55. Cathal

Chapter 55

Cathal

Z endaya bites her lower lip, denting the flesh that's still reddened by my kisses. I'm tempted to scale her body and force her teeth off her pretty mouth before she injures it, but I also sense a kiss won't blow her torment away. I'm uncertain how she'll react if our broken bond doesn't mend. The only thing I'm certain of is that I'll yearn for this woman until my last breath. Every part of her.

I place a kiss on the inside of her thigh, then higher, on her bare, glistening cunt that smells like honeysuckle floating atop the ocean, floral with a hint of brine. In truth, I don't remember how she tasted before, only that I'd loved every lick and swallow. I curl my tongue to slot it deeper, noting that this hasn't changed. She still tastes like the most delectable treat, one I plan to spend an inordinate amount of time feasting on. She clutches my hand so hard that her nails dig into my skin. One glimpse of them and my painfully hard cock swells up some more.

When she begins to rattle, rubbing her body quicker against my tongue, I hold still, making sure the flat of it remains at the perfect angle and within reach.

That is certainly different. Though Crows do rattle to attract their mate's attention, not only do our bodies not blur, but it lasts a mere heartbeat. Serpents, I've come to discover, can barely cease rattling. I found Zendaya captivating when she was only Shabbin, but now, she's become another level of fascinating. Goddess below, I cannot fucking wait to see how she will feel wrapped around my cock.

The friction of her body against my mouth has her detonating far too soon. After she screams my name and creams my tongue, I place languid kisses around her drenched slit, giving her time to calm before the next climax. Which, again, surges through her far too quickly.

"Cathal…I don't…I can't…" Her forearm is draped across her eyes, her bright hair a tangled mess, her thighs chafed crimson by my beard.

I make a note to trim it. "Just one more." I thumb her apart and barely nip at her throbbing, swollen bud before her spine arches and she bastes my tongue.

Like promised, I stop tormenting her and climb back up her sweat-slicked curves. "I understand why everyone…" She inhales deeply, which makes her nipples drag across my chest. "Is doing this."

"Doing this ?"

"Laying together"—a second deep breath—"naked."

Between the press of her nipples, the scrape of her nails which she's now spiraling up my biceps, and the taste of her, I'm two point one seconds away from blowing my load. I need a release before penetrating her or she'll find the act massively underwhelming. I'm about to head to the ensuite bathroom when her body goes stiff beneath mine.

I check her eyes, assuming the Cauldron has whisked her away again—another thing that's going to require some getting used to—but they haven't gone white with magic. When she sucks in a breath, I realize she must be mind-speaking with her Serpents.

Though I'd have preferred they didn't intrude, I have to admit their timing isn't too dreadful. If they'd tried to contact her before, I may have hunted them down.

"What is it?" I ask softly.

"Behati and Kanti's ship has reached the western wall. They're demanding entry."

"Turn them away," I say, peeling myself off her to hunt down my shirt.

"On what grounds? The Mahananda communicates with Behati, Cathal. If she were wicked, it would stop."

"Perhaps, it did." I yank the black fabric over my head, then hook on my armor. The day the Cauldron offered to break our obsidian curse, I'd had such high hopes to retire the heavy metal plating my chest. "Ask it." I don't bother with the vambraces, which I only wear to keep my shirt sleeves from ripping. Now that I live in the land of sorceresses where snags and tears can be mended with drops of blood, I've no more use for them.

"It's resting."

It's always fucking resting. If only we two-legged mortals and immortals possessed such a luxury, but no. There's no rest for the lot of us. Never has been and never will be. Especially now that my mate's queen.

Yes, my mate. Whether preordained or not, we're mates, and from this moment on, I'll refer to her as such.

"Who contacted you to tell you of their presence in Shabbin waters?"

"Enzo. He's fording up one of the Sahklare as we speak."

"On a ship, I hope."

"I think one tendu encounter was enough to last him a lifetime." She's refastened the ties of her dress that bears a wet spot under her ass.

I should mention it. I really should; but I'm the maker of that wet spot. Besides, since the fabric is slightly pleated, it's only noticeable if one focuses on her backside. If I catch any gaze straying there?—

"Cathal?"

"Hmm."

"My undergarment, please."

She holds out her palm.

I reach up and slot my fingers through hers, and then I carry her knuckles to my lips and press a kiss to them. "I'll take extra good care of it."

"Seriously?"

" Tà , moannan ," I say in Crow, before finishing my sentence in Shabbin. "Seriously."

The word mate in my tongue heightens the already rosy hue of her cheeks. My woman glows especially bright tonight. I must pleasure her more often. "Fine. Let's hope it isn't too gusty out on the water." She smiles as she strides toward her doors.

For a heartbeat, I almost give in and tender the scrap of silk, but the knowledge that she's bare under all that silver will be my only ray of fucking sunshine until we retire for the evening, together, in her chamber.

Right before she opens the door, I readjust my tender cock, then scrub a hand across my beard and through my hair.

"There's a small bathing chamber through that door," Daya points out.

"I'm aware."

"Would you like to use it before we set off?"

"No." When a slender vertical furrow appears between the bridge of her nose and her pearl, I explain, "Your scent will keep me calm. You'll be glad I didn't wash it off."

She shakes her head, then smooths a hand down her dress, blanching when she feels the wet spot. "Great Mahananda, is that…?" When I laugh softly and reassure her that it'll dry, she skewers me with a look. "I cannot voyage through the queendom looking like such a mess. The Shabbins already don't have much regard for me. What will they think?"

That pisses me off. "I don't want you to care what they think. As for their regard, if they have two braincells to rub together, they'll see mighty fast what a Cauldron-send you are to Shabbe. To the entire world."

Though she gives her head another shake, a phantom smile plays on her kiss-chapped lips. "Objectivity isn't your forte, is it, mate?"

I don't just smile; I grin. "I'm tremendously unbiased, mo mila Sífair."

She laughs as she steals her hand from mine to put some order in her wild locks. She begins to reach for the door, when I stride back to the sofa and scoop up her crown. As I carry it over, I rub my thumb over the carved golden scales and tusk-shaped diamonds. Like Lorcan's, I suspect this one was forged inside the Cauldron, for no artisan has this much talent.

"You won't have to wear it forever, but you should wear it tonight. Just in case Behati or Kanti have their doubts about who the Cauldron chose as a successor."

The mention of a successor collapses Zendaya's happiness.

"Priya bound your magic," I remind her.

"Yet I still loved her."

I sigh as I place the crown atop her head, and then I crook a finger beneath her chin to carry her eyes to mine. "My mother used to say that death made saints out of sinners, for she never had more regard for my lowlife father than after his passing." I lean over to kiss her one last time before the world rushes in with all its tribulations.

"She saved my life in Isolacuori."

"She wouldn't have had to if she'd made you immortal."

Daya flattens her lips. Though I sense she wants to make more apologies for the deceased queen, she doesn't. She stays quiet.

Too quiet.

Granted, I fly her to the beach, so it isn't as though we can converse when I'm in this form. But even after we land on the strip of pink sand beside Asha, who flew over on Aoife, and Agrippina, who flew atop Reid, Daya remains uncharacteristically laconic. Perhaps I should've shown her some empathy, but falsifying my feelings goes against everything I believe in.

As a smaller vessel is magicked off the wide, pearl-white Nebban ship, fear suddenly percolates through me. What if this new version of my mate never acclimates to my blunt pragmatism? Her past self didn't truly have a choice whether to be with me or not. This Daya does.

What if she decides I'm impossible to live with and love?