Page 18 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“I see leaving might be conflicting, but I thought it would be an easy choice when faced with the alternative. It was one thing to know you were taking Caius’s bed. You had no choice in the matter, but this?” He points to her bed a mere ten feet away. “You will be welcoming your husband’s murderer into your bed to touch your body?”

Myla swallows hard as tears blind her. “Captain Monroe, my body has not been my own for a long time. First, it was Caius’s, and then there was a child within me—one I do want to protect still! And then . . . then the Blood Stealer laid claim to it through that fucking blood oath.” Her words spill out in an emotional unburdening, anger and grief alike married together. “Whether he has my body in my bed, or has my body through my uncontrolled actions, he has had my body for two years, and I want him to have it no more. If I must share his bed to convince him of my loyalty, so that I may kill him while he sleeps, so be it!”

Bryar stands and pushes his palms into his temple, eyes closed and what appears to be an internal battle taking place. “And if he does not keep his word? If you have tried all this, and he still does not release you from your oath?”

“Then, I will try to kill him in spite of it and hope I am strong enough to resist any urges not to kill him.”

Bryar clenches his jaw as he moves to leave the room, before he turns on his heel to return, standing directly before her. His hands closing around her face, earnestly drawing her attention to something deep within him. He speaks with fervor, leaving no question of how he feels unanswered. “I hate this, Myla. Believe me when I say, I know none of this has anything to do with me, and that constantly seems to be a consequence of station. I am tired of being forced to sit back and watch the woman I have faithfully loved for ten years be passed off as another man’s pawn. I would have defied your father and taken you from court five years ago, had that been a possibility, but I want to be with someone who is not already married to duty with no regard for herself!” He releases her, heaving an inward breath before grabbing his cloak to leave. “I respect you and have always admired your commitment to your people. But that commitment must end when it compromises your wellbeing and your sense of self.”

His voice lowers and he speaks with confidence, his eyes fixed on hers. “When you married the king, I swore to protect, my heart broke, but I knew we both acted from a place of duty and loyalty. And when your husband, my king, died, I grieved with and for you—for the uncertainty you felt. And as you suffer now, I suffer with you, for my heart has always been your heart.

“As my queen, you can command me to leave now, to go wage your wars and kill who you wish, even to watch you throw yourself away for the sake of this kingdom. I will faithfully ensure that you live to see the other side of this. Not, because I am sworn to the crown, but because I still love you. But I will not stand in this room any longer and accept the insult of your soft words as you try to pass them off as compassion.”

A wave of both hurt and anger wash over Myla as she watches him head for the door. Angrily, she throws her wine glass to the floor, disregarding the shattering glass and the spray of red in every direction, an ironic visual representation of their imploding relationship. “Are you so damn arrogant to assume this is easy for me? You are acting like a victim right now, while I am trying to right wrongs!”

“I am no victim, Your Grace. I stand here willingly. But you are about to make yourself one, and I will be left having to clean up the mess.”

“Well, if you are so sick of protecting me, of cleaning up after me, then go protect someone else,” Myla hisses, taking several steps toward him, uncharacteristically angry. Bryar faces her squarely, his jaw set, fumes of smoke beginning to permeate the room, as his own anger amounts and heat boils in his fists.

“You say that as if I did not just swear a fucking oath to you two nights ago, Myla! I am the idiot who just . . . follows you around, hoping that one day you will see me again!”

“I do see you!” Myla nearly screams, planting her hands in his chest, pushing him further from her. He stumbles backwards knocking her washbasin off its pedestal. Painted glass shatters, adding to the carnage on the floor.

“Then say my name,” he challenges. “Stop calling me Captain, like it somehow erases our history.”

Myla freezes, sucking her bottom lip inward and digging her teeth into it. His name, something she tries to keep out of her mouth, out of her head, and most importantly, out of her heart.

“Say it.”

“I can not.”

“What are you so afraid of?” he asks, his head shaking as though he is looking down on a child who has once again disappointed him. “Are you afraid you will remember what we used to be?”

Her voice trembles as she speaks. “I am not afraid of remembering—I did not forget. I have never forgotten that before him . . . there was you.” Her voice breaks, though anger still presides over the room, in spite of her words. “And for a while, the grief and guilt of his death held me back from you. Then, when that was gone, it was only fear. Fear of adding this to the long list of things I already can not control.” She hisses the last word, taking several steps backwards, moving away from him. A futile attempt, as he only follows her, closing the small space between them. “This is something we have never been able to control, something that we barely harnessed when I was married to Caius, and beyond. But now . . . now I am afraid. Afraid of how sad I have become, afraid that if I spend whatever days of my life I have left fighting against something that has always been such a source of joy and safety, that I will have nothing to smile upon while I lie on my death bed.” Myla presses a hand to his chest, another barrier between them, a silent warning, as if to say: stay back if you do not want to be hurt again. “It is for those reasons, and so many more . . . Bryar . . . that I have to protect us and—”

Bryar stops her mid-sentence with a firm kiss, his tongue slipping through her parted lips to press against hers as they share the same air. The passion dissipates their anger. His touch, foreign yet still familiar, is a gentle reminder of the safety she once held so dear. All thoughts of arguing are snuffed and replaced with a need to prove something to one another. To prove they do not still care and yet, in the same breath, they do. To prove that everything will be alright, though it feels as if it will not. The way their bodies move against each other, reminiscent of a battle, each hungry with desire and unwilling to surrender their stance on the matter.

