Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5) by Sarah J. Maas

She knew why she needed to hear it—he knew, too. Darrow’s and Rolfe’s words danced around in her head, an endless chorus of bitter threats. But Aelin only smirked at him. “Then act away, Prince.”

Rowan let out a low laugh, and said nothing else as he claimed her mouth, nudging her back against the crumbling chimney. She opened for him, and his tongue swept in, thorough, lazy.

Oh, gods—this. This was what drove her out of her mind—this fire between them.

They could burn the entire world to ashes with it. He was hers and she was his, and they had found each other across centuries of bloodshed and loss, across oceans and kingdoms and war.

Rowan pulled back, breathing heavily, and whispered against her lips, “Even when you’re in another kingdom, Aelin, your fire is still in my blood, my mouth.” She let out a soft moan, arching into him as his hand grazed her backside, not caring if anyone spotted them in the streets below.

“You said you wouldn’t take me against a tree the first time,” she breathed, sliding her hands up his arms, across the breadth of his sculpted chest. “What about a chimney?”

Rowan huffed another laugh and nipped at her bottom lip. “Remind me again why I missed you.”

Aelin chuckled, but the sound was quickly silenced as Rowan claimed her mouth again and kissed her deeply in the moonlight.





32


Aedion had been up half the night, debating the merits of every possible place to meet his father. On the beach seemed like it was asking for a private conversation he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to have; in Rolfe’s headquarters felt too public; the inn courtyard felt too formal … He’d tossed and turned on his cot, nearly asleep when he heard Aelin and Rowan returning well past midnight. Not surprising they’d snuck out without telling anyone. But at least she’d gone with the Fae Prince.

Lysandra, sleeping like the dead, hadn’t stirred as their steps had creaked in the hall outside. She’d barely made it through the door hours earlier, Dorian already asleep on his cot, before she’d shifted back into her usual body and swayed on her feet.

Aedion had hardly noticed her nakedness—not when she teetered and he lunged to grab her before she ate carpet.

She’d blinked dazedly at him, her skin drained of color. So he’d gently set her on the edge of the bed, grabbed the throw across it, and draped it around her.

“You’ve seen naked women plenty,” she’d said, not bothering to hold it in place. “It’s too hot for wool.”

So the blanket slid off her back as she leaned forward, bracing her forearms on her knees and breathing deep. “Gods, it makes me so dizzy.”

Aedion put a hand on her bare back and gently stroked. She stiffened at the touch, but he made broad, light circles over that velvet-soft skin. After a moment, she let out a sound that might have been a purr.

The silence went on for long enough that Aedion realized she’d somehow fallen asleep. And not normal sleep, but the sleep that Aelin and Rowan sometimes went into in order to let their magic recover. So deep and thorough no training could pierce it, no instincts could override it. The body had claimed what it needed, at any cost, at any vulnerability.

Easing her into his arms before she could fall right onto her face, Aedion hauled her over a shoulder and carried her around to the head of the bed. He flipped back the crisp cotton sheets with one hand and then laid her down, her once-again long hair covering her high, firm breasts. So much smaller than the ones he’d first seen her with. He didn’t care what size they were—they were beautiful in both forms.

She hadn’t awoken again, and he’d drifted to his own cot. He only slept once the light had shifted to the watery gray trickle before dawn, awoke just past sunrise, and gave up on sleep entirely. He doubted any sort of rest would come until this meeting was past him.

So Aedion bathed and dressed, debating if it made him a fool to brush his hair for his father.

Lysandra was awake as he padded back into the room, the color mercifully returned to her cheeks, the king still asleep on his cot.

But the shifter looked Aedion over and said, “That’s what you’re wearing?”





Lysandra made him change out of his dirty travel clothes, barged into Aelin and Rowan’s room wearing no more than her own bedsheet, and took whatever she wanted from the Fae Prince’s armoire.

Aelin’s barked Get out! was likely heard from across the bay, and Lysandra was smirking with feline wickedness as she returned, chucking the green jacket and pants at him.

When he emerged from the bathing room, the lady was in clothes of her own—where she’d gotten them, he had no idea. They were simple: black, tight pants, knee-high boots, and a tucked-in white shirt. She’d left her hair half down, half up, and now twisted the silken mass of it over a shoulder. Lysandra surveyed him with an approving smirk. “Much better. Much more princely and less … derelict.”

Aedion gave her a mocking bow.

Dorian stirred, a cool breeze fluttering in as if his magic awoke as well, squinted at them both, then at the clock atop the mantel. He hauled the pillow over his eyes and went back to sleep.

“Very kingly,” Aedion told him, heading for the door.

Dorian grumbled something through the pillow that Aedion chose not to hear.

He and Lysandra grabbed a quiet breakfast in the dining room—though he had to force half the food down. The shifter asked no questions, either from consideration or because she was so busy stuffing her face with every single morsel offered at the buffet table.