Illiana took his hand, guiding him to his feet. Mars paused and jabbed a finger in the air in Rangar’s general direction. “Watch your hands, savage. That is still my sister, and she is still not yours to do with as you wish.”
Rangar’s answer was the ghost of a smirk. “Isn’t she?”
Mars reached for his knife, but Illiana grabbed his wrist with a roll of her eyes and led him down the passage toward the kitchen.
In the lantern light, Bryn studied Rangar. He was still filthy from his time in the dungeon and weakened from the hanging, but a fire blazed in his dark eyes.
She picked up the cloth and then dipped it into the water bucket. “Let me help you bathe—it looks like you haven’t seen soap in weeks.”
“I haven’t,” he admitted.
His gaze explored as he watched her wring out the cloth. She brushed his tangled hair back from his face, dabbing the cloth against his temples.
Goosebumps ran up and down her arms to be this close to him again. She wiped the cloth along the contours of his face, then rinsed it and repeated until the water turned black. When she reached his neck, dusted with several days’ worth of beard, she toyed with his shirt’s top button.
“I’d like to throw these filthy clothes in the fire. I see Illiana brought you fresh ones.”
His lips hitched in a smirk as he lifted his chin, giving her better access to his buttons. “By all means, princess. If there’s one thing I’d love most in this world, it’s to have your hands on me instead of these soiled clothes.”
A fluttery sensation beat in her chest as she slowly undid his shirt buttons and then smoothed the disheveled fabric off his shoulders. He’d grown leaner in his time in the dungeons of both Barendur Hold and Castle Mir. His muscles were wiry, taut. She traced the cloth over the hexmark scars carved into his flesh, pausing at his own death slumber hex near his underarm.
“Illiana gave me this hex,” she said softly as she dabbed the cloth over his mark. “Did you know there were witches in the Mirien?”
“I’d heard rumors. I suspected magic was practiced here on some level.”
“It bodes well for introducing magic to the kingdom in the future. If it’s already quietly practiced, the populace will be more likely to accept it.” She rung out the cloth again, satisfied she’d gotten the worse of the grime off him.
“Have you discussed bringing magic to the Mirien with your brother?”
“Not yet, but Mars knows Illiana’s abilities. I’m confident he’ll see it as the best way forward.”
Rangar brought a hand up to run his palm over her sleeve, squeezing her shoulder. “Speaking of your brother, what do you make of his command not to touch you?”
Bryn boldly met his eyes. “Mars isn’t my king yet.”
Rangar’s hand moved to her neck. He guided her toward him until his lips scorched their way across her cheek, settling on her lips.
Bryn threw herself into the kiss. Her arms slid over his bare shoulders, hands locking behind his neck. She crushed her lips to his, wanting to taste all the familiar parts of him she’d been craving.
He vocalized a moan as his hand raked down her back. “By the gods, Bryn. I’ve wanted you in my hands every cursed day.”
She answered by trailing kisses along his cheeks, his forehead, his scars, wanting to cover every inch of him with her lips. She pulled her skirt around her knees so she could straddle the place where he reclined against the wall with his legs extended.
He gave a slight hiss as her weight settled on him.
She gasped. “Is this too much for you? You’re still weak—”
He gave a husky laugh. “It isn’t too much. Gods, it isn’t even close to being enough. Come here.”
He gripped her around the hips and secured her position against his lap. A flood of desire rushed up through Bryn as she pressed her hands over his scarred chest.
She closed the distance between them. Her lips possessed his, and he answered by dragging his teeth across her lower lip. She gasped as she locked her hands on the hard edge of his shoulder muscles, holding on to keep herself steady.
His muscles tightened beneath her palms. Her own body flushed with warmth and a desire to feel him touching every inch of her. His grip around her waist grew more intense. He kneaded the fabric like he wanted to tear it off.
Then, he broke the kiss, one hand cradling the back of her head as he pressed his forehead to hers.
She wasn’t sure which one of them was breathing harder.
