House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City #2) by Sarah J. Maas

They filled with iridescent light. He filled with light.

Bryce reached a hand toward his blazing wings. Her own fingers, her hand, her arm—they radiated the same light. As if they had become filled with power, as if her light had leaked into him, and his into her—

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Bryce.”

“Look at us,” she whispered, and lifted up to kiss him. He met her halfway, tongues tangling. His thrusts turned wilder. He was close.

“I want to go with you,” he said against her mouth. Sounding … almost normal again.

“Then make it happen,” she said, hand sliding for his balls. His fingers caressed her clit. Began stroking.

Bryce kneaded his balls, and a shudder went through him. Another. On the third stroke, she squeezed hard, right as lightning streamed from his fingers and—

She was falling. Had the distant sense of screaming her pleasure to the surface miles above, of an orgasm rocking through her, reducing her mind to rubble. She was vaguely conscious of Hunt pumping into her, spilling into her, over and over—

Falling through time and space and light and shadow—

Up was down and down was up, and they were the only beings in existence, here in this garden, locked away from time—

Something cold and hard pushed into her back, but she didn’t care, not as she clenched Hunt to her, gasping down air, sanity. He was shaking, wings twitching, whispering, “Bryce, Bryce, Bryce,” in her ear.

Sweat coated their bodies, and she dragged her fingers down his spine. He was hers, and she was his, and—

“Bryce,” Hunt said, and Bryce opened her eyes.

Harsh, blinding light greeted them. White walls, diving equipment, and—a ladder. No hint of a garden.

Hunt was instantly up, whirling to assess their surroundings, cock still jutting out and gleaming. Bryce needed a moment to get her knees operational, bracing against the cold floor.

She knew this room.

Hunt’s eyes remained wild, but—no lightning danced around them. No trace of that primal fury. Just a glowing, iridescent handprint on his chest, a remnant of starlight. It faded with each breath.

He asked between pants, “How the fuck did we wind up in the air lock?”

“Okay,” Flynn said, clapping his hands together. “So to make sure I have this right …” He pointed to the slender fire sprite floating in the air to his left. “You’re Ridi.”

“Rithi!” she squeaked.

“Rithi,” Flynn amended with a smile. He pointed to the full-bodied sprite before him. “You’re Malana.” She beamed. He pointed to the sprite to the right of her. “And you’re Sasa. And you’re triplets.”

“Yes,” Malana said, long hair floating in the air around her. “Descendants of Persina Falath, Lady of Cinders.”

“Right,” Ithan said, as if that meant anything to him. He knew nothing about sprites and their hierarchies. Only that they’d been banished from Sky and Breath ages ago for a failed rebellion. They’d been deemed Lowers ever since.

“And you,” Flynn drawled, pivoting to the naked female on the other end of the sectional, a blanket draped around her shoulders, “are …”

“I haven’t given you my name,” came the answer, her red eyes now faded to a charred black. She’d stopped burning—at least enough to avoid singeing the couch.

“Exactly,” Flynn said, as if the Fae lord weren’t taunting a dragon. A fucking dragon. A Lower, yes, but … fuck. They weren’t true shifters, switching between humanoid and animal bodies at will. They were more like the mer, if anything. There was a biological or magical difference to explain it—Ithan vaguely remembered learning about it in school, though he’d promptly forgotten the details.

It didn’t matter now, he supposed. The dragon could navigate two forms. He’d be a fool to underestimate her in this one.

The dragon stared Flynn down. He gave her a charming smile back. Her chin lifted. “Ariadne.”

Flynn arched a brow. “A dragon named Ariadne?”

“I suppose you have a better name for me?” she shot back.

“Skull-Crusher, Winged Doom, Light-Eater.” Flynn ticked them off on his fingers.

She snorted, and the hint of amusement had Ithan realizing that the dragon was … beautiful. Utterly lethal and defiant, but—well, damn. From the gleam in Flynn’s eyes, Ithan could tell the Fae lord was thinking the same.

Ariadne said, “Such names are for the old ones who dwell in their mountain caves and sleep the long slumber of true immortals.”

“But you’re not one of them?” Ithan asked.

“My kin are more … modern.” Her gaze sharpened on Flynn. “Hence Ariadne.”

Flynn winked. She scowled.

“How did all of you”—Declan cut in, motioning to Ariadne, her body similar to that of a Fae female’s—“fit into that tiny ring?”

“We were bespelled by the Astronomer,” Sasa whispered. “He’s an ancient sorcerer—don’t let him deceive you with that feeble act. He bought us all, and shoved us into those rings to light the way when he descends into Hel. Though Ariadne got put into the ring by …” She trailed off when the dragon cut her a scathing, warning look.

A chill went down Ithan’s spine. He asked them, “Is there anything to be done to free the others he still controls? The mystics?”