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What if I were to stay in this terrible world of hell-rent sky and hearttorn unicorns? What if I were to join my song with that of this man? This wild, dangerous, devastating man.

In the half-dark of the hovel, I roll onto my back, staring up at the little roots dangling from the ceiling. Beside me Taar lies huge as a mountain, his shoulders an impregnable wall. There is such a great gulf between us, and yet . . . I lift my arm. Around my wrist gleams a faint golden cord, not-quite invisible, not-quite real.

Tomorrow may be too late. But tonight we are still bound.

Tonight, he is my captor husband, and I, his enemy bride.

16

TAAR

“Taar.”

A softness like song whispers along the edge of my undreaming mind. A whisper, a breath.

“Taar . . . are you awake?”

I am not. I am held fast in a grip of sleep, much deeper than I like to admit. Paralysis numbs my limbs, even as my mind fights through fog.

“Taar . . . Taar . . . do you hear me?”

Cold hands touch my spine. My body jolts in response, pushing my mind roughly back toward the surface of consciousness. The cold retreats immediately, leaving a tingling place on my skin. I struggle harder, resisting the current trying to pull me back under, back into the dark of heavy sleep.

That icy touch returns, lighter this time. Featherlight fingertips, trembling with chill, but full of life. They run along my skin, up my back to my shoulders. Suddenly I am aware of my body once more, aware of my mind resting in the dark space behind my eyelids. I try to open my eyes, but they’re too heavy. Instead my concentration shifts to that touch—the weight of a cold palm against my shoulder blade, small fingers gripping my skin.

“Taar . . . I want you . . .”

The song is soft, plaintive. I know that voice, though for the moment, I cannot remember from where. It tantalizes me, even as that hand resting against my bare flesh begins to warm. Ibreathe out, my lips parting. I want to move, to turn from my side onto my back, but my limbs refuse to respond.

That touch moves from my shoulder blade, travels to my bicep then trails down my arm. As it goes, the cold vanishes, replaced with little pinpricks of fire. My body responds, my veins stirred to life. As that hand moves from my arm to my oblique muscle then slides slowly, slowly around to my abdomen, the heat inside me awakens. Delicate fingertips trace the lines of muscle and scars. A low growl rumbles in my throat, and the touch freezes, like prey catching whiff of the predator’s scent. We remain like so for some heartbeats, neither of us breathing, neither of us moving.

Then her hand begins to slide down farther. Slipping under my belt. Slipping down to the warm place where urgency is beginning to swell.

My eyes flare wide. I stare before me into darkness, the scent ofumediin my nose. I cannot for the life of me remember where I am. That touch, cold before, but now hot as a brand, is searching, tentative but determined. Small fingers wrap around my length. I catch a breath. The grip tightens, relaxes, tightens again, and though the angle is awkward and the technique untried . . . gods spare me, it’s been so long!

With an effort of will, I reach down, and grip that hand tight, taking the invader captive. Then, gently, I slide my grasp to her wrist. For an instant I could swear I feel warm coils wrapped around that slender forearm. The impression passes, and I pull her hand free from my trousers.

A small hitch of breath sounds behind me. Then that plaintive song in my head once more: “Taar . . . I need you . . .”

I roll heavily, taking care not to crush the little body curled up at my back. Turning onto my arm, I prop up on my elbow and look down into the pale face upturned to me, only just visible in the near-darkness to myibrildiangaze. Her eyes are black pools,but a strange fire lights their depths—a soulfire, full of life and song and desperation.

In that moment I cannot remember her name.

In that moment I cannot remember either the bonds which tie us or the host of cold hard realities that must inevitably separate us.

I cannot remember anything except the taste of her mouth and this sudden yawning thirst to drink of her lips once more.

I catch her face with my hand, my palm covering her cheek, my fingers digging into her hair. My mouth descends toward hers, hesitates. Lips pulled back in a snarl, I clench my teeth against the driving desire in my blood. A long breath exhales from my thickened throat. My fingers tense, feeling the delicate shell of her skull and how easily I might crack it in two.

Then she cups my face between her hands, tips her chin up, and presses her lips to mine.

17

ILSEVEL

For an instant, when my mouth catches hold of his, I am in control.

I feel it—that power, that surge of pure flame which a conqueror must feel when he sends up the cry to charge, to take, to pillage and decimate at will. It’s so different from any sensation I’ve ever known, so different from the helplessness I’ve faced, not only these last few dreadful days, but all the years of my life. Here, in this little sheltered space beneath the storm-wracked hillock, I am mistress, I am queen. My desire takes precedence over all others, and I will have what I want.