Page 162 of Fate's Wicked Oath

Crinkles formed around Faren’s eyes. “I hope you saved some room in your belly.”

A homestead was materializing ahead of us. I took in the familiar rooflines and fences, which were steaming as the sun crested the tree line and burned off the frost. The rest of my pastry lodged in my throat, and I swallowed hard, momentarily disbelieving, even though I’d known all along that our journey south was leading here.

“Do you think they have any more of that delicious bacon?” Faren wondered.

“Let’s find out.” I whistled and clicked my tongue, urging Simon into a gallop.

Sunny launched after us, and Faren’s laugher was dispersed by the thundering of our horses’ hooves. The cold stung my face. My eyes burned with tears. Elation pulsed in my veins, my magic taking flight. When we reached the front path, I swung off Simon’s back and burst through the door.

The rest was a blur: my mother crying and folding me into her arms. My father embracing us both. Bard and Celia showing us their newborn baby girl. Pete and Orna arriving from the guest house. The scent of rosemary and breakfast grease. Warm socks before the hearth. My disjointed explanation of all that had transpired, met by loud cheering and more tears when I announced my freedom. The taste of my mother’s fresh bread and laughter on my tongue. The pleasant weight Faren’s hand on my thigh—an easy sort of affection—and the smile my father gave me when he spotted it.

My magic stirred up every bloom of heat on my skin and tingle of emotion in my heart. And as I listened to Faren read to Timand about heroes and villains, gallant deeds and formidable foes, and good’s triumph over evil, I basked in the overwhelming sensation of this hard-won joy, feelingalivein a way I never had before.

We stayed for two weeks. Faren had insisted we could linger longer, but as much as I loved my family, living with my parents and brother were not part of my long-term plans. Besides, we had one last errand to run for Oderin and Phina: to deliver the sensitive news ofallthat had transpired in the capital to a mutual friend.

We arrived in Waldron-on-Wend in the latter half of winter. When Anya opened the door to the Pretty Possum Inn & Pub, she gave us a withering smirk. Somewhere behind her, I could hear the echo of Idris whistling and the tap-tapping of Wicker’s nails on the hardwood.

“How many rooms this time?” the innkeeper asked at length, as if she’d been expecting us.

Her smugness alone made me want to turn around, but Faren gripped my arm, holding me in place. I looked up at him, feeling my prickliness relent under his affectionate gaze. He raised an eyebrow; I answered with a nod.

“Just one,” he told the innkeeper.

I ignored Anya’s self-satisfied chuckle as I barged past her to pour myself an ale.

Epilogue: A Fortunate Feeling

Mariana

Dawn was a mere idea in the sky when I roused from slumber, swung my leg over Faren’s chest, and sat astride him. Unlike the first time I’d woken him this way, I held no blade, and there was no clothing between us: just his sleep-warm skin under my bare thighs. My sensitive magic—accustomed and attuned to his body—purred in my belly as I leaned forward and brushed a kiss to his throat.

Calloused hands came to my hips and slid up my waist. Faren made a sleepy sound, low and gravelly. “Good morning, Buttercup,” he mumbled, eyelashes fanning across his cheeks before fluttering open. “Where’s your knife?”

“Want me to go get it?”

He clutched my waist firmly. “Don’t you dare leave.”

Snow was falling outside the window, the world blue tinted with the fading night. Inside our room at the Possum, the fire burned low, our bodies heated by our contact. Faren brought a hand to the back of my head and kissed me languidly.

“Took you long enough to wake me like this again,” he murmured against my lips. “Though I much prefer the lack of clothing this time.” He slid his fingers down my spine, drawing the attention of my magic. His touch was firm and purposeful as he cupped my ass and squeezed. “If I licked you, would you still jump off me? Or would you stay put?”

“Fates, Hayward, is it not a little early for such talk?” I teased.

“You’re the one seated on my chest,” he remarked, his voice pitching even lower and rougher as he added, “Why don’t you scoot forward, sweetheart?”

My mind went blank for a moment—then I realized what he was suggesting. Blood rushed to my cheeks. Just the mere thought of sitting on his face made my magic rise to the surface, instantly hyperaware of the texture of the mattress beneath my knees, Faren’s chest hair scratching my inner thighs, the heat of my center meeting his skin. A sudden shyness swept over me, one I was certain he could sense in the micro-movements of my muscles.

“I…don’t want to smother you,” I said.

His chuckle was a mere rasp in the back of his throat. “Trust me, Ana, I can imagine worse ways to die.”

I poked his shoulder. “You have to stop making jokes about that.”

“My greatest Fortune”—he bounced his eyebrows—“is also my Death, remember? Perhaps you can make my Fate come true a second time.”

“Faren,” I chided.

He slid his palms over my thighs. “Please,” he whispered. “I want to taste you. It’s a crime that I haven’t yet.”