What I wouldn’t do for a wolf skin right now.
He lets out a small laugh that rumbles into me. We both know my discomfort isn’t just from the cold. I simply don’t want to be this close to him.
“Frozen or not,” he whispers, “we need heat or fire if I’m to help you harvest the strands. So you might as well get comfortable. Body heat it is.”
I glance at the lamp and widen my eyes. That tiny flame seems like a better idea for harvesting fire threads than cuddling with the Witch Collector. I eventually figured this out with Finn, though I can’t say the closeness from his beginner fire magick days didn’t lead to us becoming more than friends.
“No lamp,” Alexus replies. “If it blows out, we’ll be in total darkness, and believe me, collecting fire threads from body heat isn’tsomething you want to do in the dark if you’re worried about touching me. Now sit back and cooperate. The faster we gather the threads, the faster you can warm yourself by a fire and not against me.” He leans close, lowering his voice even more. “Since I’m clearly so horrible to be near. Your friend is a wretch and smells like an unemptied chamber pot, and you chose to ride with her anyway. I’m not sure how to feel about that.” I glare at him from over my shoulder, but he just smiles and gently urges me to lean back against him. “Come on. Stifle your pride. It’s bitter out here.” When I still hesitate, he says, “Am I truly so awful that you would rather die than be near me?”
Does he not know who he is to me?
With a roll of my eyes, I give in and lean back, but only because our shared warmth makes me needy for more. We’re both shivering, but the shaking eases once we’re closer.
He touches my arm through the cloak and rubs his hand from my wrist to my shoulder to create more heat. I turn to rest my weight on my hip and do the same to him, if stiffly. I want this over, but as the heat between us builds, the urgency to be away from him isn’t so strong.
Finally, I do relax, all to the rhythm of his palm making soothing circles on my back. Around us, the wind howls, and every now and then, snowflakes swirl into our little shelter. He curves protectively around me when they do, and I hate that I find it such a kind action.
“Close your eyes and keep them closed.” His voice is still so low and deep. “Then touch my chest. Right over my heart.”
I lift my hand but pause. Finn and I never did this. He always said he only required closeness. Body heat. Granted, there was touching. Plenty. Not that I minded at the time.
But there was never any talk of hearts.
After a moment of hesitation, I rest my hand in the dip at the center of Alexus’s muscled chest. His pulse pounds steadily beneath my touch.
“Imagine strings,” he says. “That if you move your fingers delicately, like playing the harp, you can lure those strings right through my skin and into your grasp. You can do this with flames, too. Some witches, mages, and sorcerers can even harness fire threads from storms. There’s much power in the air during a storm. Heat and light. Fire threads caneven be gathered using glass and sunlight. You just have to focus and summon them. They will come.”
My magick has always been so hidden. It’s strange to share it with the Witch Collector of all people. I’m letting himteachme, and though I’ve never cared much about expanding my knowledge before, I now find that I want to learn, even under his guidance.
I flutter my fingers against his chest, delicately, like he said. The movement is simple, not that I’ve ever played the harp, but I’ve seen it done, and so I mimic the flow through my fingertips, focusing, noting how the connection between us grows warmer and warmer.
Looking up at Alexus, I’m reminded of when we rode together in the vale after the attack, how his heat comforted me even then.
“Close your eyes, you little rebel.” A smile tugs the corner of his mouth, and when the dim lamp light casts a shadow in his dimple, maybe a grin tugs my lips, too. “Now,fulmanesh,” he whispers. “Fulmanesh, iyuma tu lima, opressa volz nomio, retam tu shahl.”
My pulse picks up at the sound of his voice, the way he sings the Old Elikesh so smoothly. This lyric consists of more words than Finn usually uses, but I know each one.
“Think of my heartbeat,” Alexus continues. “The force of life within me. Reach for the deepest part of me. Keep strumming, just like you are now. Then close your eyes and repeat those words in your mind.Fulmanesh, iyuma tu lima, opressa volz nomio, retam tu shahl.”
I don’t trust trying to hear the words. That’s still such a foreign notion for me. So instead, I sign the words against his chest, repeating them over and over.
“Fulmanesh, iyuma tu lima, opressa volz nomio, retam tu shahl.”
Fire of my heart, come that I may see you, warm my weary bones, be my place of rest.
On the third time, Alexus lets out a broken breath, his hand resting on my wrist. “Do you see the threads yet?”
I do. These threads are bolder than any bonfire. They’re the color of flame, so stunning to behold. But like every other thread belonging to this man, there are more strands than there should be, and some are damaged, shredded at the edges like they’ve been run through thesharpest teeth. I nod in answer, and he whispers, “Good. Now give me your hand.”
When I pull my fingers from his chest, I feel his heat come with it, like the threads are attached to my fingertips, and I’m drawing them from his core.
Another broken breath leaves him. He cups my hand. “Very good. Now again. In your mind only.Fulmanesh. Think it.”
Fulmanesh. Fulmanesh, fulmanesh, fulmanesh. Iyuma.
There’s no warning. No crackling surge of power in the air. No budding warmth. Just a sudden heat over the middle of my palm.
I open my eyes and jerk upright, stunned to find flickering fire an inch above my hand. It isn’t much, no larger than the lamp flame, but it’s something. And somehow, it doesn’t burn. It’s justthere, ready to be controlled.