Myla shudders, releasing a gasp of realization, she is unraveling her carefully woven defenses. She parts their lips to look up into his eyes, fear strikes deep inside in her soul when she sees the depths of his desire inside, she sees it painted across his face, sees it embedded deep within his being. She reaches out to touch his broad chest, longing to fall into him, to find that safe space they spent so many years hidden in. The barrier of armor between their skin is suddenly torturous, as the years of carefully constructed restraints crumble with the slightest breath of permission. The flickering candlelight casts a warm glow over his chiseled features, highlighting the anticipation of something so long awaited in his gaze.

These once-familiar expressions, gentle touches, and private rendezvous were something they never felt the need to resist—the natural innocence of adolescence never caused them to question it. Bryar had touched and lain with Myla, the nobleman’s rebellious daughter. But Myla the queen, of an entire realm, is a new territory to explore. Their connection burns hot, a forbidden ember that has been left smoldering to die for years, waiting for the day she would give it oxygen, give it the slightest permission to spark.

As their eyes lock in a silent exchange of longing, Bryar’s hands slide down Myla’s sides. The brush of his fingertips, nearly mistaken as accidental, the whisper of a touch sending shivers down her spine. She leans in closer, her lips dangerously close to brushing against his once more in a tantalizingly slow dance of desire. He need only bridge the gap, then that passion which she imagines frequently, that passion which she has replayed in her head many times from years ago, is sure to be uncaged.

“We should not be doing this,” Bryar whispers, voice thick with both yearning and apprehension. He presses his brow to hers, his breath heavy with the disappointment that can only come from self-denial. “If you knew how I have missed you,” he continues, his strong fingers tangling deep into her hair, gently pulling her closer. “I do not want to do this if it is something you will regret and I will loath later.”

But Myla only responds with a soft, breathless moan, her fingers tangling in his hair, all of her self-imposed rules and emotional barriers crumple to her feet. “I have many regrets in my life, but I never have and never could regret you.”

That is all the encouragement he needs. Those mere inches no longer exist. All of the years of yearning for one another and missing one another begin to unravel the second his mouth finds hers. A shudder of respite and pent-up longing is released between them. The taste of him is intoxicating, a heady blend of longing and passion with a touch of kerosene that ignites the fire deep within her. A longing that has lain dormant and undisturbed, cracks wide open, and Myla is reminded how exceedingly small she feels in his embrace. Overcome by a sense of urgency, and an ache growing between her thighs, Myla presses her hips to his, irritated by the thick belt and chainmail padding the sensitive space between them.

As their lips meet in a desperate kiss, the captain’s hands move over her body with a reverence born only from years of unrequited worship. “You are the queen,” he breathes against her skin. His lips find a soft spot on her neck as his words plead for reason amid their heated tryst. But she only responds with a soft moan, her hands fumbling with the fastenings of his uniform as they both give in to the undeniable pull between them.

“I was a girl to you well before I was a queen. Do not forget who it was that made me a woman.” As the layers of clothing begin to fall away, revealing his muscular chest as well as new scars, Myla’s breath catches in her throat. A mangled twist of skin slashes across his right side, the tense ripples of his abdomen causing it to rise and fall, silvery in the firelight.

Every inch of him is a masterpiece, a testament to his strength and his long-suffering dedication to the crown. Her crown. She leans down to press lingering kisses along his jawline, trailing a path of heat and desire down his neck and across his collarbone. Bryar’s hands roam over her body, his touch igniting a symphony of sensations that reverberate through her very core. It is as though he is swearing an entirely different sort of oath to her now.

The room is filled with the sound of their ragged breaths and the soft rustle of fabric as they surrender to one other. Amid the vulnerability is a palpable understanding that they are crossing a line which can not be uncrossed. A space they have both safeguarded and resisted reopening is now cracking wide open into something sure to be catastrophic. It is a moment of pure, unadulterated desire, a fleeting escape from the constraints of duty and honor that always rip them in separate directions.

Bryar’s hand begins to trail up the space between her rib cage, fingers grazing the curve beneath her breast. A trained finger slides between the material of her neckline. Confident in his advances, his nimble fingers inch closer to the fastenings at the nape of her neck, ready to disrobe her entirely—and the dress falls to the floor, leaving only her dressing gown and corset. The act sends an unexpected cold sweat through her body as a memory—like a nightmare—invades her mind, causing her to flinch.