Kingdom of Ash (Throne of Glass #7) by Sarah J. Maas

If they had not been convinced by today’s triumph, then nothing would change their minds. Even their queen offering up the freedom she craved so badly.

That Manon would even consider it, though …

Dorian twined a wave of her silver hair around his finger. For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to drink her in.

She would be his wife, his queen. She was already his equal, his match, his mirror in so many ways. And with their union, the world would know it.

But he could see the bars of the cage that would creep closer, tighter, every day. And either break her wholly, or turn her into something neither of them wished her to ever be.

“You would marry me, all so we could aid Terrasen in this war?”

“Aelin is willing to die to end this conflict. Why should she bear the brunt of sacrifice?”

And there it was, her answer, though he knew she didn’t realize it.

Sacrifice.

Dorian’s other hand went to the buttons of her pants, and freed them with a few, deft maneuvers. Revealing the long, thick scar across her abdomen.

Would he have shown the restraint that Manon did today, had he faced her grandmother?

Absolutely not.

He ran his fingers over the scar. Over it, and then up her stomach. Up and up, her skin pebbling beneath his touch, until he halted just over her heart. Until he laid his palm flat against it, the curve of her breast rising to meet his hand with each unsteady breath she took.

“You were right,” she said quietly. “I am afraid.” Manon laid her hand over his. “I am afraid that you will go into Morath and return as something I do not know. Something I shall have to kill.”

“I know.” Those same fears haunted his steps.

Her fingers tightened on his, pressing harder. As if she were trying to imprint his hand upon the heart racing beneath. “Would you stay here, if we had this alliance between us?”

He heard every word left unspoken.

So Dorian brushed his mouth against hers. Manon let out a small sound.

Dorian kissed her again, and her tongue met his, hungry and searching. Then her hands were plunging into his hair, both of them rising onto their knees to meet halfway.

She moaned, her hands sliding from his hair down his chest, down to his pants. She stroked him through the material, and Dorian groaned into her mouth.

Time spun out, and there was only Manon, a living blade in his arms. Their pants joined their shirts and jackets on the ground, and then he was laying her upon his bedroll.

Manon drew her hands from him to remove the glittering crown atop her head, but he halted her with a phantom touch. “Don’t,” he said, voice near-guttural. “Leave it on.”

Her eyes turned to molten gold, going heavy-lidded as she writhed, tipping her head back.

His mouth went dry at the beauty that threatened to undo him, the temptation that his every instinct roared to claim. Not the body, but what she had offered.

He almost said yes, then.

Was almost selfish enough, greedy enough for her, that he nearly said yes. Yes, he would take her as his queen. So he might never have to say farewell to this, so that this magnificent, fierce witch might remain by his side for all his days.

Manon reached for him, fingers digging into his shoulders, and Dorian rose over her, finding her mouth in a plundering kiss.

A shift of her hips, and he was buried, the heated silk of her enough to make him forget that they had a camp around them, or kingdoms to protect.

He did not bother with phantom touches. He wanted her all for himself, skin to skin.

Every thrust into her, Manon answered with a rolling, demanding movement of her own. Stay. The word echoed in each breath.

Dorian took one of her legs and hefted it higher, angling him closer. He groaned at the perfection of it, and Manon swallowed the sound with a kiss of her own, a hand clamping on his backside to propel him harder, faster.

Dorian gave Manon what she wanted. Gave himself what he wanted. Over and over and over.

As if this might last forever.



Manon’s breathing was as ragged as Dorian’s when they pulled apart at last.

She could barely move her limbs, barely get down enough air as she gazed at the tent ceiling. Dorian, as spent as she, didn’t bother to try to speak.

What was left to be said anyway?

She’d laid out what she wanted. Had spoken as much of the truth as she dared voice.

In its wake, a sated sort of clarity shone. Such as she had not felt in a long, long time.

His sapphire eyes lingered on her face, and Manon turned toward him. Slowly removed her crown of stars and set it aside.

Then she drew up the blankets around them both.

He didn’t so much as flinch as she scooted closer, into the solid muscle of his body.

No, Dorian only draped an arm over her, and pulled her tightly against him.

Manon was still listening to his breathing when she fell asleep, warm in his arms.



She awoke at dawn to a cold bed.

Manon took one look at the empty place where the king had been, at the lack of supplies and that ancient sword, and knew.

Dorian had gone to Morath. And had taken the two Wyrdkeys with him.





CHAPTER 63

Aedion and Kyllian kept their panicking troops in line as they marched, all the way to the banks of the Florine.

There was no use running northward. Not when the bone drums began pounding. And grew louder with every passing minute that Aedion ordered their legion into formation.