Page 51

T he rhythm of Ghost's steady gait lulled me into an almost-trance as we traveled.

My body ached in places I hadn't known could ache, the bandages on my hands chafed against Uldrek's arms where I gripped them, and somewhere deep inside my mind, Gavriel's final moments played on an endless, terrible loop.

I closed my eyes against the memories, focusing instead on the solidity of Uldrek behind me, the warmth of his chest against my back, and the way his breath stirred my hair.

Night had fully settled around us, the road ahead illuminated only by starlight.

We hadn't spoken much since leaving the inn.

There seemed to be no words large enough for what had happened or small enough for the comfort I needed.

So we rode in silence, his arms a steady bracket around me, keeping me upright when exhaustion threatened to pull me under.

Ghost crested a small rise, and Uldrek murmured over my shoulder, "We're almost there."

I opened my eyes. In the distance, the warm glow of Everwood's lights beckoned, still small but unmistakable against the darkness. Home. Safety. Ellie. Everything I'd fought for was just ahead.

But I didn't answer right away. My body ached, my hands still raw, but what ached more was the need to feel something real again. To feel him. To wash away the last traces of Gavriel's touch with something I chose.

"Let's stop," I said softly. "Just for a while."

Uldrek nodded without question. He brought Ghost to a halt with a gentle tug on the reins and slid down first, his boots making a soft thud as they hit the earth. Then he reached up for me, strong hands careful on my waist as he lifted me down.

My legs wobbled when they touched the ground. Too many hours in fear, in fight, in flight. Uldrek steadied me, his hands lingering at my hips. I didn't pull away. Neither did he.

The night air was cool but not cold, sweet with the scent of late autumn leaves and the distant tang of woodsmoke from Everwood's chimneys.

Above us, the stars spread out in a vast tapestry, impossibly bright against the dark.

The road behind us was empty, and the road ahead was clear.

For this small moment, we existed in perfect solitude.

"There's a flat spot just there," Uldrek said, nodding toward a grassy clearing a few paces from the road. "If you want to rest."

I nodded, and he kept one hand at my elbow as we moved toward it. Ghost followed a few steps behind, then wandered off to graze at the edge of the clearing, apparently content to let us be.

Uldrek unfastened his cloak and spread it on the ground, creating a makeshift blanket against the dew-damp grass.

We sat side by side, facing the distant lights of Everwood.

His shoulder pressed against mine, solid and warm.

The claiming mark was a muted presence beneath my collarbone, neither burning nor silent, just there—like the memory of a touch.

For a while, we simply breathed together, watching the lights in the distance. I could feel questions building in the air between us, weighted things that needed voice.

"How are your hands?" Uldrek asked finally, breaking the silence.

I looked down at the bandages, already coming loose in places. "They hurt," I admitted. "But not as much as they did."

He nodded, then carefully took my right hand in his. "May I?" he asked, fingers hovering over the edge of the bandage.

"Yes."

Gently, he began to peel back the linen wrappings. The salve had done its work; the blisters were smaller now, the angry red fading to something more bearable. He carefully examined my palm, his thumb tracing the unmarked underside of my wrist.

"Not bad," he said, his voice gruff. "Give it a few days, and there won't even be a scar."

I almost laughed. As if scars were something I feared anymore. As if my body hadn't already been marked in ways that would never fully heal.

Uldrek must have caught my expression because he ducked his head slightly.

Then, with a deliberateness that made my breath catch, he pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist—just below the edge of the burns.

It wasn't an apology. It was a silent acknowledgment of what my hands had done, what they'd endured.

What surprised me was how much I wanted more.

I lifted my free hand—still wrapped—and found his jaw, rough with stubble. His eyes met mine, questioning, careful. I drew him closer until my forehead rested against his, our breath mingling in the small space between us.

For a moment, we stayed like that, not quite kissing, not quite apart. Building a stillness between us that felt both fragile and rich with possibility.

"I'm sorry," he murmured finally. "For what I said. Before."

I closed my eyes briefly, remembering the pain of his words in the cottage. The accusation that I'd only wanted him for protection, for safety. That I didn't know how to love outside of survival.

"I know," I whispered. "I'm sorry, too. For walking away."

