31. Rowan

31

ROWAN

R owan expected more resistance to her request, but the moment she asked Conor to take her to bed, he seemed desperate to do just that.

He lifted her into his arms immediately and kissed her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and threaded her fingers through his hair, trying to ground herself with his touch.

"Take me to my bed," she whispered, her lips grazing his ear.

He fumbled his way out of the dining room without putting her down. He was so frantic that he paused to kiss her up against the wall several times in the hall before they reached her room, where he tossed her onto the bed. He stripped her out of her nightgown with not a word spoken.

His hands and lips on her skin drove her wild as he nipped and kissed up her inner thighs. Every kiss was a prayer, his mouth filled with worship.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he descended on her in a frenzy.

Her back arched instantly, and she squirmed under the intensity of his attention. Conor pinned her hips to the bed with his hands as he worked her relentlessly. There was nothing but his touch, the wet slide of his tongue, and his sweet, affectionate whispers against her skin.

"I don't think I've ever enjoyed this as much as I do with you," he breathed before continuing his ministrations.

Her fingers threaded through his hair idly as he licked and kissed her. She climbed higher and higher, afraid she'd break apart if he held her on the edge any longer. Finally, a light hum from his lips sent her screaming over the brink.

Still, Conor stayed put, as if trying to display his contrition exclusively through pleasuring her. She was surprised when the tension started to climb again. She mumbled a curse, panted and writhed, her nails digging into his forearms. Nothing had ever felt so good. He slid a finger inside of her, and every muscle clenched around it, her body desperate for more of him.

"Mother slay me, Rowan. You're so good," he whispered, his breath tickling her skin. He slid a second finger inside of her, and she whimpered.

More —she needed more. She needed him as close as possible.

Every muscle below her waist clenched. Her pleasure climbed and climbed as he worked her with his fingers and mouth. All at once, the tension snapped, and she screamed as she came undone again. Wave after wave of pleasure whipped through her.

She relaxed back down to the bed, and Conor kissed his way up her body torturously slowly. She tried to focus her mind, but it was still buzzing from pleasure, and her thoughts floated away like wild butterflies. She tried to ignore the growing swell of emotion in her chest.

You need to kill him, Rowan. Get the dagger.

Rowan reached blindly, stretching her hand beneath the pillow where she'd stashed it. Her fingertips grazed the cool metal. She gripped the dagger in her sweaty palm as Conor continued kissing up her chest.

Finally, Conor met her lips, drawing her into a scorching kiss. She squeezed the hilt of the dagger in her palm, trying to use it to ground her from the spinning, fluttering sensation in her chest. She reached for him, stroking his length. He groaned, his hips chasing her hand as he thrust forward.

"I should do that for you," she whispered against his lips.

"No, love. As much as I know that I would thoroughly enjoy that, if I don't get inside you now, I'll go mad," Conor murmured. His voice was rough, and it sent warmth pooling low in her belly.

He shifted and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he sank into her. They both groaned.

"There is nothing like the look on your face and the way you moan when I first push inside you, Rowan. Nothing has ever felt so good," Conor rasped.

A strangely prideful satisfaction bolstered her. She had to agree.

It was the dirtiest compliment she'd ever received, and she should have been appalled, but some dark part of her liked it immensely. Her grip on the dagger loosened.

The first time, she had been nervous, shy, and tentative, but now she felt like she'd finally found the place where she could be wild without judgment. She lifted her hips, urging him to move, and he chuckled.

"Slow down," Conor chided. "I'm trying to give you a chance to adjust."

"I'm fine—now move," she said, digging her heels into his rear to urge him on.

He laughed. "I swear, lass, you are out of your mind."

He started to move, and it felt even better than the first time. She'd never felt more comfortable with anyone, even considering the vulnerability of their circumstances.

"Perfect—you are so fucking perfect for me, Rowan," he whispered as he kissed her neck.

Conor moved with her, his eyes locked on hers, oblivious to her plan. She kept her focus on the sensation in her body as he moved so he wouldn't feel her intent. His eyes burned into hers with an intensity that made her squirm. There was no denying it, no mistaking the truth of what she felt. She couldn't escape it any longer.

Rowan was in love with Conor.

