Ianthe isn’t really looking at me, though. She has no idea I’m watching her. She must hear something, because she glances toward the tent’s door just before Lycheron pushes his large, muscular frame through the heavy flap, his imposing presence instantly filling more than his fair share of space.
Stillness grips them both the moment their gazes lock. Neither of them seems to remember to breathe. A current passes between them that I don’t have to see or feel to know is there. The raw strength of it reaches me even here. I swear a natural disaster could crack the world wide open under their feet right now, and they wouldn’t even notice falling in. Nothing but the two of them exists.
I snap my jaw shut. It’s epically apparent they’ve formed a deep attachment—far beyond mere interest or lust. I get the strangest impression of the two of them both settling and vibrating, like being in the same room together is as much a comfort as a thrill.
I see it in them, because it’s so much like Griffin and me. They haven’t touched. They haven’t spoken.But oh Gods, I think they’re in love.
Ianthe finally breathes. As if to steady herself, she curls her fingers around the edge of the table, gripping it hard. “Did you find out anything?” The slight hitch in her voice hints at both eagerness and fear.
My heart speeds up, making me realize how starved I am for living noises, for words besides my own. Tartarus is a lonely place, each of us trapped and isolated in our own solitary punishment or labor. Besides grunting his thanks for food he hardly touches, Griffin doesn’t speak. When he leaves the bedroom, he must talk—presumably, he still has two realms to run—but he always comes back, silent and brooding, and I can’t seem to follow him anywhere else. The last conversation I had was with Perses. The Titan hasn’t reappeared, although he’s no longer a crumpled heap down on the valley floor. And Prometheus is the very antithesis of talkative. Ianthe’s is the first much-needed and familiar voice I’ve heard.
After a slight hesitation, Lycheron answers her with a small shake of his head. “No, little dove. Nothing.”
Shock stamps a startled look across Ianthe’s face. Her eyes widen, and her lips part, forming a small, crestfallen oval. She makes no effort to hide her emotions. They’re right there, written all over her features.
“But Talia can’t just have disappeared. Someone must knowsomething,” she says.
Her disappointment has an obvious impact on Lycheron, as plain to see as Ianthe’s own unguarded distress. His jaw hardens, and a visible twitch vibrates along his long equine back. He moves farther into the tent, his glossy black coat gleaming in the flickering candlelight. Fluid muscle ripples beneath his skin. The Ipotane Alpha exudes virility and strength like the sun radiates heat and light, all that masculine potency an inherent part of his very nature.
“If they do, they’re not telling me,” he answers, a sour note creeping in to embitter the deep timbre of his voice. He ties the tent flap closed behind him, and then to my utter astonishment, he turns into a man. Not a horse-man, just a man. Well, notjusta man. A naked, glorious, huge-in-every-possible-way man. It only takes a second, a blink of an eye, to make the seamless transition from brawny magical creature to jaw-dropping, powerful male.
My chin hits my chest. Ianthe doesn’t seem surprised, but a flood of color still blazes across her cheeks. She lowers her gaze. I don’t. My eyes are huge. I can’t stop staring.
So that’s how they do it.I’d wondered how those Nymphs could possibly manage, how anything could…fit.
I cock my head. Fitting might still take some work.
Lycheron reaches for a garment much like Ianthe’s, only bigger, and inserts his thick arms into the sleeves. He ties the sash, covering his nakedness and leaving only a vee at his neck, his striking face and his long mane of black hair visible on top. Strong calves and attractive bare feet flash as he rounds the table to reach Ianthe. He steps toward her and then cups her jaw in his large hands, gently tilting her face back up.
Lycheron’s thumbs brush a tender stroke over her cheekbones, as if writing an apology right onto her skin. “I consulted Artemis in her icy labyrinth, but she wasn’t talking. I went to the lake at the Phthian Gap, but that bastard Titos didn’t even show up for me. I combed Sykouri a hundred times and then a hundred more trying to pick up her scent, but the God Bolt cooked everything within the walls. I don’t know how anyone survived in there, even though they somehow did. I smell her going in, but there’s no trace of her ever leaving again.” Frowning, he delves his hands into Ianthe’s thick, dark hair, holding the sides of her head. “I’m sorry, my love. I don’t know where your sister is.”
I startle at the importance of the endearment, even though Iknewjust from watching them. Talk about taming the beast. It took Ianthe a matter of weeks to have Lycheron laid out at her feet.
Ianthe forces down a hard swallow. She tilts her head, leaning into his touch, and the vulnerability she’s willing to show makes it pretty clear that she’s laid out at his feet as well.
I look back and forth between them, trying to shift everything I knew about them into this new paradigm. The Lycheron I encountered those few times was sly and volatile and patently out for himself. I can scarcely reconcile the care and calm I’m seeing in him now.
Then again, while compassionate and ready to defend, the Ianthe I last saw was also a tight, brittle ball of rage and reserve—hardly the unguarded woman in the tent.
She lifts a hand between them and lightly touches the triangle of bronzed skin at the hollow of his neck. “I missed you. While you were gone. I…” She presses her lips together, flattening her mouth before speaking again. “I didn’t sleep as well.”
Lycheron’s ocher eyes slide closed as he leans down and places a lingering kiss on her forehead. It’s ardent. Not chaste, but not invasive or demanding, either.
Ianthe’s hand slides down, opening the garment to the center of Lycheron’s sculpted chest. Her fingers visibly tremble as she traces the hoof-shaped scar on his left pectoral. Lycheron straightens, holding very still.
Her eyes flick up, meeting his. “Will you make me forget?”
My chest implodes, collapsing into a hard knot. She’s not talking about me. Well, maybe a little bit, but my disappearance isn’t really what she wants to forget.
Lycheron knows it, too, and his eyes flare with amber light. His glowing eyes are still frightening, but not to Ianthe. They burn with anI will crush all your nightmares under my hooves and defend you with my body and my lifekind of light, two blazing infernos of absolute promise—and what woman doesn’t want that?
Ianthe shivers, and Lycheron sweeps his hands down her arms, chasing away her chills.
She leans forward and presses a sweet kiss to the arching blemish imprinted onto his torso. It’s a little awkward. A lot hesitant. Lycheron looks like he’s in pain.
His voice drops to a quiet rasp. “If you want to stop, we stop. You’re in control.”
My heart shatters, my eyes burn, and just like that, Lycheron earns my eternal gratitude. Somewhere between Ianthe deciding to gallop off with him to ensure the Ipotane’s menacing presence on the Fisan border and this moment now, she and Lycheron have become friends, and so much more. I didn’t think it was possible, didn’t imagine it, but Lycheron must have depths he chose to reveal—or found—only for her.
