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

“On the other hand,” Rowan countered, “I’d say you were a human with Fae instincts. Perhaps more of them than human ones.” She felt him smirk. “Territorial, dominant, aggressive …”

“Your skills when it comes to complimenting women are unparalleled.”

His laugh was a brush of hot air along her spine. “Why can’t you be both human and Fae? Why choose at all?”

“Because people always seem to demand that you be one thing or another.”

“You’ve never bothered to give a damn what other people demand.”

She smiled slightly. “True.”

She gritted her teeth as his needle pierced along her spine. “I’m glad you’re here—that I’ll see Endovier again for the first time with you here.”

To face that part of her past, that suffering and torment, if she couldn’t yet look too closely at the last several months.

His tools, the numbing pain, halted. Then his lips brushed the top of her spine, right above the start of the new tattoo. The same tattoo he’d had Gavriel and Fenrys inking on his own back these past few days, whenever they stopped for the night. “I’m glad to be here, too, Fireheart.”

For however much longer the gods would allow it.



Elide slumped onto her cot, groaning softly as she bent to untie the laces of her boots. A day of helping Yrene in the wagon was no easy task, and the prospect of rubbing salve into her ankle and foot seemed nothing short of divine. The work, at least, kept the swarming thoughts at bay: what she’d done to Vernon, what had befallen Perranth, what awaited them at Orynth, and what they could ever do to defeat it.

From the cot opposite hers, Lorcan only watched, an apple half peeled in his hands. “You should rest more often.”

Elide waved him off, yanking away her boot, then her sock. “Yrene is pregnant—and throwing up every hour or so. If she doesn’t rest, I’m not going to.”

“I’m not entirely certain Yrene is fully human.” Though the voice was gruff, humor sparked in Lorcan’s eyes.

Elide fished the tin of salve from her pocket. Eucalyptus, Yrene had said, naming a plant Elide had never heard of, but whose smell—sharp and yet soothing—she very much enjoyed. Beneath the pungent herb lay lavender, rosemary, and something else mixed in with the opaque, pale liniment.

A rustle of clothing, and then Lorcan was kneeling before her, Elide’s foot in his hands. Nearly swallowed by his hands, actually. “Let me,” he offered.

Elide was stunned enough that she indeed let him take the tin from her grip, and watched in silence as Lorcan dipped his fingers into the ointment. Then began rubbing it into her ankle.

His thumb met the spot on her ankle where bone ground against bone. Elide let out a groan. He carefully, with near-reverence it seemed, began easing the ache away.

These hands had slaughtered their way across kingdoms. Bore the faint scars to prove it. And yet he held her foot as if it were a small bird, as if it were something … holy.

They had not shared a bed—not when these cots were too small, and Elide often passed out after dinner. But they shared this tent. He’d been careful, perhaps too careful, she sometimes thought, to give her privacy when changing and bathing.

Indeed, a tub steamed away in the corner of the tent, kept warm courtesy of Aelin. Many of the camp baths were warm thanks to her, to the eternal gratitude of royal and foot soldier alike.

Alternating long strokes with small circles, Lorcan slowly coaxed the pain from her foot. Seemed content to do just that all night, should she wish it.

But she was not half-asleep. For once. And each brush of his fingers on her foot had her sitting up, something warming in her core.

His thumb pushed along the arch of her foot, and Elide indeed let out a small noise. Not at the pain, but—

Heat flared in her cheeks. Grew warmer as Lorcan looked up at her beneath his lashes, a spark of mischief lighting his dark eyes.

Elide gaped a bit. Then smacked his shoulder. Rock-hard muscle greeted her. “You did that on purpose.”

Still holding her gaze, Lorcan’s only answer was to repeat the motion.

Good—it felt so damned good—

Elide snatched her foot from his grip. Closed her legs. Tightly.

Lorcan gave her a half smile that made her toes curl.

But then he said, “You are well and truly Lady of Perranth now.”

She knew. She’d thought about it endlessly during these hard days of travel. “This is what you really wish to talk about?”

His fingers didn’t halt their miraculous, sinful work. “We haven’t spoken of it. About Vernon.”

“What of it?” she said, trying and failing for nonchalance. But he looked up at her from beneath his thick lashes. Well aware of her evasion. Elide loosed a breath, peering up at the tent’s peaked ceiling. “Does it make me any better than Vernon—how I chose to punish him in the end?”

She hadn’t regretted it the first day. Or the second. But these long miles, as it had become clear that Vernon was likely dead, she’d wondered.

“Only you can decide that, I think,” Lorcan said. Yet his fingers paused on her foot. “For what it’s worth, he deserved it.” His dark power rumbled through the room.

“Of course you’d say that.”

He shrugged, not bothering to deny it. “Perranth will recover, you know,” he offered. “From Morath’s sacking. And all Vernon did to it before now.”