Page 111 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

“It’s late,” Lavender scolded her from the porter’s station.

“I know,” Pippa agreed.

“Tell that scary husband of yours that you need fresh air once in a while.”

She tucked her tongue against her cheek. “He has it well in hand.”

When the Wild Hunt marked you for their own, you had three full moons at most to outrun them. No one ever could, but everyone tried. The clatter of ghostly hooves, the growl of a dog you could not see followed you. Even the wife of the Hunt could not escape its justice. Some magic could not be rerouted like a river. It must run its course or risk drowning everyone in its path.

Pippa was well aware of this when she stepped into the forest on the outskirts of Hallow. The owls had led her here, as had a bloom of frost flowers on the cobblestones. The clouds tracked her with the faces of watchful hounds. The hairs on her nape stirred as the cool shadows closed around her. There was only the sound of her footfalls and her pulse.

And a soft breath on the back of her neck.

Cold prickled over her. She did not look back, only burst into a run. The ghostly hounds streaked over the tops of the trees. Horse hooves clattered; lightning sparked in the clouds between the branches. She nearly tripped over a root, caught herself, and kept running.

The shadow of a man followed behind her, closing in.

He was patient, inexorable. Ice gleamed all around her, like stars. Pippa heard the snap of a twig but knew it was only because he allowed it. She leapt over a tangle of roots, breath quickening. He continued to chase after her, long, lethal strides eating up the distance between them. “You can’t outrun the Hunt, little wisp.”

His voice caught her faster than red ribbons and ghostly hounds and frost flowers. It wound around her, puckering her nipples, sending heat flowing into her quim. She nearly whimpered, and he hadn’t touched her yet. She kept running, knowing that he was right there, almost in reach, not quite—

His arm wrapped around her, lifting her off her feet. “Caught you, little wisp.” She gasped when he whirled her around, laying her in a patch of four-leaf clovers. “And now you’re mine.”

She smiled up at him, want sparking in every part of her body. “I was always yours, Lachlan Thorn. And you’re mine.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

He raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“You’re mine,” she repeated.

He looked so smugly pleased that she had to laugh. It petered into a moan when he pushed his knee between her thighs, pressing against her quim. “You worked late again today,” he accused her.

“Only a little.”

“You promised you wouldn’t, and the Wild Hunt punishes oathbreakers.” He shook his head, all stern disapproval. He looped the red ribbon she had worn through the Tithing around her wrists. He insisted on keeping it in his pocket. He tied her wrists together and pushed her arms gently above her head, pausing to kiss her scars gently. “Now I think you’ll have to come for me. Again and again.”

She squirmed, breasts jutting up from her prone position.

“Trying to distract me?” he asked silkily, tugging her bodice and stays down. The fabric framed her breasts, pushing them farther out. The cool night air made her gasp. So did his lips, closing greedily around one nipple. He sucked it into his warm mouth, swiping his tongue over the beaded tip. Heat jolted down into her core.

He pushed his knees between hers, widening them, as he pulled up her skirts. When he stroked her quim, she was already wet, already desperate for him. He clicked his tongue, looking up from her breast disapprovingly. “I don’t think you’re taking this punishment seriously.”

He stroked her opening, barely grazed her pearl. She arched toward him, hands still bound. “Lachlan, please.”

He sucked her other nipple into his mouth as he stroked his fingers into her quim. Sensations jolted through her, colliding, drawing each other out. He thrust and suckled, building the heat, coiling it tighter and tighter until it snapped. She was still arched against him, gasping when he said: “Again.”

Again and again he pulled pleasure from her until she was whimpering, begging to feel him inside her. But when he finally fit the head of cock to her entrance, he paused. She struggled against the ribbon. “So help me, Lachlan Thorn…”

He huffed a laugh and finally entered her, plunging deep. Their breaths caught, and they moved together, slick skin against slick skin. She met every thrust with a lift of her hips until she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. He went deep and slow, his body her body, her breath his breath. The pleasure built and built and built before cresting. She was buffeted by it, cradled by his body, thighs trembling.

When he loosened the ribbon knots and tucked her against his side, she was boneless and content. “I missed you,” he said, idly rubbing the spot at the top of her spine that was always sore from carrying too many books.

“I missed you too.” She nuzzled into him. He smelled like Lachlan: amber and snow and incense. Like home. “I know you belong to the Hunt, but I miss you when you are gone.”

“I don’t belong to the Hunt, love. I belong to you. They just borrowed me for a little while.”