Page 50 of Held
He pulled his tongue out, ignoring her moan of protest. It faded into a satisfied sigh as he slipped his fingers in—two of them, claws carefully retracted, curling up against that bump that made her spasm around him.
“Gods,” she gasped. “Oh, gods.”
She rocked her hips against him. The chair squeaked.
Wick held her still. “Hush. They will hear.”
“They’ll hear much more of me once that ritual starts,” Briar said with a grin.
Wick pushed a third finger inside. Briar’s grin opened in another gasp, her neck arching into a straight line so tantalizing Wick wanted to bite it.
“Hush,” Wick repeated.
He reached up and slid his fingers into her mouth. Briar’s eyes flew open, bright with surprise. Then she went lax. Her lips sealed around his fingers, sucking eagerly and muffling moans as he fingered her.
Wick’s hips moved against nothing. He wanted to mate her right there, ritual be damned. He wanted to see how far she could take him, wanted to turn her over and have her other hole again, wanted to shove into her mouth and fill her up from every angle?—
The door opened.
“Void take me,” said the man who had smeared mud on him before.
The elderly woman stood beside him, looking remarkably unbothered as she clutched her cane.
Briar spat out Wick’s fingers reluctantly and beamed.
“Madame Thatchbore,” she said, before bending down to grab her knife from the ground, passing off the movement as a method to hide her naked body. “Lovely to see you.”
“Save that for the altar,” Madame Thatchbore replied. She stepped back, nodding at the village, made dark by the towering cliff. “Come. It is time.”
They led Wick and Briar down a snowy path to a circular altar. It was brushed clean and studded with candles, wax melting down and puddling onto the stone.
“So much for heat,” Briar said, adjusting her fur robe. “You’ll have to keep me warm, big boy.”
Wick did not reply. He stared around at the people gathered to watch. They were dressed in robes similar to the old woman's, all of them clutching candles. It was an oddly eerie sight, made all the eerier by the scent of anticipation in the air.
Briar gasped. “Look.”
Wick followed her gaze. There, beyond the altar, stood a ravine. It was narrower than Wick had expected, but cracked and jagged like a broken bone. A series of twisting cliffs waited on the other side, lined with the flowers Wick recognized from the sketch. There was only a glimpse of them before they vanished into the spiraling cliffs, which blocked the rest of the flowers from view.
“We’ll have to come back after everyone’s gone,” Briar whispered as they approached the altar at the edge of the ravine.
Wick nodded. He stared at the twisting cliffs beyond the ravine. It was no wonder the mortals had invented a myth to be afraid of them. Those cliffs looked like the perfect place to get lost.
Briar cleared her throat, worry clear in her scent even if it wasn’t in her face. “Hey, Madame Thatchbore. You were saying something about being richly rewarded?”
Madame Thatchbore nodded and waved a gnarled hand at the crowd.
The crowd parted. The mud mortal stepped through, carrying a large bowl of golden coins and goblets. They looked old and—for some reason—familiar.
“Gifts from deep within the mountain,” Madame Thatchbore declared as the mud mortal placed the bowl onto a stone pillar. “We give unto you, for giving unto us. Now step forth and mount the altar.”
Wick stepped forward.
“Ah-ah,” Madame Thatchbore said. “Just her.”
Briar sent Wick a look. It was meant to be amused, but Wick could still smell the worry she was trying to stifle. It was not strong, but it was there. He could see her clutch her knife under her loose sleeve, as if to remind herself it was there.
Then Briar shed her robe. It fell to the ground to reveal Briar in all her naked glory, her head held high.
