Page 51 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

“I suppose it is a good thing I taught you how to swim all those years ago, then,” Myla teases. Bryar laughs and his gentle hand shifts, digging fingers into a sensitive spot above her hips, evoking a brief squealed protest.

“We agreed not to talk about that,” he whispers. “Suppose bandits were to hear.”

“I would be more concerned about the presence of bandits, than of them hearing that you did not know how to swim twelve years ago,” she teases in return, her hand pressed against his neck. “It seems we taught each other a great deal of things. Do you remember the night we first . . .” Her words drift off, innuendo sufficiently ending her question for her.

He scrutinizes their surroundings briefly before meeting her gaze. “It was a lot like tonight. We were in the woods, and you had just finished one of your rituals. I thought it was enthralling.”

Myla presses herself closer. “You were mystified.”

He laughs, though it is more akin to a hungry growl, as his face lowers to hers, their mouths brushing together. Bryar pauses, his lips now barely grazing hers, and his words an ignition of flame. “Should we recreate it?”

She sighs a breathy laugh against his mouth with a playful nip, mimicking a younger version of herself. “Out here? For all to see?”

His hand gropes her trousers at the back of her thighs, holding her close against him, and he mutters against her lips. “Just the Gods and the trees.” His mouth closes firmly over hers.

There is an urgency to their movements, a screaming passion and a need for fulfillment. Myla is pressed against the massive tree as Bryar’s hand slides up her thigh, pulling her leg around his waist to brace her body against his. Her senses are overwhelmed with the fragrance of Ebonbark trees, wet soil, and the earthiness of dried river water on Bryar, each scent working as an aphrodisiac. Her breath catches in her lungs as she frantically yanks on the ties of his trousers. He wraps one arm beneath her and his other hand braces against the tree trunk.

“These damned trousers,” she hisses, her words interrupted by the mingling of his tongue with hers. With a final yank, Myla unfastens his front, making way for her searching fingers. She does not have to search far at all; his length is hard and ready in her hand as he works at the fastenings of her pants. At last, they loosen and fall past her hips with a satisfied sigh from Bryar.

It is euphoric, the way her body shudders in acceptance as he pushes inside her. Myla wraps her arms around his neck and brings her other leg to his waist, linking them at the ankles behind him.

Fully supported by his sturdy frame, she relies on his strength to move her upward and back down again, pulling himself in and out of her. Completely different than the sacrament made at the monastery, this is feverish and animalistic. A tension coils between her thighs, she squeezes tight around him, ready to snap. Myla holds her breath, amplifying the sensation and is nearly tipped over the edge as his teeth find the soft skin beneath her ear. Her fingers grip his thick curls, holding him close, savoring every thrust and the ecstasy they bring.

Bryar’s lips explore lower, his arms lifting her high enough to press kisses to the exposed ridges of her breasts beneath the loose tunic which has slipped off her shoulder. His lips create a trail of fire across her chest, which continues down to her core. Crashing together in a panting, sweating tangle, like a colossal wave, they finish in unison. This time, there are no thin walls nor monks present to stifle their gasps and moans for. Only the Gods and the trees to hear how she cries out her ecstasy.

It is only once the pleasant pulsing between her thighs subsides that Myla realizes the bark against her bare ass is sharp and pointed. Meanwhile, a lurching in her stomach propels her into a frenzy.

“Put me down,” she pants, nearly pushing him away. Startled, he backs away, holding her elbow as she finds her footing just in time to vomit against the tree they just christened. Startled, Bryar steps toward her, swiping her hair away from her face in one swift motion.

The sickness in her belly leaves her weak and leaning against the tree, unable to subdue the heaving deep inside. Moments of silence pass as Bryar stands behind her, holding her steady and comforting her with silent, gentle pats. After what feels like an eternity of illness churning within, she stands, anxiously facing him and grateful it is too dark for him to see the red-hot embarrassment building on her cheeks.

“Well,” he quips matter-of-factly, “I can not say that is good for a man’s ego.”

Myla laughs, still holding her upset belly, and sits on the forest floor, giving her weak legs a chance to recover from both exhausting experiences which have occurred in the last ten minutes. “I would say we failed the reenactment.”

“Miserably,” Bryar agrees. “In any case, it was not a tree last time,” he adds coyly, expertly navigating the conversation away from her untimely encore. “It was a steep incline, with far too many insects.” Bryar points a teasing finger at her belly. “When she arrives, we ought to tell the princess to time her tantrums better.”

Myla falls asleep leaning against Bryar. There is no use asking him to sleep as well; he watches over her until dawn. Not even praying to the Spirit Mother and spontaneous sex can rid Myla of the feeling of a voyeur lurking inside her, violating her autonomy from afar. As she readies for another day of travel, she pictures the Blood Stealer, perched atop her throne, surrounded by the ruins of her palace, a dirty boot propped on the bodies of her dead subjects. All while playing her like a puppeteer to pass his time.

His grip is deep and bearing now, rather than a fleeting impulse, it feels like he is occupying her, like he is her. Unrelenting tension seems to coil in her chest, constricting her breath, an unyielding reminder, he is not just toying with her anymore. He wills her to surrender. If she would only submit to him, the battle would be over.

There will be blood soon, and Myla fears it will be hers.

Bryar insists they travel quicker now, only stopping to rest their remaining horse, then continue. They ride both day and night. Myla siphons her energy deep within her womb, forming a protective barrier, something she realizes she should have done two weeks ago when they left Falkmere. Now, she hopes it cushions the baby from the brutal gait of their travel.

During the previous two years, she has not formed an emotional attachment to the life within for a myriad of reasons, including uncertainty, and the fact the child felt out of reach—more like an idea than an actual being. Now, she can feel the energy, a contrast from hers, an entirely separate life, which she is responsible for. Now, she must protect it against herself for another five or six months, before she can assign it a more reliable caretaker.

At this thought, her mind drifts to the man behind her, stable and loyal. If she can only hold strong long enough to birth the child, she knows he will protect it, like he has protected her, even if, ultimately, they can not save her from Vesperian.

Myla wonders what would become of her child should she succumb; another mindless chunk of flesh in the Blood Stealer’s army. Bryar would take the baby, and raise her far from the conflicts, Myla is sure of it. She makes a mental note to discuss it with him, when they are not riding a thundering horse into a thick, orange and yellow grove of trees.

The vibrant forest reaches upward toward the sky, spectacularly framed on either side by severely pointed mountains which pierce the skyline before disappearing behind fluffy, white clouds. Cliffsides gradually descend and are eventually hidden behind the luscious trees. The cliffs have man-made structures etched into them; beautifully carved belvederes positioned at different intervals of height. Myla assumes they are vantage points, or posts to watch from. The leaves of the trees glow with autumn colors, filtering orange and red patches of sunlight against the gently swaying golden grass blanketing their path. Compared to the way their journey began, surrounded by ruin, this sight strikes Myla as peaceful, safe even.

“Whoa,” Bryar instructs the horse, pulling back on the reins. The panting beast halts. “I think this is it,” he says, dismounting before helping her down.

“I think you are right,” Myla agrees, continuing to take in the scenery with awe. “Look.”

She draws his attention to something perched on the cliffside looking down on them and gasps. It is beautiful—she is beautiful. Even at a distance, the red-hot glow of her wingspan, tucking into itself as she lands gracefully is magnificent.