Then reality intruded. She was straddling him, both of them clad in nothing more than thin linen tunics. Her cheeks flamed. “Leukos…” she whispered, voice tight, “this is highly inappropriate.”
He gave a low huff against her neck, half amusement, half dismissal.
“There’ll be rumours,” she pressed, unease curling in her chest, sharpened by the memory of Alcaros’ disapproving stare.
“The Westerners won’t care,” he murmured.
“But the Achaeans will,” she said, quieter still. “You’re their leader. And we’re not married. Besides, Leywani is here, too. Maybe I should?—”
His arms snapped tighter around her, cutting off the thought. “Don’t leave.” The raw plea lingered, heavy in the stillness. Silence stretched, broken only by the fire’s crackle and his breath against her skin.
Then he tilted his head up, facing her, and in the depths of his eyes, she saw it: the fierceness of his devotion and the unspoken promise of every tomorrow.
“Stay,” he breathed. “Marry me… and stay.”
Alena’s breath caught, her heart stumbling over itself. “What?”
His hands slid down her back to rest at her waist, anchoring her in place. “Alena,” he said, her name trembling with devotion. “You’re my soulmate. Every moment we spend apart is torment. If marriage is what it takes to keep you by my side every night, then let’s do it. Preferably soon.”
His words hung in the air between them, a promise as solid as the strength of his arms holding her close.
He raised his hand, cupping her cheek before his lips met hers—a kiss filled with quiet certainty. Her breath caught, her mouth yielding with a soft sigh. She kissed him back, heat rising between them. He shifted, lying back on the bed and drawing her down with him. The weight of his body beneath hers anchored her, his arms wrapping her in a protective embrace.
But before the moment could carry her further, she broke away, pressing her palm flat to his chest to keep him still. Her lips tingled, her breath unsteady.
“Wait. One more thing,” she whispered. “Did you tell Theo we were soulmates? I thought we weren’t telling anyone.”
Leukos’ gaze softened, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips said it all. “I didn’t,” he said, settling beside her with asigh, his arm still draped around her waist. “But his Gift makes him annoyingly perceptive.”
“Oh.” She nestled closer, tucking herself into the solid heat of his body. “Nik’s not going to be happy to be left out.”
A low sound rumbled in Leukos’ chest—half growl, half laugh. Alena smiled against him, certain he was holding back some sharp remark about the blond.
Then his lips brushed her temple, lingering there for a heartbeat. “We should get some sleep, love.”
Alena tilted her head, arching an eyebrow at him. “Says the man who couldn’t keep his lips to himself.”
A smirk tugged at his mouth. “I don’t hear you complaining.”
“No, I wasn’t.” She stole another lingering kiss. “I could kiss you all night.”
His eyes fluttered shut, though his quiet smile remained. “Don’t tempt me.”
He pulled her closer still, tucking her against him, his lips grazing the crown of her head. She closed her eyes, pushing away the storm of thoughts clawing at her—Katell, the war, the White Mare’s revelations she still hadn’t confessed to Leukos. Here, within the shelter of his arms, none of it could reach her. The weight of the world slid from her shoulders, leaving only the warmth of his body at her back and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
LEUKOS
Leukos leaned over the edge of the table, studying the maps spread across the warped wood—terrain lines, enemy paths, fallback positions. The barn stank of wet hay and manure, sunlight filtering through the uneven weave of the thatched roof in soft, golden strands. It was far from ideal for a war council, but the sheer number of warriors present made it the only space large enough.
The place was packed, shoulder to shoulder. Word of the Makhai had spread like wildfire—thanks, no doubt, to Alcaros—and over a dozen new warriors had arrived from the hillfort, their faces drawn tight with unease.
Leukos didn’t blame them.
According to Theo, the Makhai were creatures of nightmare that had torn through the battlefield at Kendrisia and crushed the Rebel Queen’s forces like twigs. The legions hadn’t even arrived, and already the scent of defeat lingered in every whispered question and furrowed brow. How were they supposed to fight demons?
Danaos and Despoina flanked him, while Volcos and Alcaros stood opposite. Western warriors closed ranks around them, boots caked in mud, faces taut with wariness. Among the newcomers were some familiar faces from the previous summer—the Rebel Queen’s companions: a slender blonde woman, fierce as an Amazon, and a man with scars crisscrossing his bare arms. Vix and Tanco, if he remembered correctly.
