Chapter Forty-Eight
Irian
Irian kissed his wife, her lips soft as velvet and her breath sharp with desire.
Hiswife. Hiswife.
Even in the darkest chapters of their love story, he had thought of Fia so. When he had believed her dead after the Ember Moon, she had still been his wife. When her anguished words had sundered the magic binding them before the Longest Night, she had still been his wife. When she had clawed him and fought him and surged over him with eyes of silver, she had still been his wife.
Fia had always been—and would always be—Irian’s wife. But to hear the words spoken aloud, to inscribe the vow anew over all that had been written and erased, again and again, felt like a new covenant. An oath made in the language of old stories, inked upon the parchment of their fevered skin, and sealed in defiance beneath the syzygy of savage stars.
She is mine. I am hers. Come what may.
Irian dragged Fia closer and she melted into him, slipping her hands over his chest and tangling her fingertips in the hair growinglong at the nape of his neck. His tongue slid against her soft lower lip, delving between her teeth and forcing her mouth open on his. His arms caged her as she crashed against him, fingers fumbling on the buckles of his armor, grazing beneath the hem of his undershirt, and rippling the muscles of his torso in their wake.
Irian had never been much for intoxicants—self-possession his sharpest weapon and his strongest shield. But the allure of Fia’s sweet mouth on his was headier than human ale, the temptation of her soft body pressed to his more ambrosial than áthas. He was already drunk on her, and he wanted more. Alwaysmore.
She drew back an inch. His lips already missed the imprint of hers. “Why the rush?”
“You said we had but an hour.” Her heartbeat slanted beneath his palm. How he hadmissedher. Missedthis.
Her head tilted. “That is plenty of time.”
He growled, low in his throat, and flipped her onto her back upon the softness of their cloaks. “Not when I plan to make you comeat leasttwice.”
Kneeling over her, he swiftly finished the haphazard job she had started on his armor, undoing the last few buckles and tossing it down. His shirt followed. Fia propped herself onto her elbows to boldly admire him, and he could not help but return the favor—the lantern light shivering over her dainty chin and the ripeness of her parted lips and the sleek angles of her collarbones winging above her shift. He folded himself over her, drawing her arms above her head as he kissed along the column of her throat. Wedging his thigh between her knees, he deepened his weight between her legs. She gasped, bucking her hips, and ecstatic heat surged to life inside him, tightening the muscles of his stomach.
“Only twice?” Her laugh was raw with desire, ragged with affection. It made him delirious—to be wanted, in the same way that he wanted. To be loved, in the same way he loved.
He smiled a little as his fingers found the ties of her bodice. He unlaced them, deft. “Ithasbeen months.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “It has.”
But when Fia’s dress cascaded away to bare her graceful arms and trim waist and perfect breasts, he made no move to touch her. He longed suddenly to memorize her—to map the shape of her lips upon his skin, to imprint the color of her mismatched eyes upon his heart, to engrave the curves of her body upon his darkest reaches. To carve her very essence onto the marrow of his bones, so that when the world unraveled, he would still hold every piece of her inside him.
Not in a thousand lifetimes will I ever let you go.
Only then did he touch her, splaying a hand that felt too rough against the softness of the skin above her heart. “Once, I lost you. Twice, I have wed you. Forever, I will love you.”
Fia bit her lip with pleasure but could not hide faint melancholy. She laid her palm over his hand, until their heartbeats aligned. Hand to skin. Skin to hand. “Forever is a long time, Irian.”
“A moment or an eternity—it is more than I hoped for.” The words slipped easily from his mouth. He meant them. “Youare more than I hoped for.”
Fia’s eyes widened, and he knew she remembered—as he did—another night. Another cloak laid upon another floor. Another farewell.
“We have had enough of bitterness,” Fia murmured. “And there will surely be more to come. Let tonight be sweet.”
She was right. Tonight should not be a goodbye.
“What have I told you, colleen?” He forced away solemnity, allowing his mouth to quirk sideways. “About calling mesweet?”
Irian drew back onto his knees, lifting Fia with him. She let out a faint sigh as he settled her in his lap, slinging her legs around his tapered waist. His hands eased her dress the rest of the way down her arms to pool around her hips. A sly little breeze followed the path of his hands, pebbling her flesh and peaking her bared nipples. She gasped, and he dared to palm her breasts, pushing them up as he bent his head to roll his tongue over the sensitive flesh.Arching into the touch, she tangled her hands in her own hair; the starstone ring shone like a blinding star against the night sky of her glossy dark head.
Fia settled her weight deeper into Irian’s lap and swept her hands over his rigid chest, the flexed lines of muscles ridging his stomach. His trousers strained; her fingers on his waistband fumbled to free him. He groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder as she began to slowly stroke him, nearly losing himself to the ecstatic thrill of her deft, delicate touch. His hands found the hem of her dress; he shoved it over her knees, over her thighs, all the fabric puddling around her waist. His fingers dug into her rear, pulling her abruptly closer, as he pressed his length against the damp fabric of her underclothes. Anticipation pulsed through him. He could not resist her.
Sudden shyness flicked Fia’s eyes up to the bright glass lanterns fluttering in the lilac-scented breeze. “Should we dim the lights?”
“Let me look at you. Let me touch you. Let me taste you.” Irian shook his head. “Let me devour you with all my senses.”
