eyes. If I wanted to, I could start walking away, forcing her to follow. I would easily withstand the pain longer than she could. I find I have no desire to do so.

"Alright," she says softly. "Let's go back. Show me you can do better." In the days I've known her, I've heard her voice take on a frightened tone, often an angry one, occasionally one that reflects her curiosity in the world around her. In this moment, it's none of those—the woman's voice is soft and assertive, barely betraying emotion. It's strangely thrilling, this new voice. I want to know the person behind it better.

"Thank you," I find myself saying.

**************

Noelle

We walk back to the palace in silence, neither of us saying a word as Rhys opens the doors to our suite and ushers me inside. To say he's almost...subdued seems like a long shot, but it's true. The anxious, domineering energy that seems to accompany him and pull at the bond isn't gone, but it's mellowed out in a way that's almost indescribable.

Once we reach the inner chamber, I sit down on the bed and pull off the simple flat shoes I had on for our walk. Without hesitating, Rhys sits down beside me, resting his hands on either side of himself. He still doesn't say anything, just watches as I let the shoes drop to the floor. His position would be almost childlike if he weren't still towering over me.

Finally, he murmurs, "I am sorry, Noelle."

"It's not that simple. Sorry doesn't just make things go away."

"I know it doesn't. But I said I'd show you I can do better, and I'd like to start somewhere." His arm brushes my shoulder. "And I want to start with, 'I'm sorry.'"

Oh, this is about what he wants? Of all the smarmy, entitled... "I said show me, not tell me. For the entire time I've known you, all you've done are things to apologize for. You don't get to just erase all that, Rhys, that's not how it—"

I'm cut off when his lips come down, feather-like, against mine, one hand pressing to my cheek. I can't speak, I can't move, my brain is shouting at me to smack him for trying to pull this shitty, tired, rom-com bullshit when I'm so righteously angry, but the bond is thrumming wildly, even at that gentle touch, almost hissing, yes, yes, yes...

He brushes his full lips against mine again. "I'm sorry." Another time, light kisses across my cheekbone leading back down to my mouth. God damn it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." His hands are cupping my face, not tightly; if I wanted to, I could pull away. I don't. He presses his mouth to mine, and when I part my lips, it's like the thread between us is alive, pulsing faster than my heartbeat.

"I'm sorry..." Another kiss as his voice grows softer.

"No," I choke out, but I'm already losing it.

His right hand slips back into my hair, not pulling, only a gentle pressure at the back of my head, his long fingers tangled in the strands. Our bond hums; I tilt my head back as he kisses along my jawline, down the bridge of my nose, over my forehead, chaste little things, each leading back to my mouth, each punctuated by a soft, earnest apology. It's only when his other hand slides down to press at the small of my back that I realize my own hands are on his chest, holding on to his shirt as if it might ground me as the rest of me slips away.

He pulls me up against him, leaning down over me until I'm half-lying against the mountain of pillows on the bed, his lips not leaving mine. And it's so easy to lose myself, to let the bond take control, the thread that strums outward from my chest with every kiss. I'm almost cradled in his arms like this, one hand still at the back of my head, the other arm wrapped around my torso.

"Forgive me," he murmurs into my mouth. His thumb massages circles against the base of my skull.

"Rhys, I can't..." My fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, my knuckles pressing into the hard wall of his chest.

"Shh." His mouth trails down my jaw once again, but this time he doesn't stop when he gets to the base of my throat. Rhys finally presses his lips to the center of my sternum, right above the cleft between my breasts, the point at which the imaginary thread of the bond seems to be tied. Little sparks shoot up and down the center of my chest at his touch, and I gasp.

"How does it feel?" he whispers.

It feels like I could melt. "Fine," I breathe.

"Just fine?" He trails the tip of his aquiline nose over that same point on my breastbone.

"J-just fine...Rhys, stop..." I sound the exact opposite of convincing.

"Why?" he whispers. Another kiss as both of his hands slide to my waist, circling it almost entirely. "You see...I know I can't ever make up for what I've done to you." His thumbs draw slow circles just below my ribcage. "But I thought," he presses his forehead to my chest and I arch against him, "that I could show you there's no need to be afraid of what could be."

His head comes up and I'm left with a split second of disappointment before I'm once again staring into those ridiculous eyes. I glance over his face—the violet of his irises, the dark of his lashes and brows that are such a shock against pale skin. His lips, parted ever so slightly. His hair hangs in loose curls over his shoulders, long enough to curtain us in our closeness. Somewhere along the line the bond took a horseshoe magnet to my moral compass, but every thought I have on him remains sharp and in focus.

