Before I could peak again, Shade lifted me and rolled off the bed with me. We tumbled to the floor in a pile of blankets and I twisted over onto one hand—my good one—and knees. I braced my right elbow on a stack of books, keeping my injured hand safe.
Shade knelt in back of me, sliding his cock into my cunt, and as he began to thrust, Panther rose, not shifting me, but driving me on. I felt her staring through my eyes, and I looked up and there was Hi’ran, the Autumn Lord. My passion and my Liege, towering over us.
He held out his hands, and the smell of bonfire smoke rolled from them as the heart of the harvest ran through my blood. Hi’ran’s energy sparked a flame so dark that it quenched every sensation of light except for the fires raging around us. Shade let out a low moan, for Hi’ran was also his master.
Together, the three of us formed a circle of death, a circle of life. We existed within a cloud of passion, cloaked in the swirling mists of the eternal autumn. The energy crackled around us, until—with a flash of lightning—the storm broke and I went soaring over the edge, crying out as I once again lost myself in the tumble of orgasm.
When I opened my eyes, I was sprawled in the pile of sheets, and Shade had rolled to the side. He was staring at me through veiled eyes, a gentle smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“Wow.” I exhaled slowly. “That was . . . wow.”
“Took the words out of my mouth, babe.” He shoved a pillow under his head, then held out his arms and I rolled into them. “For an arranged relationship, I think we clean it up pretty damned good.”
“From your lips to my heart.” After a moment, I untangled myself from the warm nest and stood up. “Time to get myself scrubbed down and go see Iris.”
Shade fixed the plastic bag over my bandage and I padded into the bathroom, grabbing my pumpkin spice shower gel on the way. I never lingered in the water, but sometimes the scents kept me under longer than the minimum required time to get clean. I lathered up, washed my hair, and then quickly toweled off and used my blow dryer to whip my short, spiky do into submission.
Shade made me sit quietly while he removed the dressing on my hand. The wound wasn’t big, not in the scheme of things, but still a sizable chunk when viewed against the base of my thumb where it had come from. The dreglin had chomped down on the part of my hand right below my thumb, and the exposed wound was violent and red. The gaping hole oozed, but the wound hadn’t spread and that alone told me the antivenin and magic were working. But it looked so gross that it turned my stomach.
As he irrigated the wound, I bit my tongue against the pain, which was bad enough for me to want to kick him a good one. He then applied more of the salve and dressed it, unfazed. Afterward, he taped up the bandage and motioned for me to stand up.
“Let’s go see Iris. Then, Camille said you are due to go visit some park? What’s that all about?”
As we headed down the steps, I said, “We didn’t have a chance to tell anybody what went on when we got back last night. Wait till we’re all downstairs and we’ll fill you in. For now, though, I want to go see those babies.”
The sun was still peeking through the clouds as we headed out the kitchen door. A pale glow hovered over our land, and the leaves that were still on the trees glistened. The raindrops from the night before that clung to the leaves and branches cast prisms as the sunbeams flickered through them. I inhaled the aroma of wood smoke from both houses. It was a comforting scent, caught up on the wind that gusted through. A gaggle of geese flew south, their mournful calls echoing in the morning air. Winter was on the way, and a sudden chill washed over me with a prescience of the dark days of the year looming down.
Bruce and Iris’s house was beautiful. A tidy cottage, the two-story bungalow looked cozy, a pale blue with cream-colored trim. It had old-world charm, even though it was brand-spanking-new. The guys had done an excellent job on it, and every nail had been driven with care.
“Who’s going to take care of Iris while she’s recovering? Hanna’s needed at our place.” We were heading through the backyard, and it saddened me to see the gardens lying dormant now, barren and fallow for the winter.
“Iris has help, don’t you worry about that. Her mother-in-law arrived this morning to look after her, along with a retinue. At Camille’s request, a new group of guards came through the portal from Otherworld. Elves, from Elqaneve. They’ll be posted around the clock to keep an eye on the O’Shea household.”
“Her mother-in-law?” I remembered Bruce’s mother. She was a lovely woman—a leprechaun like her husband and children—but there was a tiger hidden beneath that refined, gentle surface and I knew that I’d never want to piss her off. I hoped, for Iris’s sake, that they got along.
“Um hmm. By the way, her title is the Duchess O’Shea. Somehow, we missed out on using the correct address during the wedding, and it did not go unnoticed. I was informed in no uncertain terms this morning that we better correct that.” Shade snorted, but the look in his eyes told me that the title wasn’t for show.
“Who the hell told you that? The Leprechaun brigade?”
“Smoky. And he was serious.”
I blinked. “Who knew? Well . . . so Mrs. Mother-of-Bruce is actually a duchess? Bruce’s parents are a duke and duchess?” I knew they were wealthy beyond anything we’d experienced, but I had no idea they were nobility. Bruce’s father was a lush, that much had become apparent during their stay back in February. A nice lush, but a lush.
“That’s right. In the Leprechaun Court, they are definitely among the titled. Bruce is officially Lord Bruce Golden Eagle O’Shea. Quite a mouthful, though I’m not sure how it all fits together, and I’ve learned it’s better not to ask. Leprechaun lore is guarded close to the heart among their people.”
He stopped as we reached the cottage. Two steps led up to a spacious porch, with a swing just like on ours. Iris had a massive kitchen herb garden growing in pots that lined the edge of the railing.
As we reached to knock, the door opened. Bruce peeked out. He looked exhausted, but happy, and a giddy smile spread across the curly-headed leprechaun’s face as he stood back to let us in. He looked like Elijah Wood, only with darker hair and finer features.
I flashed back to Iris’s first date with Bruce, when he still dressed like a frat boy and had vomited on her feet after drinking too much booze. But now, he was a professor at the University of Washington, and the head of Irish Studies there. And he seemed to like dressing the part, with his tweed blazers and pleated pants.
He ushered us in to the living room, and there sat our beloved Iris. She was in the rocking chair, her ankle-length flaxen hair neatly braided around her head, and she wore a lace nightgown and robe. Her spiraling tattoos that bordered her face and trailed down her neck glowed with an indigo hue. Bruce stood behind her, his hands on the top of the rocking chair.
On the luxurious jacquard sofa sat Mrs. O’Shea. As in Bruce’s mother. As in, apparently, the Duchess. The regal air she’d sported at Iris’s wedding had only increased and she was dressed in a rich forest green gown with a delicate golden tiara crowning her wheat-colored hair. I could see where Bruce got his looks—it certainly hadn’t been from his father. At either side of the Duchess O’Shea sat a nurse, each holding one of the babies. Obviously, Bruce’s mother wasn’t a woman who dove in and did everything herself.
I curtseyed to her. “Duchess O’Shea, welcome to our land.”