The Mother's words were fresh in her mind. " The moment that he's taking from you, he's vulnerable. "

Conor was taking her heart, and it might be her last good opportunity to end him before he could end her. She was only pretending she had a choice. He might not want to hurt her, but he would need to. Even if he didn't want to be monstrous, he'd warned her over and over to never forget that he was a monster. His grip on his world was slipping, and eventually, he'd need what only she could give him. She knew that surviving would be messy. She just hadn't counted on this level of devastation.

There was no other way. They were mutually destructive to each other.

Tears blinded Rowan. She'd thought the cruelest part of her life was over, but there always seemed to be one more cruelty for her to suffer. She'd never dared to love like that. Never imagined that it could exist in the life she'd been born into.

She blinked away tears as she met his eyes.

Conor froze. He looked stricken. "What is it, Rowan? Did I hurt you?" he asked. The tenderness in his voice, in his eyes, was not what she deserved.

She shook her head. The dagger slipped in her sweaty palm. She needed to strike now. There was no doubt in her mind what, exactly, he was taking from her. He'd stolen her heart without her permission, despite her best efforts to resist. Why shouldn't he have? He had centuries of experience in stealing hearts, in making women fall in love with him. Why should she be any different?

"Please don't stop," she begged.

Conor hesitated before starting to move again.

She shook as she tightened her grip on the dagger. You can do this, Rowan. You have to do this. It's you or him. You don't have a choice. It's him or Aeoife. If you can't do it for you, do it for her.

She moved her hand quickly, pausing with the point of the dagger nearly pressed to the skin of his ribs.

Conor froze above her. His eyes darted to the dagger. She knew she needed to move, but they both held still as statues.

He finally moved, and she flinched, but he stroked her cheek so tenderly.

"And what am I taking from you now, love?" Conor rasped.

She stared up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You know," she mumbled.

"Well, if you're going to kill me, I think I at least deserve to hear it once, Rowan," he said.

She bit her trembling lip. The dagger shook in her hand.

"My heart."

It was barely audible, but Conor looked as if she'd punched him in the gut.

"I hate that you made me love you," she sobbed, "but I hate it more that it means I can kill you."

Conor swallowed hard, holding perfectly still as the point of the dagger pressed into his chest.

She hesitated. Her eyes darted around wildly as she tried to summon.

"Before you strike, Rowan, you should know that I have been in love with you for quite some time now. Your love is a beautiful weapon that I feel unworthy of. I can think of no better way to go."

The words devastated her. Her whole world narrowed to the sincerity of his voice and the look on his face.

"Go on, love. Better me than you," Conor whispered.

She still couldn't make herself move.

Conor brushed her hair back from her face tenderly, as if she'd offered him her heart instead of a blade to his chest. "Death is easy. Living is hard. You've already made the hardest choice, my fierce little Red."

They both held completely still, poised on the edge of the abyss. There was no turning back. She couldn't stop loving him, couldn't escape the fact that she owed it to herself, at the very least, to put her needs first. So many people had let her down, and she'd long since learned that she was the only person she could truly count on. Still, at that moment, she was also confronted with the fact that she very much did not want to kill the first man she ever loved.

Rowan didn't want to stop seeing the hungry way Conor looked at her. Didn't want to stop feeling surprised when she woke up in his arms. Didn't want to confront the fact that no one had ever made her feel so simultaneously safe and out of control.

"Rowan," he whispered. "It's okay."

She shook her head. She knew the moment he looked at her that way, she wouldn't be able to do it.

"I can't," she sobbed. The dagger fell from her hand, landing with a soft thud in the linens. Conor batted it away, and it landed on the floor with a loud clang.

"I hate you," she whispered.

He chuckled as he kissed away her tears. "Oh, love, I think we both know that's not true at all."

"It's not," she gasped.

Conor pulled her into a slow kiss.

"I need you," she whispered.

He understood what was said and what wasn't. He understood what she needed to feel instinctively.

"You are beautiful and kind. All will be well. Now, I've never had a way with words, so let me show you how I feel."

He moved with a new urgency, covering every inch of skin he could reach with kisses until Rowan couldn't stop moaning; until her heart thundered in her chest; until everything frozen in her thawed and heated.

Tension wound in her body like a coiled snake. It wasn't enough. She wanted more. More of Conor, more feeling. She wanted to consume him the way he had her. She wanted to have some sort of ownership over him. She wanted proof of what existed between them—as if love was a thing she could hold in her hands.

