LOGIN"Don't leave me in the dark..."
Her voice was nothing more than a broken whisper, lost in the heavy folds of the night. Her hands, small and stained with red mud, reached up on their own. She did not know why her fingers searched for his broad, burning shoulders, or why she held onto the very man who had just torn her world to pieces. The sharp, tearing pain in her lower belly still bit into her flesh like a hidden knife, but under the heavy, relentless rhythm of his body, that pain had turned into a thick, terrifying heat that pulsed straight through her blood. He did not stop. He could not. His large hands held her hips pinned to the damp ground, his long fingers pressing deep into her soft skin, leaving dark red marks that would turn purple by morning. Every time he drove his weight down into her, her body shook against the cold mud. The wet slap of skin against skin and the sound of his ragged breathing filled the quiet woods, drowning out the owl calls and the rush of the river. "Hold onto me," he rasped into her ear. His breath was like hot steam against her neck, smelling of copper and dark pine. "Do not let go." She could feel the heavy, jagged marks his nails had left on her thighs and back. She was marked by his hands, painted in his sweat and the dark blood leaking from the open wound on his waist. Yet, as the night stretched long under the cold moon, her knees hooked higher around his waist. She yielded completely. She surrendered to the strange, frightening pleasure that washed over her in hot, suffocating waves, burying her face into his wet neck to muffle the high, embarrassing sounds coming from her throat. When those soft, sweet sounds reached his ears, a long shiver ran down his broad spine. He growled low, a deep sound that vibrated from his ribs straight into her chest. He pushed deeper, his heavy frame crushing her into the earth, taking every breath from her lungs before filling her back up with his heat. He consumed her, leaving no part of her skin untouched, no part of her mind free from the overwhelming weight of his presence. "You are so tight," he muttered, his jaw grinding as he drove into her with slow, punishing force. His golden eyes locked onto hers in the moonlight, wild and unblinking. "You wrap around me like a trap... keeping the black fire away." "It's too much..." she whimpered, her fingers digging into the hard, slick muscles of his back. Her nails scratched over old, pale scars that lined his spine like silver ropes. "I can't... I can't take any more..." "You will take all of it," he growled softly, his mouth coming down to claim her lips once more. He kissed her with a fierce, possessive hunger, his tongue sliding deep into her mouth, stealing her whimpers before they could float into the night air. He moved inside her with a steady, relentless rhythm that pushed her higher and higher toward a cliff she could not see. Her lower belly throbbed, tight and aching, until another sudden, sharp wave of pleasure burst behind her eyes. She arched her back off the ground, her toes curling into the wet soil as her inner muscles clamped tightly around him. Her breathless scream was swallowed by his mouth. The tight squeeze of her body drove him over the edge. He let out a harsh, guttural roar that echoed through the tall trees, his muscles locking tight as he buried himself to the absolute hilt. He held her crushed against the earth, his hips trembling as a thick, burning wave flooded deep inside her core, filling her untouched body to the brim. For a long time, neither of them moved. The wind blew through the high branches above, dropping cold raindrops down onto their tangled legs. His heavy chest heaved against hers, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs. The terrible, suffocating heat that had been burning his skin slowly began to fade, drawn out by the small, trembling girl lying beneath him. He slowly loosened his grip on her wrists. His broad hands slid up her arms, his long fingers tangling in her dark, muddy hair. He shifted his weight to the side, pulling her body tightly against his bare chest so she would not lie in the cold mud alone. She lay there, shivering, her body sore and bruised, her skin sticky with his seed and her own blood. She pressed her face against his neck, breathing in the dark, heavy scent of him. She felt small, broken, and completely changed, yet she could not pull away from the warmth of his arms. His breathing began to slow down. The ragged, raspy edge in his throat smoothed out into deep, quiet rises and falls. The fierce golden light that had filled his eyes began to flicker and dim, fading back into the deep shadows of his dark pupils. "The fire..." he murmured, his voice thick with an overwhelming heaviness. "It is gone..." He rested his heavy jaw on top of her head, his eyes growing soft and heavy for the first time since he had awakened in the woods. He did not know who he was. He did not know what ancient sins lay behind him or what monster he had been in another life. He only knew the soft, warm girl resting against his heart. His eyelids fluttered, heavy like lead, slowly closing against the dark. The dark madness in his mind quieted down into a complete, icy silence, and his thick arms went limp around her shoulders as he slipped into a deep, heavy slumber beside her. She closed her eyes, exhausted, resting her hand on his broad chest. But as the silence of the woods took over, a strange, ice-cold feeling suddenly settled in the pit of her stomach. The warmth radiating from his body began to drop at an alarming rate, turning as cold as marble within seconds. She shifted, pressing her ear firmer against his chest to listen for his heart. Nothing. No beat. No breath. No movement. His flesh was hardening into ice beneath her touch, his broad chest entirely motionless as if the living man who had just claimed her had suddenly turned into an ancient, lifeless corpse right in