Page 114 of Crowned By Roses

“I’ll defy them all for you.” She sobs the words against my lips, and her release is a storm, wild and furious, her body clamping me inside, pulling my own pleasure out. I let myself fall with her, holding her head in my hands as I spill into her, breathless and raw, promising her forever with every shudder.

We ride in the afterglow, slick and tangled. The fire must have gone out, as the tent is lit by embers, and breath frosts the air between us. She holds my hand to her chest, over the wild thrum of her heart, and I treasure each beat.

“Rosalina,” I murmur. “My Rose. We’ll stand in the halls of Castletree once more. I will see you home. I promise.”

She blinks, tears crystal in the corners of her eyes, and smiles at me, wrecked and radiant. “You’ll always be my home,” she says, the words threading from her lips to the deepest parts of me.

I roll us to our sides, tucking her against my chest as the fire gutters low. The Vale is perilous, full of old hatreds and tangled alliances, but tonight it is only this: our bodies, our joined warmth, and the soft sound of her breathing as she slips into sleep.

I lie awake, embers dying out one by one, and know that when dawn comes, I will die to protect this, to keep the future within my arms.

But for now, I hold her and hope.

48

Rosalina

Istand on the mountain ridge, hidden by tall pines. A cold breeze snaps my dress and hair as I look out over the remains of the Briar. The rubble of Castletree lies at the center, the dead briars a graveyard around it. War machines litter the ground, and Sira’s minions skitter around in ambling droves. Even the horizon is choked by smog and patrolling harpies. The setting sun tries valiantly to pierce through, coloring the land in a red glow.

With every fading ray, the Vale feels as if it’s slipping through my fingers.

My wings stay hidden away, an invisible power within me. I am able to summon them with a thought, the way I might stretch out my fingers or wrinkle my nose, a conscious yet instinctive move. But I have no need of them in this moment.

“It’s the night of the full moon,” I whisper to Kel without looking at him. I felt his presence as he approached before he even reached out to touch the small of my back. “No one is here.”

“They’ll come.”

I don’t understand. Winter’s army has been in position for two days. Every hour that passes, I expect to hear one of my mates in my mind, informing me their army has arrived. But it’s been silent in my head, and as I peer out along the Briar, looking west, south, and southwest, there’s no sign of anyone. Where is Spring? Summer? Autumn? The Queen’s Army?

Where are my mates?

Staring at the rubble of Castletree is like poking myself repeatedly with a needle. But I can’t seem to tear my eyes away. It’s not only the remains of my home. Somewhere, in that mess of stone and wood, lie my father’s bones. He’s all alone in there, never given a proper funeral or goodbye. I didn’t even get a chance to say anything to him in those last seconds we had together.

Dread, sharp and cold, sticks in my body as I stare without blinking. Once the sun sets, Sira’s ritual will begin. My hand unconsciously strays to my pocket, where I keep the small satchel of seeds I gathered in the Gardens of Ithilias. I don’t know why I bother to keep them on me, only that they are a comfort.

“Your Majesty.” Aquila walks over, her voice much more serious than its usual lilting tone. With Faustrius gone, the priestess has been put in charge. “Our mole scout has returned. Faustrius is now by Sira’s side and confirms she does not suspect our changing sides. Our moles and riders are in position, buried beneath the grounds below.” She casts a look to the sky. “The sun will set soon. If we’re to make a move before Sira’s at her full power⁠—”

“We can’t attack until the other armies arrive,” I say, my heart pounding painfully against my chest. Where are you?

“We have time,” Kel says. “Let’s give it⁠—”

A gust of wind cuts him off. I throw up my hands to protect my face. It isn’t the cool mountain breeze but something rank and heavy. And it came from down near the remains of Castletree. Like the release of air from a casket, open after being long buried.

I squint down at the ruins. In the red light, I catch sight of her.

Sira’s no bigger than a doll from this height, but it’s as if her presence could sweep me away. Her minions drop their tasks and encircle her, forming ranks. “There’s so many,” I whisper.

Sira’s speaking, but we’re too far away to hear her words, even if her voice is amplified. She tilts her head back, arms lifted at her sides. There, I see it through the folds of her tattered cloak: the rose, encased in a glass bell jar at her hip.

Sira opens her mouth as if she’s breathing something in. Or offering something up.

Then she falls to her hands and knees, clawing her fingers into the earth. And this time, when that gust of rot-heavy wind whips up to us, I hear her.

“Roots run deep. Magic seeps. Come to me. Wounds will weep.”

My eyes, squeezed shut against the gale, force open. Sira’s now standing in the wilted remains of the Briar, away from Castletree. Staring up at us.

I stumble backward. No, no. I hit the ground hard, head spinning as I stare upward at the red smog.