"Let me show you," he whispers.

"All this is because of the bond," I manage.

"And if it is? The bond is part of us now. Let yourself enjoy it."

Looking into his beautiful, pleading face, the bond humming between us, almost impatiently now, it's too easy to forget everything else. And so what if I do?

My arms come up to wind around his neck, pulling him back into me. The thread seems to sing, urging me on, reveling in the low groan he gives as he buries his face in the crook of my shoulder. His lips brush my collarbone, his fingers pushing down the yellow fabric of my dress to kiss the skin of my shoulder. Each new point of contact gives the thread something new to sing about.

His arms bend back to wrap his hands around my wrists, pulling my arms from around him to stretch them up over my head, carefully avoiding the purple swell of the bruise. I squirm as he presses my arms back into the pillows, forbidding me from touching him, from closing the gap between us and satisfying the bond's tug of my own volition.

"Doesn't take you long at all to get impatient." Rhys chuckles, his cool breath brushing my ear. Pressing his body back down against me, controlling himself so that just enough of his weight is on me to push me into the mattress without taking my breath away, he grazes his teeth over the delicate skin on the inside of my upper arm. When I shudder, he bites down, just hard enough to ache. I curse softly, and I can feel his smile against my skin as he bites again, just above my elbow. His hands leave my wrists and slide down my body, bunching up the skirt of my dress, and I find myself lifting my hips for him as he pulls the dress up, lifting it over my stomach and breasts, finally slipping it off over my arms, lying still over my head where he left them. I can only hear the soft thump of the fabric as it hits the floor, because his face is over mine again, kissing me, pausing only once more to shed his own shirt.

Our skin touching is like a chemical reaction. The thread between us isn't just slack, it seems to be buzzing with joy, filling me with a heady relief I didn't know I needed. I remember this feeling from last time, the absolute rightness of it, making me question why I would ever want to be any further from him than I am now. Rhys looks at me for a moment, and without even speaking it's like we're exchanging an affirmation, sharing in the ecstasy of the bond. Giving each other permission to give in to it. It's just too good not to.

With that single look, Rhys' hands go back to my body, gripping around my ribcage as his head dips to my chest. His nose skirts over the bond point again before his lips are on my breast, and I moan softly as he kisses the soft skin and brings his mouth around my nipple. Any pretense of chastity gone, he sucks at the stiff bud while his hand cups my other breast, surrounding it, kneading the flesh with his fingers. A twist of my nipple makes me squeal, my hands coming down to fist in his hair, feeling a tingling in my own scalp as I pull. He lets out a sound almost like a growl, biting lightly at my nipple in return for the pain. When he lifts his head, his eyes are wild, glittering, and he smirks at me from between my breasts.

"Didn't hurt you too badly, did I?" he quips.

"Trust me, if you hurt me too badly, you'll know," I breathe. "Stop talking..."

He snarls and pinches the side of my breast, leaning back down and dragging his tongue down the center line of my body. His hands grip my thighs, pulling them apart as his mouth rounds the slope of my stomach below my bellybutton, and I barely have a moment to hesitate before his fingers are dipping between my labia, pulling me open to draw his tongue up along the cleft between my legs, stopping when he brushes over my clit.

"Oh, god..." The words come out almost as a hiss as I arch my body. He takes it as encouragement, and suddenly his lips are around my clitoris, kissing and suckling more intensely than I thought possible. The wild humming of the bond and the pleasure between my thighs make for an overwhelming combination, and I shriek, pushing my hand against the crown of his dark head. My breathy pleas and begging for a moment of respite only serve to egg him on, and my next cry is punctuated by his long finger sliding inside me, curling up spectacularly to find my g spot.

"Rhys, Jesus, it's too much, please, give me a minute..."

He pulls back to blow a stream of cool air against my pussy, his finger never letting up its assault inside me. "I thought you said no talking."

"I didn't think...oh, fuck..." Another finger slides into my dripping pussy.

"Didn't think what? Didn't think I'd make good on my promise to have you enjoy it?" His voice is dark and steady. I look up at him to find him looming over me, his gaze unwavering, his impossibly broad shoulders almost completely blocking the light in the room as he braces himself with one hand on the bed by my hip, the other still working between my thighs. It's the most erotic sight I've ever laid eyes on.