She rolled so suddenly that she caught Conor off guard as she positioned herself on top of him and sank down. She threw her head back and groaned as Conor bit out a curse. She paused, meeting his eyes.

"Go on, then, lass, take what you want," he said with a smirk. His hands gripped her hips like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

It took her a moment to get her bearings, but the friction and control felt amazing once she did. She rolled her hips, building a rhythm that stoked the kindling fire within her to an inferno.

Conor met her movements with a gentle thrust of his hips. The tension in her was so close to breaking. She raked her fingernails down Conor's chest, and he groaned in satisfaction. She'd never felt so sexy and free as she did with his heated gaze locked on her.

"Please," she whimpered, more to herself than to Conor.

Still, he picked up the pace of his movement, his hand dropping between their bodies to rub against her. She looked into his eyes—eyes that reflected the love she felt so acutely—as she let go. Her climax crashed over her in waves, and she rode it out breathlessly.

She smiled at Conor as the feeling faded, slumping forward.

"Tired yourself out, lass?" he taunted.

Rowan frowned. "Absolutely not."

"Good, because I am not nearly done with you." Conor grinned. He rolled her onto her hands and knees before taking her hips in his hands and sliding back inside of her.

She cursed as she dropped her head to the bed, panting. Conor bent over her so that his chest was flush to her back. He wrapped an arm around her waist and thrust into her.

"Do you like that, Rowan?" he asked.

She couldn't even speak around the sensation. She could only nod. She blocked out everything else but the feeling of him. His whole body shook as she moved to meet him.

"Stop holding back," she grunted.

"Is that what you want, lass? You like when I take control? You like that I want you so much I'm shaking?"

"I like when you don't hold back," she rasped.

The words broke his restraint. He shoved her onto her stomach, and the new angle stopped all rational thought in her head. One of his hands held her hips in place while the other wrapped around her hair and tugged her head back so he could kiss her neck. She reached behind her, gripping his neck. She threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging him toward her. His hips moved harder, more frantic. Their movements took on a rougher, more desperate edge.

"Are you happy now, little Red? You're so tight and slick. I could fuck you like this all night," Conor grunted, nipping at her earlobe.

She whimpered his name. He slid his hand between her legs so he could rub her along with each thrust. Her hand slapped down to the bed, tangling in the sheets as her legs trembled.

Everything spun out of control, the two of them driven to a fever pitch. He kissed over the mark Valen had left on her neck, and then she felt the sharp glide of his teeth over the same spot. It was primal and possessive, like he was trying to wipe out the memory of what had happened—like he wanted to leave his own mark on her.

"Yes," she murmured.

He bit down, not enough to break her skin but enough to send a spike of startling pain through her that drove her into such an intense climax that her toes cramped and her whole body trembled violently. Conor kissed away the pain from the spot as he continued to move.

Perhaps it was just the magic, but Rowan wanted to be consumed. She wanted him to touch and own every part of her, and she wanted that same ownership over him.

"Rowan," he croaked. His voice had a panicked edge, and she knew he was fighting devouring her.

"Don't fight," she said. "Take what you need."

He cupped her face, pulling her into a kiss as he moved.

"I can't," he sighed, tucking his face into her neck.

"I want you to. I'm giving it willingly," she said.

In her heart, she meant it. She trusted that he wouldn't take too much, but beyond that, she wanted to prove to Conor and to the world that he could change. She didn't want the world to define them—Conor a villain and she a martyr. She wanted both of them to live and fight another day.

She wanted to live to see Sarai happy with her love in a world that could not hurt them. Rowan wanted to help her friend break their fractured world completely and rebuild it better. They couldn't do any of those things if another god of death came to power. If Conor couldn't contain whatever sinister force was rising, the world wouldn't be a place worth saving anyway.

Magic pulsed around them, but instead of his usual silence, a strange, mournful melody buzzed around him. She felt a sharp tug on her own magic, the same magic that pulsed through her when she sang. Her impulse was to cling to it, to fight, but she forced herself to let go and give it willingly, and the melody shifted as it ran through both of them. It flowed between them like a song she'd always known, familiar and lovely. Instead of feeling drained, she felt soothed, energized, and powerfully connected.

Conor's movement became jerky, and he groaned her name as he pulsed inside her. He quickly rolled off of her and turned her over so he could kiss her.

