"They celebrate being alive," Eliam said, his mouth close to her throat. "And you're practically naked, painted like a warrior, smelling like smoke and sweat and—"
Someone grabbed her arm, pulling her away from Eliam. A Drak warrior, laughing, saying something about the Forest Lord not monopolizing the shadow walker. Eliam's grip tightened for a moment, and she felt shadows gather, but then she was spinning away into another set of hands.
The celebration swirled around her. More partners, more heat, more skin. The drums were getting to her, making her body move without conscious thought. The drink made everything feel urgent and necessary.
Then Arion's light cut through the smoke.
He didn't grab her roughly like Eliam had. His hand found hers, fingers interlacing, and he drew her to him smoothly. His other hand settled at the small of her back, warm through the minimal fabric.
"You're flushed," he observed, though his own skin was gleaming with sweat in the firelight.
"It's hot," she said unnecessarily.
"Yes." His thumb stroked across her lower back, finding bare skin between the leather strips. "The drink affects humans more strongly."
"Mor'va mentioned that. After I drank it."
"Thoughtful of her." His tone was dry, but his eyes were focused on her with an intensity that had nothing to do with humor.
He moved with her to the drums, smoother than Eliam, more controlled. But his hands were just as possessive, keeping her close, his touch sending sparks across her hypersensitive skin. The paint on his chest was smearing where she pressed against him, creating patterns of light and shadow between them.
"You're covered in other people's paint," he observed, his hand tracing a smear across her shoulder.
"Everyone keeps touching—"
"I know." His grip tightened. "I've been watching."
The admission made heat bloom across her chest. Both of them watching her, wanting her, held back by the crowd and custom from claiming her.
His hand moved to her face, thumb brushing across her cheek. "You have no idea what you look like right now."
"Eliam said something similar."
His expression darkened at the mention of Eliam. "Of course he did."
A Drak tried to cut in, reaching for her, but Arion's light flared bright enough to make them step back. His usual control was slipping, affected by drink and drums and the press of bodies around them.
"Mine," he said, quiet enough that only she heard it.
The word sent heat through her that had nothing to do with the fires. His hand splayed across her back, pulling her flush against him. She could feel his heartbeat, as fast as Eliam's had been. Could feel the way his breathing had quickened.
"Arion—"
"Don't," he said roughly. "Just... dance with me."
They moved together, bodies aligned, the drums directing their movement. His hands were everywhere—her back, her hips, her arms. Not inappropriate, but possessive, claiming. The warmth in her chest was pulsing frantically, reaching for him.
Then shadows wrapped around her waist, pulling her backward.
She collided with Eliam's chest, his arm banding around her middle.
"My turn," he said to Arion, challenge clear in his voice.
"You already had your turn," Arion replied, his light sharpening.
"I wasn't finished."
"Too bad."