His hand came up to cup my cheek, and I leaned into the touch. "You had every right."

"I did," I agreed. "And you had every right to your doubts. We're both learning this."

His thumb traced my cheekbone, a touch so gentle it almost hurt. "Learning what?"

I opened my eyes to find his face impossibly close, his expression open and unguarded. "How to stay," I said simply.

Something shifted in his gaze—a warmth spreading like sunrise. Without another word, he closed the distance between us, his mouth finding mine with a tenderness that made my heart ache.

I kissed him back, soft at first, then with growing hunger. My bandaged hands came up to frame his face, to pull him closer. His arms came around me, careful of my injuries but solid, grounding me in the reality of the moment. This was real. He was real. We had survived.

The kiss deepened, turned urgent. His tongue swept against mine, and I made a small sound that seemed to ignite something in him. His hand slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head as he kissed me with increasing fervor.

I wanted more—wanted to feel his skin against mine, wanted to replace every terrible memory with something chosen, something good. I tugged at his shirt, a clear invitation.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard. "Issy," he murmured, his voice rough. "Are you sure? After everything today—"

"I'm sure," I said, meeting his gaze steadily. "I need... I need to feel something real. Something good. I need you."

His eyes darkened at my words. Then he nodded once and began to pull at my nightgown. I did the same with his tunic, our hands bumping against each other in our haste. We laughed softly, breathlessly, at our own eagerness.

Piece by piece, our clothing fell away. The night air was cool against my bare skin, but Uldrek's touch was warm, igniting small fires wherever his fingers trailed.

He kissed a path from my mouth to my jaw, down my neck, to the claiming mark that had once blazed so brightly.

When his lips brushed against it, I shivered, but the mark remained quiet, a subtle warmth.

He laid me back on his cloak, his broad frame hovering over me. His mouth moved lower, across my collarbone, to the curve of my breast. When he took my nipple between his lips, I arched into the sensation, a soft moan escaping me.

But something felt... wrong. Not his touch—never that. But the position, the way he loomed over me, like—

Like Gavriel had, when he tried to reclaim me at the inn.

I stiffened, and Uldrek immediately pulled back, concern etching his features. "What's wrong?"

I shook my head, frustrated with myself, with the lingering shadows of the day. "Nothing. I just..." I took a breath, then met his eyes. "I need to be on top."

Without hesitation, he rolled onto his back, pulling me with him so I straddled his waist. "Better?" he asked, hands settling lightly at my hips.

The change in position was like a breath of fresh air. I nodded, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders. "Much."

He smiled up at me, a warm, genuine thing that reached his eyes. "Good," he said, then reached up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "You can have whatever you need."

In that moment, with the stars wheeling overhead and Uldrek solid beneath me, I realized what I needed wasn't safety or protection. It was this—the freedom to choose, to take, to give. The power to move as I wanted, to touch as I wanted. To reclaim not just my body, but the joy it could feel.

I leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, my hair falling around us like a curtain. His hands skimmed up my sides, ghosted over the curve of my breasts, but never directing, never controlling. Just touch for touch's sake.

When I broke the kiss, I shifted lower, trailing my mouth down his neck, his chest, the flat plane of his stomach. His breathing quickened as I moved, his muscles tightening under my touch. He was already hard, his cock straining against my thigh.

I wanted to taste him. Wanted to see him come undone, to know I was the cause.

I slid lower still, settling between his legs, and took him in my bandaged hand. He was thick, hot, the skin impossibly soft over rigid flesh. He groaned as I stroked him once, twice, his hips shifting restlessly beneath my touch.

"Issy," he breathed, his voice strained. "Your hands—"

"Are fine," I assured him, looking up to meet his gaze. "I want this."

Before he could protest further, I leaned down and took him into my mouth.

His breath hissed out between his teeth, his head falling back against the cloak as I swirled my tongue around the head of his cock.

I took my time, learning what made his breath catch, what made his hips jerk upward, what drew those low, rumbling groans from his chest.

His hand came to rest at the back of my head, not pushing, just holding, his fingers tangling in my hair to keep it out of my face. When I glanced up, I found him watching me, his eyes hooded but intent, as if he couldn't bear to look away.