Page 71

Chapter

Forty-Seven

ARA

I stand at the window and look out into the darkness.

I’m dressed in nothing but one of Tate’s shirts.

Rustling behind me makes me turn. Tate is sprawled out on his stomach, the moonlight painting silvery highlights on his glorious back rising in slow intervals.

He’s out cold. It’s no wonder, after the way we spent the best part of the night.

A nightmare woke me—not the lightning wielder this time, but Tate looking at me with disappointment and disgust in his eyes. I don’t have to be one of Egin’s priestesses to interpret that dream.

My mind is running in circles, preventing me from falling asleep again. I thought about reaching out to Solaris, but I think the colorful images and the slow trickle of thoughts mean he’s sleeping, and I don’t want to wake him only because I can’t sleep.

Tate was right last night when he said we needed to talk. But we didn’t, and now my worry about his reaction is eating me alive.

He hates lies, and I kept this from him.

I know exactly which would have been the right moment to speak up: when he asked me if there was someone else. I should have explained it to him then.

I contemplate not telling him at all, to simply sort out this mess and tell him afterward, but who knows what will happen at home?

My family could prevent me from returning, and above all, he deserves the truth.

“Ara?” Tate’s voice is gravelly with sleep. “What are you doing over there?” He looks at me questioningly, his hair adorably tousled, his eyelids heavy with sleep. He sits up, turning to me, and I drink him in. My heart constricts just looking at him.

I smile. “Thinking.”

“Come back to bed,” he says, lifting the blanket, and I go to him without hesitation. He pulls me into him, my back nestled to his front. “Holy mists, you are ice cold. How long have you been standing over there?”

I shrug and wriggle closer to his delicious heat. I didn’t even realize how cold I was until my skin came into contact with Tate’s. I fidget again.

Maybe I should just tell him now?

“If you keep that up, I promise you won’t get any sleep soon,” Tate warns. He hardens behind me, and I wriggle again, intentionally this time. He groans.

“Now you are asking for it,” he accuses, and is spot-on with that assumption. I giggle while I rub against him. “Alright, I thought I did a good job relaxing you, but it seems I still have work to do,” he whispers while he pushes up and over me, dazzling me with a sleepy and wicked smile.

The heat in his eyes makes my body melt. Gods, the things this man makes me feel, it would be frightening if it didn’t feel so damn good.

He grips the bottom of the shirt I wear, his tantalizing fingers trailing over my ribs and the sides of my breasts while he pulls the fabric up. I come up so he can tug it over my head, before falling back to the bed.

I simply watch him doing my best to memorize the way he looks at me, just in case he never looks at me like that again.

“What?” he asks. I run my fingers up his body, reveling in the shudder that runs through him. “What are you thinking?” His voice is all raspy and heavy with desire, making my breath hitch and my body tremble in anticipation.

“How about I show you?” I wrap my legs around him and roll us over so I’m straddling him now. He’s glorious. I kiss my way up his body, lingering when I encounter the mark on his chest. He stiffens for a second when my finger follows the pattern but relaxes again when I lean down and kiss it.

I can only imagine how much hatred he has endured because of it, and I wish one day he will confide in me and tell me what position he gave up to earn it.

I hope he knows that in my eyes, it shows strength to choose his path instead of taking the one laid out for him. But it also reminds me that we still have left so much unsaid.

Guilt bubbles up at the thought that I haven’t told him about my betrothal yet. I no longer plan to go through with Mother’s plans, not now that I have him, but still…

I will tell him… tomorrow.

I kiss the scar on his neck next, and he stiffens again. I decide that I will keep doing this until he understands that I love all parts of him, even the ones he doesn’t.

Love?

My stomach somersaults, and I stiffen. I’m trying to deny it, but just looking at him makes my heart flip in my chest again.

Panic constricts my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

What if he doesn’t want me after I tell him?

Concern crinkles Tate’s brow.

“What is it?” he asks, his gaze searching my eyes. I force out a smile.

He will understand. He won’t back down because of a faceless man my parents picked, right?

Even if it’s the crown prince? A little voice taunts me, and I panic.

I can’t lose him.

So instead of answering him, I take the coward’s way out and distract him, distract us both by feeding the insatiable need between us, and it’s only later, when I lie on his chest, our heartbeats a pounding rhythm between us, our breaths quick and labored that my thoughts return.

I love him.

“You certainly are good for my ego,” he teases, kissing the top of my head.

“Oh, I was sure I was stroking something else,” I quip, making him chuckle again. I love this light and playful side of him, the way his eyes twinkle. Gods, what would I give to stay at this moment with him forever.

Somehow, the realization that I love him makes what I have to tell him even worse. I shudder.

Instantly, Tate’s magic settles over us, warming me, and I bite my cheek to hold in a sob.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod, my face buried against his chest.

How the fuck am I supposed to tell him?