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“Is he always there, inside?” Erida murmured, brushing her fingertips over his sharp cheekbone. He inhaled sharply.

She studied his eyes, waiting for the telltale flash of red. It never came.

Another raindrop fell. Erida expected it to steam on his skin.

“No,” Taristan ground out, nostrils flaring.

Erida circled an ear, tucking back a lock of his dark red hair. A muscle in his cheek jumped, his pulse thrumming in his neck. “Can he control you?”

“No,” he said again, near to growling. Her hand trailed, finding the veins at the base of his neck. They were hotter even than his skin, jumping with the rhythm of his heart. “My will is my own.”

She pulled her hand away, dropping it to her side. Her own heartbeat roared in her ears, like the thunder rolling over and over again. All her nerves stood on end, until the air itself felt electrifying. Her toes curled in her boots, pulling away from the cliff she felt herself standing upon. One move in any direction and she would fall.

To her surprise, Taristan looked just as off-kilter. Twin spots of color bloomed on his cheeks, and his lips parted, inhaling again. The air hissed past his teeth.

“Prove it,” Erida breathed, her voice so soft she barely heard herself.

But Taristan certainly did.

His touch burned, his hands circling her neck, thumbs hard beneath her chin to tip her face. She gasped in surprise, but his lips swallowed the sound, closing over her mouth. It took only a moment and Erida went loose, all but collapsing in his grip. He held her up, bracing her tight against his own body, the silk of his tunic against the steel of her armor. Her palm went flat against his bare collarbone, pressing up against flaming skin, while herother hand gripped his wrist, fingers circling muscle and bone. His breath was her own, his heat was her own, the fire in Erida meeting the fire in Taristan, burning together. Erida was both the hurricane and the shore. She broke in his hands as he broke in hers. She nearly stumbled but kept her balance. Her nails dug into his skin, coaxing him on.

Then he pulled back, his breathing ragged, his eyes heavy-lidded.

Her eyes fluttered open to see Taristan still above her, only inches away, his hands clutching both her wrists. Rain glimmered between them, drenching them both to the skin. Erida felt nothing but the burning touch of his fingers, even as her gown soaked through. Her lips parted, sucking down a breath of air. The cold wet was bracing, bringing her back to herself.

She stepped back, using all her will.

He let her go without question.

Erida wanted more, wanted it so badly her body ached. Her heart ripped a ragged tattoo against her rib cage, so loud she feared Taristan might hear. She shivered at the shocking, sudden absence of his flesh. She drew another breath, rooting herself to the spot. Her mind warred, torn between royal duty and her own control. Certainly Harrsing would celebrate to know Erida had finally taken her husband to bed. Erida delighted in the thought as well.

But perhaps too much.

“I have business to attend to,” she forced out, her voice breaking.

“Certainly,” Taristan answered, his face blank again. But the flush remained, spotting his cheeks.

Her skirts wheeled as she turned, flashing green and golden, a mirror to the lush gardens in a rainstorm. Erida cursed herselfas she walked away, the Lionguard in tow. But she commended herself too.

I am a ruling queen of two kingdoms. I cannot afford weakness, not now.

And as much as Taristan made her strong, he certainly made her weak too.

20

Hope Is All We Have

Andry

Dawn broke cold over the castle of Volaska.

Andry waited in the gateyard, his saddlebags packed, his teakettle clanking softly. Along with clothes for the feast, Oscovko had given them each a fur-lined cloak, gloves, and wool underthings. Andry was glad for them now. The layers of wool, chain mail, his blue-starred tunic, and the new cloak kept out the worst of the cold. His breath rose in clouds, spiraling with the lightest sprinkle of snow. The Treckish horse snorted, blowing clouds of its own. It was stockier and hardier than his sand mare, now sleeping contently in the stables. Andry would miss her smooth gait and bright eyes, but the new bay horse would do far better in the cold. It was only a week’s ride to the temple, but winter loomed, a shadow on the horizon.

Stable hands and servants scuttled back and forth in the gateyard, shuttling between the keep and the castle stables. Theycarried stores and tack, preparing supplies and horses for the journey south. But there were no soldiers, no advisors, not Prince Oscovko or anyone else Andry recognized. Not even his own Companions.

He stamped his feet, shifting back and forth to stay warm. Volaska rose over the gateyard, its towers stark against an iron-gray sky. Andry stared at the keep, searching the windows for some sign of life. Nothing moved. Not a person, or even a flickering candle.

Andry bit his lip and, after a long moment of awkward hesitation, waved over a groom at the stables.