Page 17

ESALYN

W ith Erisen safely tucked beneath our threadbare blanket, I open the door and slip outside.

The night air carries the metallic tang of cooled volcanic rock, the heat of the day finally surrendering to darkness.

Domno follows, his movements nearly silent despite his size—a predator's grace that should frighten me but somehow doesn't anymore.

This has become our ritual. These quiet moments after Erisen sleeps, when the walls between us thin like smoke. I try to ignore how it makes me feel, that he has special time for both of us.

"He's exhausted," I say, settling on the rough-hewn bench Domno dragged here three days ago. Another small conquest of permanence I haven't allowed myself in years. "You're good with him."

Domno leans against the wall beside me, arms crossed over his broad chest. The night casts shadows across the planes of his face, softening the battle scars but highlighting the sharp gold of his eyes. Eyes that miss nothing.

"He's easy to be good with."

I trace a finger over a splinter in the bench, wondering when exactly I stopped planning our escape routes whenever Domno appears. When his presence became something I anticipate rather than endure.

"I've never seen him take to anyone like this," I admit, the words feeling like pebbles in my mouth—small, hard truths I'm not used to offering. "Not just Erisen. Me too."

Domno shifts, his attention sharpening. I can feel the weight of his gaze without looking up.

"I've never..." The words stick, and I force them past the tightness in my throat. "We've never had someone like you. Someone who stays." It comes out almost like an apology, this confession of our isolation. "Someone who shields without caging."

I finally look up, needing him to understand.

It wasn't just Vorrak who taught me to keep the world at arm's length.

It was everyone. The servants who looked away.

The guards who followed orders. The travelers who never questioned why a woman and child always slept with their backs to the wall and bags packed.

"It's not just what happened with Vorrak," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "It's everything since. Everyone since. I've never let anyone in."

Domno doesn't respond with words. Instead, he pushes off from the wall and crosses to me in two silent strides. His hands find my shoulders, strong and sure as he pulls me up and against him. The contact sends warmth cascading through me, despite the night's chill.

He rests his chin atop my head, his breath stirring my hair. "You should both know how to protect yourselves."

The rumble of his voice vibrates through his chest against my cheek. I close my eyes, allowing myself to absorb the solid heat of him, the security of arms that could crush but choose to shelter.

"The boy has good instincts," he continues. "But instinct only goes so far."

I pull back just enough to look up at him. "And me?"

Something dark and hungry flashes across his face. "Your instincts..." His thumb traces a path along my jawline. "Are better than you give them credit for."

He releases me and steps back, reaching for the blade at his hip—the same one he'd shown Erisen earlier. The metal gleams in the moonlight as he offers it to me, handle first.

"The first lesson is in how you hold it," he says, voice dropping to that low register that seems to reverberate directly through my bones.

I take it, surprised by the weight. His fingers brush mine as he adjusts my grip, positioning my thumb along the flat of the blade.

"Balance is everything," he murmurs, moving to stand behind me. His chest presses against my back as his arms come around to guide mine. "Feel how it wants to move with you, not against you."

His proximity wreaks havoc on my concentration. I'm acutely aware of everywhere we touch—his breath warm against my neck, the solid wall of his chest against my shoulders, his hands enveloping mine. Heat pools low in my belly, a sensation I'd forgotten my body was capable of.

"Like this?" My voice emerges breathier than intended.

His fingers tighten slightly over mine. "Almost." He shifts my stance, his boot nudging my feet farther apart. The movement brings his hips flush against me from behind. "Power comes from stability. From knowing exactly where you stand."

My breath hitches at the contact, and I feel him go still, recognizing the change in my response. No longer just a student learning a lesson.

"Esalyn." My name in his mouth sounds like something dangerous, something sacred.

I turn my head just enough to see his face, finding his golden eyes heavy-lidded, fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness. The knife suddenly seems irrelevant in my hand.

"I think," I whisper, "I'm losing my balance."

His free hand slides to my waist, hot even through the fabric of my shirt. "Then I'll have to hold you steady."

The knife trembles slightly in my grasp as his other hand leaves my wrist to brush my hair aside, exposing the sensitive skin of my neck. I feel him hesitate, giving me time to pull away.

I don't.

But his lips never meet my skin like I expect. Instead, he recaptures my hand, still gripping my waist so that his arms are around me. The leather wrapping of the knife feels cool against my heated skin as he guides my arm through a careful arc.

"Feel the weight," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my ear. "Let it become an extension of your arm."

