Page 67 of Heart Cradle (The Melrathen Saga #1)

Fenric wasn’t drunk, but he was certainly fuzzy with wine, and haunted by the sound of her laughter.

He moved through the corridors of Elanthir tall and broad, all sharp angles and heavy silence, his shirt half-unbuttoned and long hair a tousled mess.

He looked every bit the soldier he was, except for the flicker in his eyes, dark and distant.

He entered his chambers and shut the door behind him with a soft thud. The hearth still glowed low, casting restless shadows across stone and floor. He didn’t bother lighting a faelight. Instead, he stood there for a long moment, staring into the flames.

Laren.

He could still feel her fingers brushing his.

That dress, barely there. That look, quick as an arrow and twice as dangerous.

The way she curled one leg under herself like she wasn’t driving him to madness with every breath.

His parents had long since stopped being subtle, encouraging him to bind with someone else.

Noble daughters. Politicians’ heirs. Magicers with loud power and quiet eyes.

“She’ll never settle,” his mother had warned.

“She doesn’t see what you are,” his father had said.

Except, Fenric had seen her, all of her. Wild and brilliant and impossible and he hadn’t wanted anyone else, ever. She hadn’t asked him to wait, she never would, but he had. He always would.

He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, flopping back onto the bed with a frustrated groan. Limbs sprawled, head tipped back, chest rising like he couldn’t catch his breath.

It was longing, almost painful yearning.

Not just for her body, though gods knew that too, but for her laugh.

For her mind, for the way her eyes softened just for him when no one else was looking.

He had waited for most of his life and he’d wait longer still.

He wanted her, needed her. Not just in the heated way that wine and moonlight stirred, but in the quiet ache of wanting to listen to her speak and to watch the way her brow creased when she talked about archery or riding.

To hear the lilt in her voice when she recounted falling out of trees or slipping on icy cobbles.

She had bewitched him with her honesty and her strength and with her maddening refusal to see herself the way he did.

There could never be another, never.

A soft knock stirred him from his thoughts and he groaned. “Soren, fuck off and go annoy Calen!”

The knock came again, still gentle but more insistent. Grumbling, Fenric sat up and used magic to swing the door open.

“Soren, I told you to fuck…” His frustration caught in his throat the moment he saw Laren.

She stood in the hall, cheeks flushed but eyes ever sharp beneath the shimmer of firelight.

Blush silk shimmered against her deep bronze skin, each fold a soft glint of light on dark copper.

The sheer panels of her gown clung to a body sculpted by combat, legs long and thick with strength.

She looked fearless, unbothered and beautiful.

He noticed her fingers tugged lightly at the edge of the fabric, a small, quiet sign that even someone like her could feel uncertain, when drowning in vulnerability.

“Shit, Laren. I thought you were…I’m sorry, come in.” he said, stumbling over his words and scrabbling from the bed and replacing his shirt.

She nodded once, stepping into the room with that same strange, held tension and they didn’t speak for several long moments. The fire crackled softly behind them.

“Would you like to sit?” he asked, gesturing to the hearth.

She did, and he produced two cups of wine.

They made small talk, pointless, harmless things.

Weather, horses and whether Calen would ever shut up, but beneath it hummed something bigger, something fragile, furious and aching.

She smiled, at one point, at something he said.

Not one of her usual grins, the coy, sharp, knowing ones.

But a real one, unarmoured and it pierced through him like sunlight through crystal.

He was staring again and he couldn’t help it.

After a lull, Laren stood. “I should…”

“Don’t,” Fenric said suddenly, rising with her. He reached for her hand and held it with care, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Please. Just… don’t.”

“I love you,” she whispered. “And thank you, for waiting. For seeing me when I wasn’t ready to be. ”

His breath left him. “I always will. Laren, I don’t just love you.

I crave you, I ache for you. I think about you when I’m supposed to be thinking about politics or magic or training.

You live in every corner of me, it’s never felt like obligation.

It’s just you, it’s always been you, it will always be you. I am… only for you.”

Her eyes glistened as she cleared her throat and gave him a crooked smile. “Good. It seems as if we’re on the same page then, Fen.”

He huffed a stunned laugh, blinking hard. “Will you stay?” he asked. “I won’t touch you. I just… want to sleep beside you. My heart feels like it’s clawing at my ribs.”

She tilted her head at him. “Only if you keep your clothes on.”

He laughed, a real one this time. “Deal.”

Minutes later, they slid beneath the blankets like they’d done it a thousand times before.

Fenric remained clothed, his long dark hair pulled back.

Laren, now dressed in a buttery soft tunic and leggings conjured with a flicker of intention magic, looked entirely at ease beside him.

He didn’t hesitate, he pulled her gently to his chest, tucking her close and breathing in her scent like it would anchor him.

She let him, but arched a brow against him. “I thought you said no touching.”

“This isn’t touching,” he murmured. “This is just so our souls can finally rest together. They need it, we need it.”

She let out a soft, surprised sound, and melted into him completely. “I always thought I needed space,” she whispered after a while. “To roam, to wander, to be untethered. But I think… maybe I just needed you.”

“You can have both, Laren.” Fenric's voice caught in his throat. “You always could.”

She smiled into his chest. “Good night, Fen.”

“Night, Moon,” he replied.