Page 16 of Valor’s Flight (The New Protectorate #5)

It was a series of checks and balances, the rules that he needlessly and painfully enforced on himself.

And it was precisely those rigid guidelines that had the exact opposite result of their intended purpose.

Rather than keep a lid on the strange obsession he had with her, it dripped fuel on the fire, one syrupy droplet at a time.

He saved every notecard and flower she sent with the orders. One day it became more than just sexual desire, but the driving need to place her scent everywhere — in his nest, his living room, his office, his jet. Another allowance. Another negotiation.

He carried something of hers always, or else he couldn’t focus properly.

Over time, he began to notice a hum in the clothing itself, as if he became a flesh and blood lightning rod for her unique tenor of magic.

He had no magic himself, so he couldn’t properly say whether it was his growing sensitivity to it or a real change, but Taevas could’ve sworn that she put more and more of herself into the stitches over the years.

Every new garment he received practically glowed with it.

When he delicately shrugged his arms and wings into a new shirt, he could feel the warmth of her magic as it settled into his very pores.

He never felt as safe as he did when he wore something she’d touched.

He never felt as close to another being as when her magic curled around him with a sensual, loving caress. To go without it now was unthinkable.

Another. Another. Another.

It didn’t happen all at once. In fact, it was slow enough that he barely noticed the extent to which he’d integrated her into his life until she was already everywhere.

And he didn’t even know her name.

For seven years, he’d indulged himself. For seven years, he’d rigidly upheld his rules, his distance, for fear of what would become of him if he gave in.

Until the day Theodore Solbourne, his unwilling elvish protege, made headlines all over the world with his shocking elopement. Taevas had nearly spat out his coffee when the headline crossed his morning briefing.

“Sovereign and Healer? The Match of the Century!”

And there the elf was, pictured with his gloved hand on the nape of a young witch’s neck.

They only had eyes for each other as they climbed into the back of a town car.

Their marriage sigils were fresh, and the symbol of a union that shattered generations of destructive elvish dogma.

Elves hadn’t been free to take outsiders as mates in a thousand years, but little Teddy had just gone and done the damn thing.

Taevas had been proud. He’d bugged the boy to throw that shit out from the moment he came to power. It took some serious balls to do it the way little Teddy had, but Taevas couldn’t fault him for style — or taste. Margot Goode was lovely, if one liked breakable-looking, somewhat-spooky witches.

But that pride faded quicker than Taevas would’ve liked.

He was left staring at the happy, improbable couple.

Something in his chest went missing. Maybe it had never been there, but its absence had been a comfortable habit.

Staring at their smitten faces, he felt it keenly for the first time in nearly a century.

Loneliness, he’d realized, thumbing the crimson stitching of his shirt’s cuff. His artisan had outdone herself with a new geometric design, and he loved tracing each little loop of thread.

He counted the stitches and thought of her as he looked at Teddy’s boyish grin. That hollow feeling grew and grew until it swallowed up the last pitiful reserves of his decency.

It was perhaps a cruel but justified turn when the atelier’s associate refused to give him her name. “It’s a matter of privacy, sir,” they’d explained, oozing unctuousness. “But I’d be happy to pass a message along.”

What could he say? Taevas had hung up, irritated with himself and the associate and even his artisan, his metsalill.

The Isand’s precious, elusive wildflower.

He tried again, a few weeks later when the sting of his weakness had faded, but received the same answer. The next attempt, his pride gave way and he did what they suggested. Taevas sent along a message, asking if the artisan would be willing to speak to him personally.

A day later he’d gotten a response — from the owner of the atelier himself. “I’m so sorry, Isand, but she’s a very private person. While she appreciates your patronage immensely, she prefers to communicate via the Atelier. I’m sure you understand.”

Rejection was an unfamiliar and galling experience.

Who was she to refuse to speak to him, Taevas A?daja, Lord of the Dragon Clans and Isand of the Draakonriik, war hero, the youngest leader to sign the Peace Charter, the patron who’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars commissioning her over nearly a decade, the man who spent every waking hour trying not to think of her—

He’d been forced by pride and self-preservation to remove himself from the situation. A large part of him was relieved, believing that he’d finally found his limit and the obsession would die off, but it didn’t last.

It never lasted.

It only took another one of her notes, delivered with a parcel he hadn’t ordered.

I know this isn’t your usual style, but the flowers in my garden are in bloom. They made me think of your colors. Thank you for all your support over the years. I look forward to every new project more than I can say. I hope you’re well. -A

It was a gift. His artisan had sent him an oval-shaped embroidery hoop.

The fabric stretched within it was nearly translucent.

The stitches were so small, so fine, that they were only tiny flashes of jewel tones holding real pressed wildflowers in place.

It was the single most beautiful piece of textile work he’d ever seen — and he’d beheld her skill with real gold and scarab beetle shells and crystal beads.

Nothing compared to it. To what she’d chosen to give him.

He crumbled. The great Isand, with his immense pride, was felled by the petals of a few wildflowers.

Some rules had to remain in place, for his sake and hers.

He couldn’t allow himself to use the full force of his influence, nor his resources.

It would violate the sacred thing that had bloomed between them.

Taint it. He didn’t want to force his way into her life by demanding the atelier divulge her information or having spies track her down.

Not only would it be a horrific misuse of his power, but it would violate her right to keep him away. It was more than likely she was one of his citizens. Using his position to find her felt ugly. Taevas was obsessed, but he wasn’t a monster. More than that, he wanted her to come to him.

So he continued, little by little, to needle the atelier.

In return, they continued to demure, alternating between respecting her privacy and simply brushing off his requests.

After a time, he got the feeling that their refusal wasn’t entirely based on his artisan’s wishes, which ignited a cold, quiet fury, but he didn’t dare press too hard, lest they cut him off entirely.

It seemed unlikely, given his patronage over the years, let alone his position, but he couldn’t risk it. The out of control thing in him wouldn’t allow it.

He began sending gifts. Bolts of the finest fabric and silk thread for her own use.

Art that reminded him of her work. A new chair and work table designed specifically for sewists, to save their backs.

He would’ve sent diamonds the size of robin eggs, gifts of food, blankets made of the finest materials, exotic flowers, or even money — if only he could be certain any of it would make it to her.

As it happened, he could only believe what the atelier told him, which was that they passed everything along.

His artisan’s notes never mentioned his gifts, however, so he couldn’t be certain.

The notes were sweet, always thanking him for his patronage, and usually included some tiny, abstract detail about her life.

This design was inspired by my grandfather.

This color reminded me of my favorite tea.

I know you asked for maroon, but I’m sure you’ll like plum better. It’s my favorite color.

He didn’t care what she sent him anymore.

He’d wear anything. He did wear anything.

Taevas wore her creations as often as he was able, and he tried his best to make sure he was photographed.

Over the years he began to develop an even flashier reputation than he previously possessed, but he didn’t care.

It was all part of the plan to get his artisan’s attention, somehow, someway.

Look at me, he demanded, flashing a wink over the rim of his sunglasses at a photographer. He always imagined it was her behind the lens. See how proud I am to wear your work. Talk to me. Please, gods, just talk to me.

Three years he’d been holding onto the fraying threads of his decency, his control, waiting with bated breath for her to reach out to him.

Never, in the decade of imaginings, did he think that he would simply… stumble across her. And never could he have dreamed that she would be more beautiful, more interesting, more mysterious than the phantom he’d crafted to fill that hollow place in his chest.

Nothing about it made sense. How could fate have worked so perfectly, so cruelly, as to thrust them together now?