House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(126)

Although discussing sex was her idea—a way to not only avoid dwelling on her sister and Riccio, but also to learn all I was willing to share about my fledgling relationship with Lore—it has not uprooted her sorrow and anxiety, merely buried both under a thin layer of dirt.

“Gods, I missed us,” she croaks.

“I missed us more,” I say.

“I missed us most.” Phoebus tosses me a look. “After all, I was the highland castaway.” He’s undoubtedly intending to appear vexed, but his eyes are so watery, they don’t retain his exasperation, only his love.

Although I can hardly move, I bend my arms and wrap my fingers around either one’s forearms. “To never being apart again.”

“Hear, hear,” they say in unison.

Our embrace tightens, and although I know life will get in the way, because life always does, I pray to the Cauldron that our friendship will thrive for centuries to come.

When Syb begins to cry silently, I release Phoebus’s arm and twist onto my side to slip both my arms around her shaking body and pull her into me, and then Phoebus pulls us both into him. We must drift off, all tangled together, because the next thing I know, a disturbance in the air whisks my lids up.

Moonlight espouses the dark edges of my mate’s leather armor and ignites his golden gaze as he stands over my bed, watching us with a soft smile.

I didn’t mean to wake you, Little Bird.

My friends must sense his presence because they both stir, and then Phoebus flops onto his back with a groan while Syb scrubs at her swollen lids.

“Oh my Gods”—she rolls up into a sitting position—“what time is it?”

“Nearing ten in the evening,” Lore answers.

“Ugh. I’m the worst girlfriend. I shouldn’t have left Mattia alone all this time.” She turns back toward me, then leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Love you. Whatever the hour, wake me for breakfast, all right?” She blows Phoebus a kiss before hopping out of bed and heading to the door in her crumpled red dress. “Mórrgaht, any news from Cian?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid. The second I hear anything, I will tell you.”

“No matter the time.” Her voice rattles with distress.

“No matter the time, Sybille.”

Sighing deeply, she murmurs, “Goodnight, Lore. And thank you for letting us stay.”

Although Lorcan nods, his eyes don’t stray to her; they stay on me.

Phoebus rakes back his hair. “Well, I’ll be going.” He rises from the bed, scooping up the book on my nightstand, then lingers there a second, his gaze skipping between Lore and me, moving the book from one hand to the other. “Off to the tavern I go.” And yet, he does not go. “You’re staying, right, Mórrgaht?” Here I thought he was hoping to cop a look at Lore disrobing, but no . . . my wonderful friend is checking that I don’t stay alone.

“I am. If Fallon will allow it.”

I roll my eyes. As if I’d send him away. Even if he was staying only to grouse about Faeries, I’d rather he do it here.

Grouse?

I smile. Let me guess . . . real kings don’t grouse?

His smile grows.

“All right, then. Have fun, kids.” Phoebus slaps a palm over his mouth. “I did not just say that. My sincerest apologies.”

“You’re forgiven.” Lore’s fingers have already started unbuckling his armor. “But only if you show yourself out this very minute.”

Phoebus scrambles away so quickly that his outline blurs.

“Must you truly frighten my friends, Lore? Can’t you settle for only terrifying your enemies?”

“I’ve a reputation to maintain, mo khrà.”

I shake my head, but a smile slinks over my lips. A smile he matches with one of his own. As his clothes drop, so does my gaze, and subsequently, the arch of my lips, because one cannot grin at a work of art. One can only gape in awe.

Lore looks as though he was carved out of the starlit rock of his kingdom—his silver scars, strikes of a chisel; his blood, veins of precious minerals; his hair, wisps of night sky; and his eyes, chips of gold. Even his scent seems to have been born from the mountain and the sky he commands.

He kneels on the foot of the bed, thick cock bobbing between his muscled thighs, straining against the air as he scales my clothed body. “Mórrígan, how I’ve missed you,” he rasps as he runs the sharp tip of his nose from my navel to the hollow of my collarbone. He trails a line of kisses up the length of my throat, each gentle peck of his mouth sparking a little moan that vibrates the darkened air.

By the time he crests the point of my chin and reaches my parted lips, my lungs burn from the speed at which I’m breathing, and my rib cage aches from the velocity at which my heart pounds. When he touches his lips to mine, I dissolve into a puddle of want.

I lift my hands and run my nails around his naked waist, luxuriating at the feel of his skin pebbling. Once I reach the base of his taut spine, I cannot decide whether to head north or south. I want to touch him everywhere at once. I flatten my palms against his flesh, dividing and conquering. One hand skims up, the other down. His muscles flex beneath my fingertips, and he groans into my mouth, deepening the swishes of his tongue.

Supporting his body on one arm, he reaches down and unfastens my pants, then shoves his hand inside my underwear. When he uncovers how damp the fabric is, he looses another groan that sounds almost animalistic.