For the Wolf by Hannah Whitten (freda ebook reader .txt) 📕

He shuddered an exhale.

“I’d like to kiss you,” she breathed, “but not until I know how you feel about what I just said.”

His laugh was sweeter for being unexpected, though quiet and rueful. One of his hands wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer; the other came up to card through her hair. “Of course I love you.” There was fire in his touch, fire in his eyes as they burned into hers. “That’s why I’m so afraid.”

“We can be afraid tomorrow,” Red murmured.

And then his mouth was on hers, warm and sweet and tasting of honey, and there was no fear in his hands on her skin, no fear in the feel of his lip between her teeth. His hands cupped her jaw like this was something to protect, something holy, and his tongue pushed at hers before his mouth went to her throat, covering the rapid rhythm of her pulse. She gasped, low and ragged, and they were on the floor, hands fumbling with laces until nothing stood between. He stared at her a moment then, lying on the wooden floor of the tower room with her hair loose and tangled, the ring of her Bargainer’s Mark stark against her bared, flushed skin.

The Mark was larger, now, like a representation of the forest blooming in her bones. The ring of root just below her elbow sent tendrils curling away in both directions, reaching from the middle of her forearm to the curve of her shoulder, patterning her skin like lace.

Eammon ran his fingers over it, barely a touch, eyes wide and wondering as they drank her in. “Shadows damn me, you’re beautiful,” he muttered, then he kissed the Mark, lips brushing the sensitive crook of her arm, tracing up to her collarbone.

She tried to arch up and bring him back to her lips, but Eammon’s hand found her other shoulder, pushed her gently back to the floor. “Don’t. I’ve wanted this too long to rush it.”

“Is that an order?”

One brow arched over a burning amber eye. “Would you like it if it was?”

“Yes.”

He laughed, the warmth of it drifting over her skin. “Good to know.” Kisses on her shoulders, her sternum, the curve of her breast, back up to her throat, leaving her breathing shallow and her pulse ragged.

“I wanted it,” she murmured against his lips when he reached her mouth again. “The roots, the Mark, I wanted it all.”

“I believe you.” Another deep kiss, one that made her writhe. A wicked grin. “But I’ll let you prove it.”

Red drew a hand over the jut of his hip, tugging him toward her, lips curved just as wicked as his voice had been. He made a low sound, fingers tangling in her hair, tipping up her chin. Teeth caught her neck, something that should have hurt but didn’t, pulling a moan from her throat and making her hips sway toward him as his mouth went lower. He grinned against her skin as his palms skated over her, his knee between her legs, her back arching off the floor in a wordless plea for more. More of this, more of what they’d been running from for so long now. She wanted to feel every single scar he carried and know them by heart.

Eammon paused, firelight shadowing the dips and hollows of his chest, arm cradling her head. Red squirmed toward his warmth, trying to touch as many surfaces of him as possible.

His thumb traced a light half-moon over her temple. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Her fingertip traced his swollen lip, and he shuddered. “Always am, with you.”

He surged over her, a tide that swept them both away. The roots of the Wilderwood pulsed, growing deeper, twining together like the Wolves on the floor.

Chapter Thirty-One

A t some point, they moved from the floor to the bed, and though Red’s limbs ached when she woke, it was due to something more pleasant than hard floors. Eammon’s skin was warm beneath her cheek, his arm bent behind her neck and palm resting on the crown of her head. His breath came deep and even, but when she turned to kiss his shoulder, he still made a low, pleased sound and pulled her closer.

Red propped her chin on the scarred plane of his chest. Eammon’s overlong hair stuck up at odd angles, mussed from her fingers. His face was soft with sleep, the permanent line between his brows smoothed. Lightly, so as not to wake him, she traced it with a finger.

The Wilderwood, coiled around her bones, pulled marginally tighter. Red squirmed against the ache. Nothing about anchoring a forest within your skin was comfortable, especially as it grew and settled in.

Another twinge, enough to make her wince, and a faint sound through the open windows. A sigh, shaped by fluttering leaves and the stretch and bloom of branches.

Brow furrowed, Red carefully extricated herself from Eammon. He grumbled but didn’t wake, burrowing his head farther in the pillow. She picked up the first item of discarded clothing she touched on the floor— his shirt— and pulled it over her head, arms wrapped around her chest as she crept to the window.

Autumn blazed in the Wilderwood. Scarlet and gold, a swath of sunset colors more vibrant than any she’d seen in Valleyda. Fog still rolled over the ground, but now it seemed ethereal, soft rather than sinister. Fallen leaves carpeted the forest floor, but the ones still clinging to the tree limbs were blushed with green, like autumn was moving backward, slowly blooming into summer.

For a moment, Red was too wrapped up in it to heed its pull. She and Eammon had made the Wilderwood whole, finally brought it balance. The beauty of it made her breath catch.

But there was one thing more to do, and the forest urged her forward.

Red pressed her lips together, the chilly air through the window raising goose bumps on her skin. She looked over her shoulder