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He shakes his head and stands from the desk, moving to sit on the top directly in front of me. “I do not want to take your choice away, Viola. But I don’t want to lose you.” The crack in his voice surprised me, but I think it surprised him more. He ducks his head, a soft pink coloring his cheeks.
I was eighteen the first time I saw Mace, and I was about to run the Race for the first time. He was a picture of stoicism, brutal hard edges in a beautiful package. When he spoke, it was seemingly with indifference to human life.
I hated him.
Every year, my hate for him grew, but I could never hide my appreciation for the striking beauty he possesses. I would hear the women of the Lowlands gather to whisper about him, their desires growing increasingly suggestive the longer they spoke, and though I never joined in, I agreed with more of what they said than not.
There is no denying that Mace is a formidable figure. While not as physically strong as his brother, Mace’s strength lies in how he carries himself. Looking at him, you’d know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d destroy you with a snap of his fingers.
I spent my adult life hating him and everything he stood for.
Maybe I should still hate him. He is at least partially responsible for the deaths of my parents and Link, the man I loved. But when I look at him, I don’t see their deaths. I don’t see the deaths of any of the countless winners, even the ones who were slain just last night, on his hands. I see a deeply flawed man who thought he was doing what was best for his people, no matter what.
Can I fault him for that?
I am no innocent. Amio wasn’t my first transgression during the Race, even if he was my most glaring. Through the years, I have lied, cheated, deceived, and stolen to push myself further ahead. All for the hope of being here, where I am now, among the fae.
I was owed my place in Ytopie, and I got it.
“Do you remember the opening ceremonies this year?” I ask, taking him by surprise.
“Of course I do. You yelled at me.”
The memory of it slashes a smile across my face. “I did. There was a moment when we locked eyes, and I felt like my skin was being peeled back. Like you were seeing right through me into my core, probing into everything I was sensitive about.”
He furrows his brow. “I am sorry I made you feel that way. When you spoke, I was so excited to get the opportunity to finally make contact with you. I-”
I cut him off. “There is no need to apologize. I spent most of those ceremonies trying to make sense of the mix of the anger I felt towards you and the heat you brought to my core.”
His eyes widen, and he coughs, that practiced indifference melting into shock. “I’m sorry, what?”
My laugh rings through the quiet room. “I bring all of this up because now that I’m here, I know what that feeling was, and I can recognize how my feelings toward you and Ytopie as a whole have changed since I yelled out at you that day. For all its faults, Ytopie is the dream I always wanted for myself. But if I can’t have it, if I am destined to die bringing the Gods back, I will die happily because it will be worth it. My people will live happier lives, and the world will be in balance once more, with no one else having to go through what I went through growing up. It is the least I can do for my people after a lifetime of doing what was best for me.”
He reaches for me to silence my words, but I hold up my hand. “It will also be worth it because I got the chance to know the real you, Mace. Not Mace, the head of the Patricians. Not Mace, the orchestrator of the Race. But Mace, the fae man who was willing to give up everything he’d worked for if it meant keeping me safe.”
I cannot stop the quiet tears that roll down my cheeks. My proximity to Mace suddenly feels simultaneously too much and not enough. I can’t bring myself to look at him.
His strong hands grab my chin, forcing me to look into those vivid green eyes that bore into me from the platform that day on the green. His eyes are cloudy and wet around the edges as they search my face. It hurts to meet his gaze. I feel disarmed, laid bare in front of him, with my words hanging in the air between us.
I’ve never been one for declarations of feelings.
His gaze bores into mine, and I worry I will be unable to breathe.
I blink, and his lips are on mine, his arms pulling me from the chair to stand between his thighs. The kiss is fearful and aggressive, a declaration of feelings that don’t need words. His hands grip my back, strong fingertips digging into my skin.
My body melts at his touch. I’m leaning into him, fighting to push all the air out from between us. I cannot get close enough to him. Never breaking his lips from mine, he turns me around and sits me atop his desk. His hands drift to my front, teasing the sides of my breasts.
I very much regret wearing these difficult-to-remove clothes.
He breaks his lips from me to kiss and nibble down my neck. He’s soft, unwilling to hurt me. He kisses the hollow of my collarbone and looks up at me with questioning eyes. “I do not want to make you uncomfortable,” he says quietly. “I need to know how far you want this to go.”
I brush the high of his cheek with my knuckle, then wiggle out of my shirt unprompted by him. “I want this. I want you, Mace.”
He smiles and looks down at me, eyes traveling across the wrap I have around my breasts. “Can I?” he whispers breathlessly, hands moving to the fabric. I nod enthusiastically, and he unwraps me. My nipples tighten in the cool air of his office, and he inhales sharply at the sight.
He leans forward and flicks his tongue across one of the tightened buds and I shiver in delight. A rakish grin greets me in response. His hands knead my breasts, gently twisting and pinching my nipples as he kisses me with renewed fervor. I shiver and curl beneath his touch at the sensation. I reach to unbutton his emerald green shirt, fingers slipping on the rich fabric. Mace does me the courtesy of helping me undress him.
With his shirt removed and standing in front of me, eyes hooded with desire, I rake my eyes over his form. Mace Nightroot looks like the Gods designed him. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful. The parts of him I once saw as sinister and severe have been replaced with expressions of warmth and joy. My eyes linger on the proof of his arousal straining against his rigid cotton pants. His eyes sparkle when he catches me looking.
