A slow smile spreads across his face. It is a transformation that still takes my breath away. "You have a lifetime for that, wife."
He pulls me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply, his breath warm against my skin. "You smell like the sea."
"And you smell likeKaffa," I say, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Did you start the brew?"
"I did. The silence woke me before the sun." He pulls back to look at me, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. "It is still strange. Waking up and hearing only the waves."
"Do you miss it?" I ask, the question a shadow of an old fear. "The power?"
Imas looks at his hand—the hand that used to command shadows, now resting gently on my hip.
"I miss the convenience," he admits dryly. "Lighting a fire with a thought was easier than using flint and steel. But the noise..." He shudders, a subtle ripple of muscle under my hand. "No. I do not miss the screaming."
He sits up, the sheet falling to his waist. His back is a landscape of muscle and old scars, a map of a violent life. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
"Stay," he commands softly. "I will bring the cups."
I watch him walk to the small kitchen area of our one-room house. He moves with the same feline grace he possessed in the high halls of Lliandor, but the predatory edge is gone. He is just a man moving through his home.
He returns with two steaming mugs of earthenware. He hands one to me and climbs back into bed, sitting with his back against the headboard.
We drink in silence. It is a companionable, rich silence, filled with the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams.
"I was thinking," he says, staring into the dark liquid of his cup.
"About what?"
"About the garden." He gestures vaguely toward the open window. "The soil is good. We could plant fire-melons. Or herbs."
"And?" I prod, sensing there is more.
He turns to look at me. His expression is intense, the violet eyes darkening with a specific, possessive heat.
"And I was thinking about the vision I had," he says. "Last night. When I was inside you."
My cheeks heat. The memory of our mating—the desperate, worshipping fervor of it—is still vivid in my blood.
"The child," I whisper.
"A daughter," he says firmly. "With your hair and my skin. Running through the garden."
I smile, shaking my head. "No. A boy. With your eyes and my stubbornness."
Imas frowns, a playful crease appearing between his brows. "A boy would be trouble. If he has your stubbornness, I will never know a moment's peace. He will try to overthrow me by his third winter."
"And a girl wouldn't?" I raise an eyebrow. "If she is anything like her father, she will have the neighborhood boys wrapped around her finger before she can walk."
He laughs. It is a low, rusty sound, one he is still learning how to use.
"Perhaps one of each," he concedes, reaching out to rest his hand on my stomach. The heat of his palm seeps through the thin linen of the sheet. "In time. When we are ready."
"When we are ready," I agree.
I cover his hand with mine. The idea of bringing a life into this world—a world whereDfamand humans can live in peace, where children are not born to be vessels or slaves—fills me with a profound, aching hope.
"Finish yourKaffa," I say, setting my mug on the bedside table. "I want to show you something."
He raises an eyebrow but drains his cup. "What is it?"
