Page 158 of Lady of the Drowned Empire

“Me sha, me ka,” I repeated the words, repeated the gesture.

Rhyan leaned his forehead against mine.

“Do you want to come to bed now?” I asked.

He shook his head, our foreheads still connected. “I’m scared to sleep. Scared with what happened, even with you beside me, that the nightmares will come, that they’ll be worse. Tonight reminded me of things I’ve seen. Things I’ve done. I’ve killed before. Too many men. I don’t want to disturb you.”

“I want your nightmares. I want you to disturb me. I want whatever you need.” I pressed my lips to his, kissing him softly, slowly.

I inched forward on his lap, pulling his body against mine. The kiss deepened, as he held me closer against him and flipped us over onto the bed, a sudden rage in his aura. He shifted me back onto the pillows, his weight settling over me as he kissed me possessively, like he was claiming me, reminding me I was his, reminding himself. He touched me as if he was proving I was there, I was safe, I was with him.

Rhyan moaned into my mouth, one hand tangling in my hair, the other sliding down my waist leaving goosebumps in its wake. His fingers slid beneath my shirt, his callouses making me utterly aware of where his hand was, and where it was going. He grazed my bare skin, sliding up and up my rib cage. His hand closed around my breast.

“No!” I shouted. I was back in Vrukshire, tied up, helpless. Brockton’s hand was on me, bruising. Humiliating.

Rhyan rolled off me at once, throwing his head into his hands. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It was too soon.”

I pressed my palms to my temples in frustration, pulling my knees up to my chest.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Lyr. Shit. I can sleep on the floor,” Rhyan said quietly, turning away from me.

I grabbed his hand. “No. Stay by my side. I meant what I said before. I want you here. I want you. I just,” I sighed, tears burning behind my eyes. Not only had Brockton and his wolves tortured me, they’d ruined this for me, too. Fucking rapist bastards.

“You need to take it slow,” he said, squeezing my hand. “It’s okay. You’re not ready.”

I swallowed. “Come closer.”

Rhyan rested his head on the pillow next to me, and I took our joined hands, took a deep breath and pulled them beneath my shirt. Gently, I pressed his palm to my belly, to the spot he so often claimed as we slept.

“I’ll get past this,” I said.

Rhyan’s lips quirked up, but his eyes were still sad. “I know you will. You’re the strongest woman I know. A warrior. But…only when you’re ready. There’s no rush from me. No schedule you need to be on, no expectations on my end. When it feels right for you, I’ll be here.”

My fingers traveled up his arm. He kept his hand still on me, letting me be in control.

“You’re sure I can do this?”

“Completely sure,” he said. “I had to do it, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t the same,” he said quietly. “But I had something….” His jaw tensed. “Something happened to me.”

I froze.

“You wanted to know why I’d been called a whore.” His fingers flexed against my stomach.

I continued dancing my fingers across his arm in a soothing pattern.

“I was nine. The senator from Hartavia was in Glemaria, some official state visit, and, well, my father had never paid attention to me. Never in a good way. The senator did. He sat with me at dinners, joined me for visits to the gryphon dens. Made me feel special. Gave me the affection that I now know I was lacking.”

I inched closer to him on the bed, having too clear an image of this Rhyan in my mind. I’d met him for the first-time during this period of his life. When he was ten. I’d seen this Rhyan who was afraid of his father. This Rhyan who was lonely and loved gryphons and wanted one as a pet because he desperately needed a friend. This Rhyan who spent his time alone in a cold fortress following around the Master of the Horse, taking care of gryphons, and training them despite the fact this task was far below his station as Heir to the Arkasva and Imperator. This Rhyan who was so angry and reclusive that it had been a big deal for him to read beside me on a random afternoon, sharing lemon cake.

“A few weeks into the visit, the senator announced that he’d invited a singer to the fortress. She sang ancient Lumerian poetry—stories of the War of the Light. I’d mentioned to him I was reading the stories on my own. My father wasn’t enthusiastic but said I could attend the concert. My mother, though, she was against it. She didn’t want me to go.” His voice caught, and he shook his head. “I threw a fit. I demanded. And she relented under my father’s eye. I went. We were the only ones there. It was a private concert, the senator said, because I’d impressed him. I don’t remember much. Just that the senator kept inching closer and closer to my seat. Whispering about her songs, talking over her performance, asking what I thought about this verse or that. The ones he was asking about, they were all—all verses about Auriel and Asherah, their affair. About sex. I didn’t know anything at the time beyond the basics. But I wanted him to continue being impressed with me. I pretended I knew what he was saying. But I didn’t, and then the concert ended, the singer left. And we were alone.”

My stomach twisted, and Rhyan’s hand twitched, agitated against me. A small burst of cold filled the room, a snowflake on my nose. And then the cold faded.

Rhyan continued, “He asked me again about the verses. Then asked…if I touched myself. If…I’d ever touched a man.” Rhyan shook his head. “I knew something was wrong. I’d made a mistake coming there alone with him. I told him, I hadn’t. And it was late, I should go, my mother expected me in bed. But then he asked me if I wanted to…to touch…one.”