"Are you well?" His face was pinched with concern.

She laughed at how serious he looked. "I'm fine. Honestly, I feel pretty amazing." She stretched and felt pleasant, shaky fatigue in her muscles, but her body buzzed with a strange, ecstatic energy.

"You don't feel tired?" He looked her over as though trying to see through her.

"No more than I should be, considering," she teased.

He kissed her, weaving his hands through her hair. "You are something else. I swear you have no sense of self-preservation," he said, shaking his head between kisses. "Are you sure that you're okay?"

She smiled. "I think you know I am very okay."

"How can that be?" he marveled. He drew back, staring at her as if he was trying to see some definitive sign that she was really okay.

"Conor, I'm fine. I swear. I'm just a little hungry."

Conor sprang out of bed and threw on his pants, kissing her again before he disappeared into the hallway. He came back a few moments later and tossed her his robe. "Put this on. I want Charlie to look at you. He'll be able to see if your aura is faded."

Rowan nodded as she pulled on the robe.

Charlie appeared at the door a moment later with a tray of food in his hands and a sly grin on his face. "Oh, hello there, lass. Happy to see you're in one piece. I wasn't so sure with all the screaming," he teased.

Rowan covered her face with her hands, feeling the heat of her cheeks.

"Well?" Conor asked impatiently.

Charlie studied her carefully. "Are you sure you took something?"

Conor nodded. "Positive."

"Well, she looks fine," Charlie confirmed. "She's just as bright as always."

Rowan smiled at him as she swiped a biscuit from the tray. "Goddess above, I'm starving!" she said as she sank into the chair by the fire.

She hadn't realized until she saw the food just how hungry she was, but she found herself hoping that Charlie would bring another tray because she was ready to eat all that he'd brought for the two of them.

When she looked up, both Charlie and Conor were staring at her as she shoveled food into her mouth. "What?"

"You're just a bit of a puzzle, love," Conor stated. "We don't understand how I could have taken something from you, and yet you're fine already. You should be exhausted. Last time you slept for a day."

"What was different this time?" Charlie asked.

Rowan flushed with heat, unable to meet his eyes. She went back over everything in her head. The position was different, as was the intensity between them.

"I told her I loved her," Conor said quietly.

Charlie didn't seem the slightest bit surprised. "And here I thought that was something only I would ever know," he laughed. "I'm impressed. He's stubborn as a mule, and yet you've moved that icy old heart. And did you say it back, Rowan?"

"Yes, after I told him I hated him," she said, cramming another biscuit into her mouth.

"Of course. Perfectly understandable," Charlie teased. "Perhaps it's that. You've never been in love with one of the Maidens before."

Rowan studied Conor carefully. Something flickered in his eyes that formed a ball of jealousy in her stomach.

"Is that true?" she challenged.

Conor frowned. "Yes."

Rowan narrowed her eyes. She had no right to be jealous. There were many Maidens before her, and Conor had lived for centuries. Of course he had a past. She didn't like the inequity that it created between them—that he was her only love and she wasn't his.

"Are you jealous, little Red?" Conor asked.

"No, why would I be jealous?" she asked, feigning indifference.

He licked his lips, and she knew he was tasting her lie. "I'd be happy to clear things up for you or allow you to work through that jealousy," he said with a feral smile.

"I think it's quite clear. That won't be necessary," Rowan countered. She hated that he could taste her lies, but she felt the same proprietary claim to him that he did to her.

"Your jealousy is delicious," he sighed.

"All right, all right, you two look like you're about two minutes from pouncing on each other again. Focus, please. Now, was anything else different?" Charlie asked.

"She gave me permission to take it," Conor said.

Rowan sat up straighter. "That's right. I gave consent."

Charlie considered. "That's something that never occurred to the elders or us. Perhaps that's the key to this. She's a magical being. If she willingly offers her power to you instead of you just taking it, maybe it creates a different balance. Perhaps that's why she's eating like a wild beast now. Instead of being drained, she's simply able to rebuild with nourishment."

Rowan and Conor stared at each other. Could it be so simple?

"Only one way to find out. You'll have to try it again. Con, if this works, it changes everything." The reaper looked at the god of death and smiled. "You could get control of the Dark Wood again and stop losing power to the Mother."