He takes advantage of my moment of stupor to dip his head back between my legs, flicking his tongue out over my clit as his fingers continue to pump in and out of me. I'm getting close now, my hips bucking against his hand as he fucks me on his thick fingers. When he pulls them out of me and raises his head, it's all I can do not to scream.

"Don't worry little one, we're not finished." We better fucking not be. I pant as the bond thrums irritably, wanting him back. I want him back. Rhys rises up on his knees and fumbles with the clasp on his pants, his movements considerably less graceful, less calculated than usual. It occurs to me that this is affecting him just as strongly as it's affecting me, this need, the constant pull when we're apart. As I watch his cock come free of his pants I have a strange moment of clarity—Jesus fucking Christ woman, why are you spreading your legs what the hell is wrong with you—before his hands are on my knees, steadying my legs as he moves forward and pushes himself inside me, and my brain turns to static.

Rhys leans over me, pushing my knees toward my shoulders, his lips parting around a groan. His hips grind into my ass. My hands are fisted in the bedspread, doing all I can to brace myself as he pumps into me, little gasps escaping my lips. When he leans down further, it's to press his forehead against mine, nearly doubling me over under his weight. His hair is a curtain around us again, his big hands holding me in place against his thrusts.

"How does it feel?" he whispers again. His voice is husky, barely more than a breath against my face.

He expects me to speak? "It...I can't..."

He pushes his hips up until he bottoms out almost painfully inside me, grinding his pelvis into my clit over and over again. "Tell me, Noelle."

I can barely breathe. Words finally form over my moans as I arch into him. "God, it...don't stop."

It's barely intelligible, and it's all he needs to hear. Rhys' hands come up around my shoulders to push me down on his cock as he thrusts quickly, deeply, and the sounds that come out of me are barely recognizable, animalistic, mingling with his grunts of exertion. He's ripped his shirt off and my nails rake down his solid arms. My cunt convulses around him as I go higher, and there's a moment where his eyes flash as he feels me, his hands tightening, and then his lips are at my ear.

"Come, now."

His hips grind into my clit as he thrusts one more time, and I'm over the edge, the center of my chest set aflame as I climax beneath him. He follows, his grip on my shoulders tightening as he releases inside me with a groan, and I feel like I could break into a million pieces around the fantastic fire inside my chest, right where the bond tethers us.

Rhys finally collapses on top of me, his full weight knocking the wind out of me for a split second before he rolls off onto his back beside me. My arms and legs fall to the bed again.

"Jesus," I pant.

Rhys tips his head to look at me. "You use that name a lot. I suppose it's the name of one of your gods, but I'd much rather you use mine in the moments after our coupling."

He's smirking. When did he grow a sense of humor? I can't bring myself to think of a retort. As I come down from the high, I'm realizing that everything hurts, and the afterglow only blurs out so much.

Rhys picks up one of my hands, rubbing his thumb over the back. "Ah, damn," he breathes.

"What?" I lift my hand to my face. Tiny purple crescents are blossoming under my fingernails, evidence of having dug them into his stupidly tough skin until they nearly dislodged from the beds. I grimace.

Rhys sighs. "What did I tell you about scratching me? You almost took your fingernails off."

I can barely work up the energy to narrow my eyes at him. "Sorry, I'll try to behave more logically next time a giant fairy man is on top of me."

Rhys rolls to his side to face me. "We could try it out now, if you'd like." He shifts closer, grinning, and I'm about to let him know he can gladly go fuck himself if he's still that worked up, but he pauses and frowns. "Shit."

"What now?"

He reaches over and presses his fingertips gently into the meat of my shoulder. Sharp pain shoots down my arm. "Ow! What the hell, you sadist?" I shoot up in the bed, scooting out from underneath his hand, and cup my shoulder where the pain started. When I glance down, I notice the large bruise curling around my skin.

"There's one on the other side, as well." Rhys' voice is stiff.

Sure enough. On both sides of my body, splotches of purple curve over my shoulders. "How—" I stop when I glance at Rhys, who's looking as guilty as any given asshole possibly could.

"My fault," he sighs, reaching for me. "When I held your shoulders—"

"Yeah, maybe don't do that again." I ignore his outstretched arms and the pull of the thread and slide off the bed, walking over to the mirror on the far side of the room to survey the damage. The bruising is ugly, but there's no broken skin. It's almost a disappointment; I would have liked to bleed all over his pretty white sheets. Our sheets. Whatever.

Rhys comes up behind me, his pants hanging loosely around his narrow hips. He stands close to my back but doesn't make any move to touch me. "I apologize, Noelle. I'm not used to considering my own strength like this."