“I can’t,” he says raggedly. “The first time I get my hands on you, it will not be like this.”
He pulls away, those deep sapphire eyes studying me as he cups my cheek. Emotions I’m not ready to name threaten to break loose. “Our first time will not be rushed. When I finally take you to bed, Soraea, I’m going to need hours, if not days, to worship every part of you before starting over again.”
He kisses me again, all too gently, and the fire within me dulls to a simmer. My breath slows to match his while he holds me in place, gently cradling my face as he studies me.
“I am trying to do the honorable thing,” he explains. “But make no mistake, Princess, I’ve been worshipping you in my dreams for far too long.”
A warmth blossoms along my spine. I don’t know what to say, so I cup his cheek, brushing my hand along the stubble, before bringing our mouths together one last time in a sweet and tender kiss.
“Mine,” I whisper.
“Yours,” he promises as I sit up. Amusement dances across his face as we openly gaze into each other’s eyes.
“So,” he starts, sitting up so he’s leaning back against his hands. “What do I have to do to be your friend?”
I don’t know why, but I find myself laughing. A huge smile spreads across my face as I look down on him.
I slide my palms up his stomach, over his chest, settling them on his shoulders. “Why would you want to be my friend when you’re more than that?”
His lips quirk up. “Questions answered with questions. Hmm…” He brushes my hair back. “What if I want to be moreandyour friend? Can’t I be both?”
I drop my lips to his, smiling against them. “Okay, Prince,” I say, kissing him softly and sweetly before crawling off his lap and heading for the door, leaving him rumpled and utterly gorgeous on the bed with a smile.
When I open the door, a guard, whom I assume belongs to Ryker, gives me a questioning look but doesn’t say anything. I find Kuron, my guard, lingering at my door, doing a once-over before following me to the dining hall.
forty-two
. . .
raea
Three hours later,Paxton, Aurora, Kore, Thriven, and I sit in the library that’s built into the cliff face over a glacial lake. Apparently, this is the safest place for the books to be. We spent the first hour touring the lava tubes and meeting with their officials and professors.
They all seemed extremely welcoming to me, but then again, I do represent the entire Treon kingdom. Seeing their homes carved out like little caves with fire and sconces placed everywhere to illuminate the space felt oddly inviting. They haven’t been able to implement modern touches like electricity or heat, but I kind of liked it.
The people who live here in the tubes wear thick linens and tunics made from animal skins to keep them warm. Both men and women wear their hair long hair in various war braids or shaved short with tattoos covering their skin. They all have glacier-blue eyes and shades of blonde or light brown hair. Genetics is an amazing thing I’d love to study.
Their language is breathy and full and so beautiful. There’s something so familiar about it. I wonder if I’ve heard it spoken at the summit balls before? Or maybe at an event with my parents? Either way, the words settled over me and within me as if they were speaking to a deeper part of me.
“So what are we looking for?” Aurora asks as we take over the larger wooden table at the center of the room. She’s a rail-thin blonde in Intel Division. She’s really lovely.
“Well, I think we need to focus on their way of life. Their government and traditions are amazing, but it would just be too much for the time slot we’ve been given.” Not only is a report due, but we have to present it in front of the class.
The five of us break apart, each going in different directions to cover the shelves of books that line the walls of this massive space. I find a section on the furthest wall, reading the spines. I’ve never seen so many ancient texts before.
My fingers brush against the spines, amazed at their collection. I stop on a large book, the text worn on the spine, and pull it off the shelf. I blow off the dust before carefully opening the book. It’s written in Elvisiah. Strokes of ink in various patterns and lines fill the pages. It’s so pretty. Something whispers in me as I scan the page; the words fill my mind. It’s a children’s story.
The librarian passes by, halting to look at the text in my hands. Her peppered hair is braided into one long piece. Her clothes are held together with leather straps matching her boots, which are covered in what I think is rabbit fur and lashed with leather ties.
“Interesting,” she muses, coming to stand at my side. Her eyes search my face before looking back at the open book. “The Fable of the Primordial Orum,” she says with reverence in her voice. “An ancient fate of two harbingers of light and dark. One day, the two shall engage in a war so bloody, only one will remain.” Her intense blue eyes meet mine. And something twists in my stomach. I mask my face in naïve interest.
“Why would the gods let that happen?” Fear settles in my bones.
If the gods were truly good, why would they create something so inherently dark?
The librarian tilts her head as if thinking whether or not she plans on answering. “The Primordials are all about balance, my young Princess.”
I nod.
