Chapter 8

Aurora

TREES BLUR BY ON EITHER side of me as I run. My feet are swift over the forest floor, each footfall muffled by the leaves and pine needles from seasons past. The sounds of reveling drift as I flee, leaving only the sound of my breath and of the Horned God’s pursuit.

Rowan. Rowan is my Horned God.

Upon seeing him across from me, his hair like flames and his broad shoulders bare, I felt a wave of desire so strong it nearly took me to my knees. Even now, the heart beating erratically in my chest does so for more reasons than one.

As he chased me around the fire, my mind spun like ribbons about the Maypole.

How can I yearn for him so strongly when I already have another? How can my body hunger to be touched by new hands when I’ve only just come to know the ones that touch me now? I was at war with myself, telling myself not to want him when everything inside me screamed otherwise.

But now, as I run through the shadows of the forest, Rowan breaking through the undergrowth behind me, I feel something new come over me. It’s as if the goddess Brigid herself reaches down to touch my crown, to place a spell upon me. And with her touch, my apprehension fades away, falling from my shoulders like a shroud removed by a lover’s gentle hands.

All that’s left in its wake is desire.

But even so, I run.

If I’m to be his, he will earn me, win my hand, just as the stories say.

When I feel a hand upon my wrist, long fingers closing around my bones, I know I’m caught.

Rowan’s hand captures me, and then he’s tugging me to a sudden stop, yanking me into his bare chest. Before I can catch my breath, he’s pushing my back against a tree, trapping me in the confines of his lean arms as his hands on the rough bark cage me in.

Our tandem panted breaths are loud in the night. I can’t hear anything over our breathing and the pounding of my own heart.

Rowan looms over me, his face and brilliant eyes cast into shadow. In the darkness, the antlers rising high above his shoulders look like they’re truly a part of him, like the chase through the trees transformed him, leaving him part stag.

He’s truly become the horned one, the king of the hunt.

And I his willing prey.

“Your Majesty,” he whispers, voice drifting around me in the dark. “We meet again.”

He moves one of his hands from the tree beside me to trace his fingertips across my cheek, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. And when he captures my chin and tilts my head back, I don’t resist.

As he leans in, I hold my breath.

For a moment, he hesitates. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to pull away, to turn my face away from his. But I do no such thing. Instead, my tongue darts out to wet my lips. He leans closer.

When his lips meet mine, the heat behind his kiss sends lightning through my veins. I’m aflame, burning as hot as the Beltane bonfire.

My mouth is a soft, tiny thing beneath his. He reaches down to lift me, and my legs wrap around his waist as he presses me into the tree. The summer night is all around us as I lose myself to his kiss and to the taste of strawberry wine upon his lips.