Page 19 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

Bryar steps back, alarmed. “Are you alright?” He searches her for any sign of pain but finds it only in her eyes. “Should I go?”

Myla takes a deep breath, gazing at the man before her. The safe man. The man who has never hurt her, the man she has longed for for years. He is not the cause of her nightmares. Shaking her head, she pulls him close once more. “Please, do not leave me.”

With little time to think, Myla finds herself splayed across her bed with Bryar caressing her arms above her head, his mouth attentively pressing kisses to the space where her neck and shoulders meet. All thoughts of their argument slip away as the warmth of his body, hard against hers, brings a sense of weighted comfort in the midst of conflict.

“Bryar, stop,” she breathes with absolutely no conviction.

He loosens his grip on her wrists and lifts his face to hers. “Do you want me to stop?”

He would stop, if she asked, and that knowledge alone prompts an enthusiastic, “Absolutely not.” Myla shakes her head and revokes her statement, lifting her lips to meet his, her breath hitching as his free hand travels down her abdomen and past to where he can firmly grasp a handful of her gown, drawing it slowly upwards. Bare fingers against the inside of her thigh send shivers through her as he draws slow, seductive designs against her sensitive skin, inching closer and closer to that space between her legs. A blaze heats his fingertips, fueled by his innermost desires running away with him. The sensation both scorches and chills, igniting a desperate craving for relief.

His touch, at last, is euphoric, dismissing every one of her fears and concerns with the intentional brush of his fingers. Immense pleasure building within causes her to attempt an escape from his grasp, but he holds firm, his eyes searching hers as she surrenders to his all-consuming touch. Myla arches her back, pressing as close to him as she can manage, her mouth fixed upon his in a kiss she wishes could last forever.

With shaking thighs and a need to feel more, she arches her body closer to his. “Let me touch you,” she whispers, gasping as his expert fingers vanquish her over and over again.

“No,” he growls a response into her ear. “You may be in charge outside of this room, but here, tonight . . . I am.” The words are thrilling and the need to be at his mercy is overwhelming. Myla resists his restraint no more, fully allowing herself to be submerged in him. When at last his efforts elicit a loud gasp from Myla, her body tensing beneath the throbbing pleasure between her legs, his fingers uncurl from around her wrists and his lips linger on hers for a second longer.

When she regains her breath, still intoxicated by his touch, she nips at his lip and moves to straddle him. “Your turn,” she whispers against his mouth. He shakes his head slowly, moaning beneath the pressure of her teeth.

“Not tonight,” he says, smoothing stray hairs away from her face. “This was for you, not me.” For several minutes Myla lies, steadying her breath, while Bryar is sprawled next to her, his hand holding tightly to hers, both of them afraid to let go.

In spite of the relief brought on in the last ten minutes, Myla can not shake the feeling of doom hanging over her like a storm cloud ready to drown her. No amount of bliss locked away in this room can spare them from the grief that always seems to await them outside.

Reluctant to move away from him, but aware of the rapidly passing time, she stands and begins picking up shards of splintered glass from the floor. Bryar joins her and together they consolidate the sharp pieces into a tightly woven basket, normally intended for laundry. Myla will have Fern dispose of it later. Guilt pulses through her.

“We have never behaved in such a manner,” she says finally, addressing the disaster around them. “I hate this.”

“We have never tried enduring such an impasse,” Bryar responds coolly, fixing the tousled bedding and putting his shirt on. As they pass the next few moments in silence, both knowing their little tryst has solved nothing, Myla turns away from Bryar, trying desperately to hide the shake of her shoulders as she silently sobs into her hand, an overwhelming wave of fear for the following day washing over her. Or perhaps it is fear for the reality of losing him right when she feels he is returning to her.

“Bryar . . . you should not spend any longer holding your breath for me. I do not believe I will be here much longer.”

“It is not too late,” Bryar pleads, standing close behind her now, a firm hand sliding around her middle, pulling her into a hug from behind. Myla allows her head to fall back against his chest. “We can leave now and come up with a plan that does not include giving yourself to that animal.”

She turns to face him, a gentle hand smoothing against the stubble of his cheek. “I can not. I must do something to fix this mess before it consumes Falkmere. I understand this may very well be the final straw for us.” Her voice cracks, and a sob brings pause to her words. Taking a slow and steadying breath, Myla continues. “Please, stay with me tonight. If it is the last time you look on me kindly, I would like to make the most of that time before you loathe me.”

Bryar pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly. His body trembles, and she wonders if it is for anger or grief. Perhaps both. Firelight glints off the tapestries hanging from her walls, and candles dance in the corners. On any other evening, her chamber would feel warm and welcoming. This evening, to Myla, it feels like the prison of a young woman failing at being a queen.

Elsa is sent for, her face unreadable as her eyes bounce back and forth between he and Myla. “How can I be of assistance?” she asks coyly, taking note of the basket of shattered glass. Her eyebrows arc slightly before picking the basket up. “Do I even want to know?”

Myla sighs running a palm across her forehead. “Please help me out of my shift and into a bath, Elsa.”

Elsa smirks. “I will fetch a basin and return shortly to help you.” In another ten minutes, Elsa returns, followed by a few servants bearing heavy buckets of water and another two dragging in a large bathing tub. Elsa dismisses the servants and begins pouring the water in the tub, which is placed before the hearth.

“If you will excuse yourself,” Elsa says gently, still eyeing Bryar who now stands peering out the window. “I will help Her Grace bathe now.” Elsa expects Bryar to remove himself and is surprised when he turns back, stepping close to Myla, and taking the final bucket from Elsa. “I will handle the rest. Goodnight, Elsa.”

A bit of red flushes Elsa’s cheeks, and she looks to Myla for guidance.

“It is ok, Elsa. Please be discreet about this.”

Elsa nods assuredly, placing a quick kiss on her friend’s cheek. “Always, darling. I will come in Fern’s place in the morning.” And then she is gone, sure to close the door firmly behind her.

Rough fingers move her hair over her shoulder, finding the laces at the back of her corset. Bryar fumbles with the ties, clearly not well-versed in undressing a woman.

“Bryar,” Myla whispers, letting a brief sigh of relief escape her lips as the corset loosens, allowing a full breath. “How long has it been since you undressed a woman?” There is a hint of laughter in her voice.

He chuckles slightly before tossing the corset to the floor beside them. “I suppose it would be the last time I undressed you by that tree.”

Stunned, Myla turns to face him, clutching her thin shift to her chest. “You have not—”