Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
His own roar followed soon after hers and echoed in her ears, making her plunge that more enjoyable.
It was an insane satisfaction that left one breathless and thinking how she looked forward to tumbling off the ledge again and again.
After a few moments, he rolled off her and the sudden chill that struck her body had her turning on her side and pressing against him to seek his warmth.
His arm went around her and cradled her close. Her shiver had him reaching for the blankets to draw over them and he settled once again with her tucked against him.
“We will do well together, wife,” he said, feeling a pleasure that no hunt had ever brought him.
“Aye, husband,” she said, her heart finally slowing its pace and realizing that he was right. Though the only reason it would was because she realized… she loved him. How that could be, she didn’t know and one, at the moment, she didn’t wish to question.
Sleep soon claimed Elara and Dar kept her tucked against him, listening to her soft breathing. He didn’t want to let her go. He wouldn’t let her go.
He didn’t know what it was he was feeling for her. He only knew it brought him pleasure and pleasure, for a Hunter, usually came with a hunt. Elara was no prey, maybe in the beginning she had been, but that had changed not long after he met her. And he was glad for it, glad she was in his life, glad she was his wife, glad they would have a life together.
He shook his head. He had to remember who he was… a Hunter. A Hunter who would one day rule the Hunters of Venngraith like his da and his da before him and all the ones before them. It was his destiny.
Yet, at the moment, all he could think was that his destiny was… Elara.
Chapter Twenty-One
Village of Falkrith
Morning
* * *
Elara stepped out into the morning air with the quiet certainty of a woman who had slept well and woken better.
The village of Falkrith was already stirring. Smoke curled from low chimneys, and the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with woodsmoke drifted through the crisp autumn air. Hunters moved with purpose between cottages, some tightening straps, others checking tack, voices low and efficient. Life here did not dawdle.
She pulled her cloak more securely around her shoulders, though the chill had little to do with the cold.
Dar’s parting kiss lingered with her still.
He had woken her before dawn, not with urgency or command, but with the gentle brush of his lips against her mouth, warm and unhurried. There had been no need for words, only quiet intimacy, the kind that settled deep rather than stirred haste. And once again she found herself falling off that ledge only this time her husband tumbled off it with her.
With pleasure satisfied, thoughts had turned toward the day ahead.
He had dressed quickly, efficiently, the Hunter once more, though his gaze lingered on her longer than necessary. He had told her he would take her to Regina himself—wanted to—but she had shaken her head, smiling as she rose and reached for her cloak.
“You have preparations to see to,” she had reminded him. “Point the way. I’ll manage well enough.”
He had studied her then, as if weighing the wisdom of letting her go alone. In the end, he had nodded, brushing a strand of loose hair off her cheek before stepping back.
“I’ll have us ready to leave at first light tomorrow,” he had said. “Do not linger longer than needed.”
“I won’t,” she had promised, and meant it.
Now, as she walked through the village, she followed the path he had described—past the well, along the narrow lane edged with stacked firewood, toward the cottages closer to the tree line.
She felt eyes on her. Not unkind, but curious. Assessing.
Word traveled quickly in villages, and she was not blind to the fact that she was new, and more than that—she was Dar’s wife. The Hunter’s wife. The chieftain’s heir had brought her home, and that alone marked her as someone worth notice.
She kept her head high, a smile on her face, and her pace unhurried.
The village felt different by early light. Less uncertain than it had upon arrival. There was order here, discipline, but also a quiet steadiness. Gardens edged several cottages, modest but well-tended, herbs already dried and bundled beneath eaves. She recognized some by scent alone and felt a familiar ease settle over her.
Regina’s cottage sat near the edge of the village, half embraced by the woods. Smoke rose from its chimney, thin and steady. A basket of apples rested near the door, and strings of herbs hung beneath the small window—nettle, yarrow, mugwort, and others she could not yet name from this distance.
Relief softened her steps. The woman had what she needed, though she wasn’t sure if it would prove as helpful as her husband expected.