Maybe this was fate being cruel to me.
Was I being punished for something I did? My mind raced with all the things I might have done to offend the heavens, but I couldn’t come up with anything. I closed my eyes and savored the image of how pretty Elowyn looked in her wedding dress—how her cheeks flushed when I told her I’d pretend to be marriedto her. Or the way she was embarrassed mentioning that her coven thought we’d be producing an heir.
I swallowed hard. I shouldn’t be thinking of these things. I shouldn’t have wondered if she had been with a man before. It wasn’t my business, but my marriage bond sizzled on my skin, calling out my lies. Stars above, I cared too much. My hands dragged down my face.
I got dressed and walked out of my bedroom, thinking she’d be asleep. But there she was, holding a steaming cup of what I assumed was tea. She was staring at my carvings on the wall. Her back was toward me, and I allowed my gaze to drop to her exposed legs.
I watched her like a sinner studying his salvation. Every inch of her was temptation, built to test my restraint. My gaze lingered on her back, tracing the slow sway of her hips down to the fullness of her thighs. Thick. Perfect. Fuck, I wanted to know what they’d feel like wrapped around me, how her body would fit against mine.
My pulse quickened as I took in the way her hips curved even beneath the loose shirt she wore. She wasn’t small or fragile—she was soft, lush, made to be touched. Her curves would fit perfectly against me. Elowyn was made to be worshipped, and I wanted to be the god who fell to his knees just to show her her worth.
She said men didn’t notice her, but she was either lying to herself or blind to the devastation she caused just by existing.
What would it be like to be married to her for real? Is this how I’d wake up every morning—her in nothing but one of my shirts, walking around, admiring my artwork? Gods, I liked the thought of that. Her, here, with me, laughing.
Fuck, I pulled at the collar of my tunic. It felt too warm in the house. She turned and looked over her shoulder at me and smiled softly.
I was fucked.
“Good morning,” she said softly.
Her eyes dragged over my robes before a small tilt of her lips took over. She looked up at me, seeming not to know what to do or say. Oh, wait… she had said something to me. I cleared my throat.
“Good morning.” I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “I didn’t think you’d be up this early.”
Her brows pulled together as she looked at her cup of tea.
“The storm woke me, so I thought I’d get up and admire it, but I got distracted by your art.”
She picked up a picture, clearly drawn by a child. My gaze lingered on the small stick figures, the two of us standing side by side, smiling.
“Is this your drawing?” she teased.
I smiled softly, forcing down the ache that surfaced at the sight of it.
“No,” I said quietly. “A child made it for me a long time ago. It’s my favorite piece of art on the wall.”
Her expression softened at my answer. She returned the picture to its place with deliberate care, as if it were something fragile and sacred.
I stepped forward even though I knew I should leave. But I was a glutton for punishment. My hands tingled like they wanted to reach out and touch her. Shit. I clenched them and stuffed them into my pockets quickly. Then I turned my focus to the wooden carvings so she wouldn't see how desperate I was to touch her.
“Do you have a favorite?” I asked.
I saw her nod out of the corner of my eye.
“They are all so wonderful, but this…” My chest pounded when I saw her reaching for the lily I carved, “...is absolutely beautiful and my favorite flower.”
I know.
“You can have it.” I gave her a nonchalant shrug of my shoulder.
“Really?” she asked.
“Yes, consider it a wedding gift.”
I watched her fingers gently trace over its edges, and I immediately wished I were that damn wooden flower in her hand.
“Should I get you a gift?” she asked.
