Page 68 of Wench

Marian tries to stay quiet and dignified, but when he growls into her with need, her control fractures. She fists her hand in his hair, guiding him harder, deeper. He goes willingly and vibrates with approval when she shakes beneath him.

‘Robin,’ she moans as if it’s the only thing she’s ever known how to say.

Her hips buck against him, desperate for more friction, more pressure, and he obliges, brushing the calloused pad of his thumb against her until she cries out.

Marian’s back bows, her body trembles with the force of release, legs clenching around his shoulders. Lox laps at her through the crest and aftershock like a man utterly possessed. When she finally slumps, boneless and wrung out, he presses one last reverent kiss to her slick, swollen centre. She can’t speak. Can’t think. The mark on her chest throbs, raw and alive, as if echoing the roar he just coaxed from her depths.

After a moment, Lox rises. His mouth glistens with her. He looks proud and utterly undone. His lips drag up her sides as he kisses the round of her stomach, the underside of her breast, the base of her throat. When he reaches her mouth, he hovers there, close enough that she can practically taste herself on his breath.

She sees the war in his eyes. Want and restraint. Hunger and devotion.

Marian curls her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her with lips open and grateful. The kiss is laced with something fragile, and when he sighs into her mouth, she realizes it’s relief. He needed this as much as she did. Not just the release, but the proof that there’s something here worth exploring, despite his confession that no future for them could exist.

She kisses him harder. For once, she’s not running from want, but claiming it, savouring it, weaving it into memory just like the ink beneath her skin.

Pain may have brought her here, but this moment is what she chooses to remember.

ChapterTwenty

Marian’s hands roam the stretch of his ribs, the solid rise of his chest, the thin trail of hair that disappears below his waistband. She brushes across his stomach, feeling it flex under her touch, and her breath stutters when his hips roll forward. The swell of him strains visibly against the fabric. She tugs at the top of his trousers playfully with one hand, while the other palms the length of him.

‘Marian.’ His voice fractures on her name. ‘If you keep touching me like that, I’m going to forget every good intention I’ve ever had.’ He clamps a hand over hers, halting the motion. His eyes squeeze shut for the space of a heartbeat before he forces them open, gold flaring bright and pained.

‘You were kind enough to help me forget about my pain.’ She arches a brow, lips curving in a sly smile as her fingernail skims the rigid shape of him. ‘I want to return the favour.’

His answering groan is a mix of hunger and grief. ‘If I had a choice, I would lay with you until the forest itself forgot the hour. But as Sherwood’s Verdant Guardian . . .’ His thumb strokes the inside of her wrist, coaxing her hand away from its prize. ‘I have duties. And one of them is to open tonight’s rite. They cannot begin without me.’

Marian lets out a long, theatrical sigh, flopping back in her chair as if he’s wounded her. ‘And here I thought I was the one with a reputation for obedience.’

That wins her a crooked, fleeting grin. He steals another kiss before she can prolong her protest. It’s full of promise and apology all at once. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against hers, their breath mingling.

‘Tonight,’ he murmurs, voice roughened by want.

She hums longingly and lets him rise. His tunic shifts back into place, hiding the still-fading sheen of his burns, though the sight of him standing tall, whole, and already sliding back into command makes her chest tighten. She notes how quickly he can armour himself, how easily he can tuck away hunger for duty.

He offers her his hand. ‘Coming?’

‘That was the plan,’ Marian sighs, arching her brow at the innuendo before snatching her shirt off the ground. She drags it over her head, tugging the laces together with more force than necessary. ‘You know, for a man who claims he can have no hearth and no vows of love, you certainly sound married to your work.’

Lox’s mouth quirks, though his eyes betray the same want still knotting his frame. ‘Regrettably, the forest doesn’t grant annulments.’

She threads her fingers through his, the warmth of his palm grounding her as they step out into the forest. The evening hum is already alive with the stirrings of celebration – drums thrum through the boughs, voices lifting in laughter and song. Lanterns strung between branches sway in the breeze, their glass catching glints of amber fire. Smoke curls upward from roasting pits where herbs crackle, scenting the air with rosemary. Children dart past with ivy crowns, ribbons trailing from their hands like streamers.

The path opens wider as they descend into the heart of Elswyth, and Marian is struck by the sheer transformation. The village is unrecognizable from the quiet refuge it had been that morning. Now it’s luminous, dizzy with colour and sound. Fae voices weave through the clearing in laughter, song, and conversation, while the low, steady hum of drums anchors it all.

Elswyth’s heart tree is draped in swaths of cloth dyed deep emerald, bright marigold, and the burnt orange of autumn leaves. Tables are laid end-to-end beneath its roots, with every type of food imaginable gracing their surfaces. Glazed tubers and wild greens glisten; bread rounds spill steam as they’re torn; and bowls of fruit drip with honey so thick that Marian swears her stomach rumbles even harder. Spits of venison turn slowly over coals, their fat crackling and spitting into the fire, sending up bursts of smoke sharp with thyme.

Lox leads her straight through the tide of revellers. Hands clap his shoulder, and heads bow toward him as he passes. He acknowledges them with nods, a quiet word here, a touch of palm there. Marian feels the brush of curious gazes as they part around him, her senses prickling with every stare that falls to her.

Some eyes catch hers with open admiration. Others are sharper, narrowed, their smiles thin with brittle resentment hovering beneath the veneer of festivity. One woman’s stare lingers too long on where her vine tattoo peeks above her neckline, the corners of her mouth downturned with disapproval. She leans over to the thick-shouldered man beside her and whispers something. Marian tugs at her hem and turns back to the mountains of food, nibbling at her bottom lip.

Lox’s hand presses slightly more firmly against her back. ‘None of it is magicked, in case you were concerned.’

Marian startles slightly, caught by how effortlessly he’s read her hesitation. His eyes soften as though he understands the exact weight of her mistrust.

She exhales, fingers sliding across the smooth wood of the table. ‘Am I really that obvious?’

‘It’s not a weakness to be cautious,’ he says simply, piling her plate with thick cuts of bread, vegetables roasted to softness, and a sliver of venison still steaming. His hand hovers over the pitcher of cider before he pulls his hand back. ‘Though best to avoid our wine.’