“Do you need more food?” she whispers. “I think the bear is back. You look ready to devour me whole.”
He stares at her. She definitely deserves better.
“Or maybe a hug?” she says softly.
Then she wraps her arms around him, and he stiffens.
Whistling wind. She’s hugging him.
“You’re not very good at this,” she says against his shoulder.
Is he supposed to hug her in return? He mentally kicks himself. Of course he’s supposed to hug her.
Awkwardly, he wraps his arms around her.
“You ran,” she whispers.
“You came after me. Again. Why?”
She looks up at him, and his hands slide to her back, but he can’t bring himself to move as their eyes connect.
Then the door across the corridor opens, and before Cerian can put any space between himself and Arisanna, Tharios emerges with Viala.
“Well, that was fast.” Tharios grins, but Viala smacks his arm.
“Leave them be,” she whispers in Lothlesian.
Arisanna’s face flames as she pulls away, smoothing her iridescent gown. “Thank you for the gift,” she says in smooth Elvish. “It fits perfectly.”
Viala smiles. “Shimmeron always fits. My mother sent it when I asked her for a special gift for Cerian’s human princess. It’s beautiful on you.”
Arisanna murmurs her thanks again, and Cerian’s stomach does odd things.
His human princess.
He may not be what she deserves, but he’s all she has here in Lostariel.
Viala shoves Tharios along, and he smirks over his shoulder. “Carry on, little brother!”
Whistling wind. Tharios is the most annoying elf in the entire kingdom.
Once his brother and Viala are gone, Cerian looks down at Arisanna. She doesn’t try to wrap her arms around him again.
“I’m...sorry,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have run. I will...I will try to do—”
To his shock, she reaches for his hand, and his words falter.
“When you feel like running, find my hand instead. And if you still need to escape, take me with you.” She gazes up at him with those warm brown eyes of hers, and his heart thuds.
That urge to flee slithers over him, warring with the startling desire to pull her against his chest and never let go. But he tightens his fingers around her hand instead and clings to her like a tether.
Her hair hangs over her shoulder in a cascading waterfall of burnished silken thread. Is it as soft as it looks?
“Cerian, your hand is so warm. Even hotter than usual. Is it because you’re a fire wielder?”
Whistling wind. He tamps down the fire magic that’s taken on a mind of its own and tries to pull away, but Arisanna holds tight to him.
“Don’t run,” she whispers, reaching for his other hand, too, and as she gazes into his eyes with their hands clasped between them, his panic lessens and his magic cools.