I try to focus on the weapon, on the deadly grace of it, but all I can concentrate on is the heat of him pressed against my back, the way his chest expands with each breath. My control starts to unravel as his thumb traces small circles on my inner wrist.

"You're not focusing," he observes, and there's something like amusement in his voice. "Maybe you need a more direct approach."

His hand leaves mine, taking the blade with it.

I nearly protest the loss until I feel cold metal sliding down the center of my body.

My breath catches as the flat of the blade trails between my breasts, over my stomach, coming to rest between my legs.

The hilt bumps against me, creating the barest hint of friction exactly where I need it most.

My hips move of their own accord, grinding slightly against the pressure. Heat floods my cheeks at my own brazenness, but when I glance back at Domno, his golden eyes have darkened to molten amber.

"I'd love to take care of you too," he says, his words careful but edged with hunger. "If you want."

The question in his tone pulls at something in my chest. Choice. He's always giving me a choice.

I nod, unable to find my voice.

He releases my hip, moving the blade from one hand to the other.

And then his dominant hand works between my skirts, fingers finding the bare skin of my thigh with unerring precision.

Then, he moves higher until he can feel how soaked I am.

His fingers stroke me through the fabric of my underwear and my head tips back against his shoulder as I whimper, my hips jerking.

He takes that as a sign and pulls the fabric out of his way.

I gasp as he touches me, his calloused fingertips tracing patterns that make my knees weak. He stretches me with one finger, then two, his movements measured and deliberate as he learns what makes me shiver.

Then he withdraws, leaving me cold and wanting.

I'm about to protest when he steps away from me, only to come before me.

He grips my chin, kissing me deeply, but he breaks it all too quickly.

With fluid grace, he kneels and drives the knife into the ground before me, the metal gleaming in the moonlight.

"Get on your knees," he commands, voice rough. "Show me how much you want this."

Heat floods through me at his words, at the naked want in his expression.

He wants to watch me ride the handle, and excitement shoots through me.

I should be offended, should bristle at the demand, but there's something intoxicating in his certainty, in the trust cracking open between us.

The blade stands like an offering, like a test.

I sink to my knees before him, my eyes never leaving his as I straddle the weapon and lower myself. The smooth hilt presses against me through the thin fabric of my underwear, solid and unyielding.

"That's it," Domno encourages, his massive frame towering over me. "Take what you need."

I begin to move, sliding against the hilt, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through my core. His hands find my waist, steadying me as I rock against the blade. The danger of it, the wrongness tangled with rightness, makes everything sharper, more intense.

Domno's lips find my throat, trailing hot kisses along my pulse point as I ride the weapon. His teeth graze my earlobe, sending shivers cascading down my spine.

"So beautiful," he whispers, his breath hot against my skin. "Now let me see how well you take being stretched."

His hand slides under my skirt, pulling aside my underwear. I'm so wet that it doesn't take much effort at all to soak the handle, and then he's dragging me over it, encouraging me to sink down. I moan as it fills me, his eyes watching every little emotion that leaks out as I do.

My hands find purchase on his shoulders, fingers digging into the hard muscle there as pressure builds low in my belly.

He touches me everywhere, reverent and unhurried—a palm cupping my breast through my shirt, fingers tracing the curve of my hip, lips mapping the constellation of freckles across my collarbone.

"Let me see you," he urges, his voice a rough caress. "I want to see you lost in pleasure, Esalyn."

The intensity builds as I move faster, desperate for release. My thighs begin to shake with exertion, with want. Domno's hand slides between us, his thumb finding the exact spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids as I slam my body down harder on the hilt.

"That's it," he encourages, his golden eyes blazing. "Let go for me."

When I finish, it's with his name on my lips and buried against his shoulder, a half-sob that tears from my throat before I can stop it. The release crashes through me in waves, and I clutch at him like he's the only solid thing in a world turned liquid.

The moment after, when my breath still comes in gasps and my limbs feel boneless, I fold into him completely. His arms encircle me, holding me like something sacred, precious. He presses his face into my hair, and I feel rather than hear the shaky exhale that passes through him.

He helps pull me off the handle, cradling me in his arms, whispering affectionate words of praise in my ear.

I can feel how much he wants me, and yet, he makes no effort to have me straddle him next.

And it hits me that he was thoughtful in helping me find my pleasure without using me for his.

Instead, he strokes my hair and back and holds me.

This quiet moment feels even more intimate than what came before—this silent acknowledgment that whatever stands between us has transformed into something neither of us were searching for but somehow found anyway.