her arms.Chapter 63: The Red Ribbon in Brielle's Hair"I can get you out of this village, and I will not ask for a thing you cannot give."Lyra did not turn her head.She sat on the floor of Hesta's cottage with her back against the wall and the little kitchen knife resting across her knee, and she watched the door that had just closed. It was past midnight. The fire had burned down to a bed of orange coals. On the cot, under three blankets and a layer of river stones that Hesta had warmed and cooled and warmed again, her son lay with his small fists clenched and his breath rasping, and the light under his skin pulsed slow and dull and red.A figure stood in the shadow of the door with a shawl over her head."Everything you offer," said Lyra, "is a hook.""That is true." Brielle pushed back the shawl. "But sometimes a hook is the only thing hanging in the water."She looked different.The bruise on her cheek had faded to the yellow of old butter. Her hair had been combed and pinned, and the cr
"Put that down, Lyra."Her father said it from the middle of the square, with his hands held out in front of him like a man calming a horse.It was dawn. A thin grey light lay over the cobbles, and a mist drifted off the well, and the red hands on the doors looked almost black in it. Lyra stood on the top step of the cellar stairs with the sky above her for the first time in a night and a day. The kitchen knife was in her right fist. Her left arm was hooked around her stepmother's neck, and the old woman's breath came in short, sobbing wheezes against her sleeve.Behind her, Brielle stood in the cellar doorway, white to the lips, with a bruise across her cheek the color of a ripe plum.Four of Gorath's men had been at the head of the stairs when she came up. They had seen the knife at the throat of the woman who would be their lord's mother in law, and they had stopped, uncertain, while somebody ran to fetch the master of the house. Now they ringed the stair at a careful distance. Pas
"Smell his lips, my lord."Lyra said it quietly.She stood with her back against the wall of the cellar and the small knife held low at her side, and she did not raise her voice. Across the flagstones, Brielle had stopped in the middle of her crossing, one slippered foot in front of the other, with the baby in her arms and a smile spreading over her wet face. Gorath had not moved from the foot of the stairs. His huge red hand was still held out, palm up, waiting."What did you say, widow?""The boy's mouth." Lyra did not look at her stepsister. She looked at the warlord, steadily, the way she had once looked at a hanging rope. "Put your nose to it. If I am lying, my father's men can drown me in the river with my son.""Lyra," Brielle breathed, sweetly. "Do not make a scene."Gorath's pale eyes slid from one woman to the other. He had the look of a man at a market stall who has been offered two loaves and told only one of them is poisoned."Give him here," he said.Brielle laid the bab
"You pointed at my window in front of everyone. You gave me to him."The kitchen knife shook in Brielle's hand.It was a small, ordinary knife, the kind used for peeling turnips, and she held it low and out in front of her like a girl who had never held a weapon in her life. Candle stub, cold cellar, the breath of both of them rising in thin white threads. Lyra stood on the bottom step with her chained wrists hanging in front of her and thirty armed men waiting above, and she looked at the stepsister she had not seen in nearly a year.She had changed. Brielle had been a round cheeked woman of twenty when Lyra left, with ribbons in her braids and a way of tilting her head when she wanted something. Now she was tall and pale, in a nightgown and a man's coat, with her hair hacked off at the shoulder, and her eyes were red and wide and brimming. She looked like the victim in a ballad. That was what Lyra noticed first.She had always looked like that when she wanted something."Give me my
"I asked," said Gorath, "whose child that is."He did not raise his voice. He had no need. The square had gone so quiet that Lyra could hear the creak of his saddle leather as he swung down, and the chime of the iron rings in his beard, and the slow, wet drip from a spear point where somebody's blood had not yet dried. Thirty riders sat their horses in a ring around the cart. Not one of them moved. Behind every shutter in the village, a hundred held breaths gathered like smoke."My lord," said her father.His voice cracked on the second word. He had slid down from his grey horse without being asked and stood with his cap crushed in both hands, and sweat ran in thin lines through the dust on his face. "A foundling, my lord. A babe left on the church step. My wife took pity, as women do. We meant to give him to the priest, only...""A foundling." Gorath rolled the word around his mouth like a bone. "That is a great deal of pity for a house with two daughters and a debt.""The cold, my l
"You will marry Warlord Gorath at the new moon, or the boy goes into the river."The cart hit a rut, and the chain on Lyra's wrists bit down to the bone.She did not cry out. She lifted her head from the boards, slowly, the way a cat lifts its head when something moves in the grass, and she looked at the man riding beside the tailgate on his tall grey horse. He had not shaved in three days. There was blood on his sleeve, someone else's, from the river. He did not look at her. He looked straight down the road ahead with the leather strap swinging at his belt, as though he were speaking to the weather."Say that again," said Lyra, "and I will finish what the mill hook started."Nobody in the cart moved.There were four men with her in the back, riding on the benches with their spears across their knees, and not one of them was looking at her either. They had been looking at her for the first hour. They had looked at her chained wrists and her bound feet and the blood dried black on her







