He frowns, takes a breath. “I believe there are few good things in this world,” he says, “but the kindness of your heart might be the best thing I have ever experienced, in any lifetime.”
My throat tightens. I am not sure whether to weep or fling myself into his embrace. Never have I received so thoughtful a compliment, and so generously gifted, without the expectation of reciprocation.
“Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely.
His gaze drops to the grass with a rare shyness. “You are an incredibly special person. I just want you to know that.”
I understand, as I had not previously, what it means to desire. How the wanting is a flood. It does not seem so terrible a thing in this moment.
“My darling novitiate,” Zephyrus murmurs. “I would very much like to kiss you.”
A puff of warmth washes across my mouth, and the sweetness of his breath lures me nearer. Mossy rings encircle the welling blacks of his eyes.
“You’ve already kissed me,” I say.
“That was not a kiss.” He slides one hand forward, loops it around my wrist, where glove and sleeve meet. “I would kiss you the way a man kisses a woman he hungers for.”
I am not thinking of my vows. I am not thinking of my faith and what a betrayal it would be to accept the West Wind’s mouth. I am thinking of all the truths I have never before considered, including this: his kiss is an offering I cannot refuse.
Because I have been a good servant this last decade, haven’t I? I have never, not once, strayed. It is true that no man may touch a Daughter of Thornbrook, but what of a man who views me as a woman first, a novitiate second? What of a man who encourages me to consider my own needs, those separate from the Father’s?
Lowly, I whisper, “What of Harper?”
“We are traveling companions, nothing more.”
My lips purse. Light and laughter from the festivities trickles through the shifting meadow grasses. “You picked a funny way of showing it.”
“What can I say? I enjoy getting under your skin.” His eyes flash, full of impish cunning. Again, the sense that his features have softened, become something else. “It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages.”
At my droll look, he laughs, drawing my hand up so it rests on his thigh. My skin leaps at the heat there, the hardened muscle beneath, as I say, “Tell me the truth. When I was bathing in the river, did youtruly want to kiss me, or were you just toying with me?” As he does with everything else.
For a time, he considers me. Then: “Let me ask you this. Would you deny a parched man water from the cool mountain stream?”
The gall of this immortal. I should challenge his claim, yet I’m ashamed to admit that I had wanted his mouth, sought to relish his taste, however brief.
“No,” I confess. “I would not.”
The green of his eyes deepens, as though a shadow has fallen across the moon. Framing my face, he tugs me forward, nose to nose and breath to breath. “All right?” he murmurs.
This is not the first time Zephyrus has touched my bare skin. Am I to burn in the blackest depths of Hell? “Y-yes?”
“Is that a question or an answer?”
“Um.” I bite my lip. Each of his fingertips are a brand upon my face. How can something that feels so right be a sin? “Answer.”
Leaning closer, Zephyrus bypasses my mouth, skimming the tip of his nose along my cheek, across my jaw. The fragile, butterfly-wing whisper spreads warmth down my neck. I hold still, trembling, awaiting his touch. And when his mouth brushes mine, I catch fire.
A wash of heat explodes across my tongue, pulls down my throat, fists in my lower belly. The drag of flushed lips. The scrape of stubble across my skin. I try to follow Zephyrus’ lead, but I have no idea what I’m doing. My fingertips dig into the soil—an anchor. Then I’m swept far and wide, sucked beneath waves I cannot climb, arches of white foam collapsing over me in dizzying sensations: sight and sound and taste and, by the Father, hissmell. My mind, my entire being, spins out of control.
I break away, shaking from head to toe. My body has seized, the energy coiling so tightly inside me it ruptures, shockwaves extending down my limbs.
“Sorry,” I whisper through chattering teeth. “I’m no good at this.”
“Do you see me complaining?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
“No.” But the insecurity creeps through me regardless.
Zephyrus rubs my upper arms in soothing strokes. I’m likely twice his weight, yet in this moment, I feel small. “We can take it slow. There’s no rush.”
