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“No.” Amyrian cut a hand through the air, a sneer on his face when he pointed at her. “As much as you do not want to hear my opinions on certain matters, I do not wish to hear yours on that one.”
“Fine.” She might not pout, but she was plenty combative. “Go. Have fun sulking.”
“Okthana.” He grabbed her ankle and pulled her to the edge of the bed. “Get dressed. I’m not walking and I want my blimmin’ kiss at the bridge.”
She leaned back on her hands and put her foot in the center of his bare chest. “Ask nicely.”
“Please, will you take me to the chasm bridge?”
Damn his utter devotion shining in the bond, making it impossible for her to stay mad or say no.
Besides, she didn’t want that sniveling arsehole to show up sooner than he requested and accidentally see Amyrian or learn anything about him. All these years, she’d kept her mating a secret. Kept those worlds from crossing. She wasn’t about to jeopardize it now—not when she was so close to the end. Still…
“I think you can do better.”
Amyrian pressed a thumb into her arch, massaging a knot there. “Please, my otherworldly little flower, will you take me to the chasm bridge and send me on my way with the taste of you on my tongue?”
Okthana sighed. “That’s more like it.”
The umbra dressed her with a thought, wrapping her in their ghostly tendrils. She shoved Amyrian back, pointedly ignoring the smirk on his face, and commanded the shadows to engulf her mate.
They flew as the wind over the rotting land, through paper leaves and dried out branches, all the way to the edge of the Woodmaia Dread Chasm. To the spot where her life had changed many times over.
She no longer thought of it as the place her family abandoned her. After years and years of standing there—heart in her throat as she peered across the gloom, hoping and praying they hadn’t forgotten her—now, it was where she’d met Amyrian.
Her mate had built them a bridge with vine and flower, clinging to either side of the narrow gap. Okthana’s power made it impossible for her to stay too long in Bordoroth anymore, her reliance on the Bore and its gift too deeply embedded, but Amyrian crossed at will.
Mostly.
Too bad his mother was a prized cunt and only allowed it at certain intervals. Okthana never should’ve made that deal. Shite, she shouldn’t have made any of them. If she hadn’t accepted the roaring temptation of the umbra as a child, she’d still be herself, living a life of luxury in one of Kohamaia’s most formidable Domains.
The two of them landed on the cliff edge and Amyrian gathered her close, hands cupping her jaw. “As ever,” he whispered, “I’m sorry. It won’t always be like this.” A soft kiss to her cheeks and forehead. “One of us will make sure of it.”
Oh, Okthana was going to make damned fucking sure of it.
“I thought you wanted the taste of me on your tongue.” She gripped the open edge of his robe, wrenching. “Kiss me like you mean it, Amyrian.”
He grinned, slow and wicked. “Yes, my sweet.”
When Amyrian was finished, he stepped back with a groan and sped halfway across the bridge in a typical Fae display of power. He always had to tear himself away like that, but she knew all too well where much of his loyalty lay—and it wasn’t with her.
“Tell your mother I said hello,” she taunted.
Amyrian raised an ivory brow. “Just the one?”
“I only despise the one.”
With that, she was swept up by the gloom and taken back to her crumbling stronghold in shades of grey, mind already on her next task.
That shite-eating shapeshifter better have the right fucking face on when he showed up so she didn’t choke him to death.
They found Lyriat on his knees at the base of the primordial red balstrae, a small shovel in one hand. Amun stood over him, voice raised and arms waving, tension thick in the air.
The tree’s mighty shade only served to highlight the tempestuous flash of Lyriat’s markings as he bore the verbal lashing, flaring and going out. His ivory horns twisted and reverted, the gold inlay glinting amidst their chaotic morphing, breath and muscle heaving as he fought off the rage.
Fuck, Brand knew that feeling all too well.
Meanwhile, Amun was perfectly put together, even though he’d probably flown halfway across Bordoroth on the back of a dragon to get here. His long, black hair was knotted half up and down as always. Not a wrinkle in sight on his midnight riding linens, stark against the golden flash of scales beneath his brown skin.
