Page 41

I padded across the packed earth, skirting the herb beds, listening for the splashes of water behind the cottage.

He stood at the washbasin, shirt unlaced and hanging open, the broad curve of his chest visible in the moonlight. He braced himself above the bowl, dripping water from his beard and breathing slowly.

I hesitated just before the edge of the lean-to. “Are you always this dramatic with your sobering rituals?” I asked, aiming for lightness.

Uldrek didn’t turn. Just let the water drip from his fingertips into the basin with a soft, steady plink. “Helps.”

I leaned against the post, arms loosely crossed, watching his back rise and fall. Even standing still, he was all tension—coiled lines, unspoken thoughts.

"Does it?" I asked. "You don't seem especially helped."

He exhaled something close to a laugh, finally turning to face me. Water clung to his neck, catching moonlight in his throat's hollow. "Not yet. Give it time."

Even in the dim light, I could see he wasn't meeting my eyes—his gaze fixed somewhere near my shoulder, my hair, the post I leaned against. Anywhere but directly at me.

"Time," I repeated softly. "We have that now, don't we?"

Something flickered across his face, too quick to name. He reached for a cloth beside the basin, dragging it roughly across his face. "Suppose we do."

I let the silence settle between us, heavy and expectant. The claiming mark sat quiet beneath my skin, a dull warmth instead of the bright pulse it had been. I rubbed at it absently, watching as Uldrek's eyes caught the movement, then skittered away again.

"Let me help," I said finally, pushing away from the post and stepping closer.

The night air was cool against my bare arms, raising gooseflesh. Or perhaps that was his proximity—the familiar scent of him, woodsmoke and ale, and something deeper that had become as necessary to me as breathing.

I reached for the cloth, and he let me take it, his fingers grazing mine in the exchange. Even that brief touch sent a spark through me—not magic, just want. Need. The same hunger that had been growing between us since we first met.

"You don't have to," he murmured, but he didn't step away.

"I know." I dipped the cloth in the basin, then wrung it out. "I want to."

His eyes finally met mine, dark and unreadable in the moonlight. For a moment, I thought he might speak—might name whatever had been growing in the space between us since the Council chamber. But instead, he turned, offering me his back.

I swallowed down disappointment and focused on the task at hand. The cloth moved across his shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle and old scars. Some were raised and ropey, the work of blades. Others smooth, the kiss of fire. And some—the ones that made my stomach clench—were clearly from claws.

"This one?" I asked softly, touching a particularly jagged mark that ran from his left shoulder blade to his spine.

"Two years before the war ended," he said, his voice a low rumble I could feel beneath my palm. "Scout mission gone wrong. We found a nest of shadowbeasts."

"We?"

"Kazrek was there. And Thok, though he was just a foot soldier then." His shoulders shifted as he recalled it. "Three men died to bring the thing down. Would've been four if Kazrek hadn't been so quick with that ax of his."

I traced the scar again. He tensed—not in pain. In memory. "You carry a lot of history on your skin," I murmured.

"Most warriors do."

"And the rest? The parts that don't leave scars?"

He was quiet for so long that I thought he might not answer. Then, so low I almost missed it: "Those you carry other ways."

The cloth slipped from my fingers. I pressed my palm flat against his back, feeling the steady beat of his heart through skin and bone. "Uldrek—"

He turned suddenly, catching my hand in his. His eyes met mine fully for the first time all night—intense, searching, almost desperate. "Issy."

Just my name. Just that. But in it, I heard the questions he wasn't asking. The doubt. The fear.

I didn't look away. "What are you afraid to tell me?"

His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand, a small, unconscious gesture at odds with the tension in his frame. "I'm not afraid."

"Liar," I whispered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. "You're getting too good at reading me."

"Good. Someone should."

His other hand came up to my face, rough fingers gentle against my cheek. For a breath, he just looked at me, and I felt pinned under the weight of his gaze, of everything unsaid between us.

"It doesn't matter," he said finally.

But it did. We both knew it did. The claiming mark lay silent, the magic dormant. And something in him had pulled back, retreated behind walls I thought we'd long ago torn down.

