Page 22 of Valor’s Flight (The New Protectorate #5)
Her flesh was petal-soft and warm beneath the pads of his fingers. As soon as he made contact, Taevas was astonished to see her shape resolve itself in the depths of the shadows in the hollow beneath the birch trees. A chill ran down his spine.
He’d been staring right at her from less than a foot away.
Alashiya didn’t jerk her leg to be free.
She didn’t make a sound and hardly seemed to breathe.
She watched him from her hiding spot, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees and the whites of her eyes visible within the shadows of the roots.
They almost appeared to cage her in. Now that he could see her clearly, Taevas got the uneasy sense that the plants and roots in the hollow were leaning toward her, like they were trying to block her from view — or draw her into the depths of the earth, never to be seen again.
The hair prickled on the back of his neck. It was hard to banish the feeling that he was being keenly observed by an entity that hadn’t yet decided if he was an enemy or not.
Swallowing, Taevas said, “Shiya, are you hurt?”
“Not yet.” Her voice was as soft as the brush of leaves against one another.
“Not yet?” Taevas glanced around sharply, straining for any sight or sound of an enemy. “What are you afraid of?”
When he turned his attention back to her, he discovered that peculiar look on her face again — the one that said she had absolutely no idea what to make of him.
“You,” she answered, at last pulling her leg from his grip. Alashiya pressed herself deeper into the hollow. To his great alarm, he noticed the edges of her began to blur, as if the very earthen wall of the hollow was beginning to close around her.
Taevas lunged for her. The scent of crushed and broken greenery perfumed the air as he wrestled her out of the hollow as gently as he could. It didn’t seem to matter. Alashiya was a soft creature, but she had a belly full of fire. When threatened, she lashed out with everything she had.
It was unfortunate for her that even with his current weakness, her nails and teeth and blows didn’t stand a chance against him. Only when she went for his injured wings did Taevas have to put some real effort into restraining her.
“Stop this!” he barked, pinning her wrists beside her ears.
His knees sunk into the loamy soil on either side of her hips.
Alashiya lay splayed out beneath him, her curls tangled in the fans of ferns.
Her chest rose and fell with every panting breath.
Electricity buzzed in the air around them — a nearly tangible chemistry that set his blood on fire.
His cock, always deeply rebellious when it came to her, jerked behind the damn button-up fly of his borrowed pants.
He wanted to tear her pretty dress down the middle, free those perfect, heavy breasts, and feast on her until the last of his strength left him.
Taevas wanted her wet and squirming beneath him.
He wanted her soft hands on his cock. He needed to spread those perfect, full thighs and rut between them like a beast, and then he needed her to arch her back and scream when she came, so she’d never, ever run from him again.
But none of it would happen when she looked at him like that.
“Alashiya,” he growled, voice roughened by need and exhaustion, “I am not going to hurt you.”
“Then why did you chase me?”
Taevas’s brow furrowed. “Why? Shiya, you ran. You could’ve gotten hurt.”
She shook her head. “So?”
“So? I was worried. I’m grateful you took me into your home. You treated my wounds. You’ve been kind. We’ve sat together for hours. You’ve told me about your life. You’ve stroked my skin and whispered soft things to me. What possible motivation could I have to hurt you?”
Her throat, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat in the moonlight, bobbed with a nervous swallow. “I don’t know. It didn’t seem so bad when you were— when you were the other thing, but now you’re a man. It’s different.”
Under normal circumstances, he’d agree. The idea of Alashiya inviting strange, nude men into her home threatened to give him a heart attack.
But he wasn’t some random man. He was her client.
They’d known one another for ten interminable years.
And even if that wasn’t true, he was the Isand of the Draakonriik.
That had to lend him some measure of credibility, didn’t it? A little bit of trust?
A creeping sense of unease skittered up his spine. Easing his hold on her wrists, Taevas scrutinized her face for any hint of recognition, any sign at all that she knew him.
His fingers trembled. “Tell me you know my name. Tell me you know me.”
Alashiya’s heavy brows lowered. Confusion flashed in her eyes, so big and sad in her perfect face. “I… How would I know that? You couldn’t tell me.”
That familiar empty sensation carved a deep space within his chest. It was a cavern made by a terrible movement of feeling — first of disbelief, then of horror, and finally a monstrous sort of impotent outrage.
Was I wrong? Is she not my artisan?
No, that couldn’t be right. He’d seen his robe. He recognized her work. If nothing else, he’d know her by scent in any place, time, or setting. This was her. His artisan. His treasure. His mysterious metsalill.
So how could she not know him?
“You know me.” A sharp edge made its way into his voice. It was a command. An order from her Isand, from the man who’d yearned for just a glimpse of her for so very long. “You must. Look closely, my Shiya. Look at my face. Touch me, even. You know me.”
She let out a startled breath when he dragged one of her hands to his cheek. Her palm was cool against his flushed skin, and her fingers shook when he guided them over the curve of his jaw and the heavy line of his brow.
A hoarse whisper escaped him. A plea. “Recognize me.”
Some of the fear bled away from her gaze. It was replaced by confusion and no small amount of concern.
He imagined he must have seemed out of his mind to her. Taevas had begun losing his grip on his sanity the day he opened that first package and now… now he knelt in the dirt, begging a frightened woman to say his name.
How far the mighty Isand has fallen.
Alashiya didn’t take her hand away from his cheek when Taevas released her wrist. She held it there, just barely touching. In a gentler voice than he probably deserved, she asked, “Have we met before?”
“No,” he choked out.
“Then how would I know you?”
A lifetime in the public eye flashed through his mind. Hundreds of interviews. Countless press releases, photoshoots, and headlines.
He’d been the leader of a fierce, wealthy territory for well over a hundred years.
Nearly his entire life was documented in pictures and video, thrown out into the ether to build his reputation — all in the name of making the ’Riik stronger, safer.
His presence on a street drew crowds no matter what territory he was in, and his choices changed the fates of millions every day.
Despite all of that, he saw no recognition in her eyes. He was as much a stranger to her as she’d been to him.
He hunched his shoulders. “Taevas,” he whispered. “My name is Taevas A?daja.”
The words drifted in the air between them, normally so heavy but in that moment as light as one of the fireflies that danced around their heads.
They didn’t seem to land anywhere in her memory.
She absorbed them quietly, with neither gasp nor reflexive, nervous smile. To her, it was a name like any other.
Alashiya’s fingertips skimmed his cheek as she slowly lowered her hand. She sucked in a deep breath through her nose. Appearing to come to some tentative decision, she asked, “You’re not going to hurt me, are you, Taevas?”
“Never.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Taevas was a lot of things. He was arrogant, wry, and domineering. There were plenty of character flaws one could criticize. But never, not once in his long life, had someone accused him of going back on his word.
“My name is Taevas A?daja,” he rumbled, eyes locked with hers. “I am the Isand of the Draakonriik, Lord of the Dragon Clans, and head of Clan A?daja. My word is law, minu metsalill, and I say you’re safe from all things.”
Alashiya blinked. Her expression was nonplussed. “I don’t think anyone can make a promise like that.”
He let out a breath. “My Shiya, I am not just anyone.”