I could have pressed. Could have demanded answers, explanations. But the vulnerability in his eyes stopped me. Whatever was happening, whatever he was wrestling with—it wasn't simple. And it wasn't about me, not entirely.

So instead, I leaned forward and kissed him.

His response was immediate—almost desperate. One hand at my waist, the other tangled in my hair. I pressed closer, every point of contact a relief. A confirmation. This, at least, hadn't changed. This hunger, this heat between us.

The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against mine, a low groan building in his chest. I arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, wanting more. Needing more.

He walked me backward until I felt the wooden post of the lean-to against my spine. His body pressed against mine, hard and insistent, and I welcomed the weight of him, the solid reality of muscle and bone and want.

"Issy," he breathed against my mouth, the word half-plea, half-warning.

"Don't stop," I answered, pulling him closer.

His hands found the laces of my dress, working them open with surprising gentleness given the urgency thrumming through both of us.

I felt the night air cool against my skin as the fabric gave way, slipping down to pool at my feet.

His eyes followed the movement, drinking in the sight of me in only a thin shift.

"Inside?" he asked, voice rough.

I shook my head, nodding toward the wooden stall beside us—the little shower with the rune-warmed barrel and hand pump. "Here."

His eyes darkened. "You sure?"

In answer, I slipped out of my shift, letting it join the dress at my feet. I stood naked before him, skin prickling in the cool air but warmed by the heat in his gaze. "Very sure."

He made a sound low in his throat—half growl, half groan—and reached for the ties of his trousers. I watched, breath caught, as he stripped them away. The thin barrier of his smallclothes followed, and then there was nothing between us but air and moonlight.

Uldrek stepped closer, hands settling on my waist, pulling me against him. The feel of his skin against mine sent a jolt through me—the familiar magic of flesh meeting flesh, of being wanted, of wanting in return.

His mouth found my neck, my shoulder, the sensitive spot just below my ear. I gasped, arching into him, fingers tangling in his hair to keep him close.

"The water," I managed, though speaking felt like swimming through honey. "Turn on the water."

He nodded against my skin, pulling back to reach for the pump. With a few strong strokes of his arm, water began to flow from the spout above, steam rising in the cool night air. He adjusted the rune, ensuring the flow would continue, then turned back to me, eyes dark and hungry.

I stepped into the stall, beckoning him to follow. The water hit my shoulders, my back—warm, almost hot, a shock against my cooled skin. Uldrek joined me, crowding close in the narrow space, his hands immediately finding my hips, my waist, the curve of my breasts.

"Stars, Issy," he breathed, watching water sluice down my body. "The way you look—"

I silenced him with a kiss, deep and demanding. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him, skin to slick skin. I could feel every hard plane of his body, every ridge of muscle, every scar—and between us, his cock, hard and insistent against my stomach.

My hand slipped between us, finding him, stroking slowly from base to tip. He groaned into my mouth, hips jerking forward involuntarily. I smiled against his lips, enjoying the power of it—the way this strong, controlled man came undone at my touch.

His own hands weren't idle. One tangled in my wet hair, angling my head for deeper kisses. The other traced lower, finding the seam between my thighs, the heat and wetness there that had nothing to do with the shower's spray.

"Fuck," he muttered as his fingers slid into me, finding me already slick and ready. "You're so wet for me."

"Always," I gasped, rocking against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure. "I always want you."

He worked me with skilled fingers, circling my clit with his thumb while one finger, then two, pumped inside me. I clutched at his shoulders, legs trembling as pleasure built low in my belly, coiling tighter with each stroke.

But even as our bodies moved together, something felt off. His kisses grew more urgent, almost frantic, but his eyes—those eyes that normally held mine, that saw through me, saw into me—kept skating away. Looking at my neck, my breasts, my shoulder. Anywhere but directly at me.

I tried to catch his gaze, one hand on his jaw to tilt his face toward mine. "Uldrek—"

He spun me suddenly, pressing me face-first against the shower wall. His chest molded to my back, one arm wrapping around my waist, the other braced beside my head. His mouth found my shoulder, my neck, the sensitive spot behind my ear.

“Let me,” he murmured, his cock pressing insistently against my lower back. “Let me take you like this.”