A long pause followed, and Helspira blinked. “Sleeping?”
“Right. In our tent. In my bedroll.”
“Oh?”
“And I’ll take that poor excuse for a bed they left you with.”
“... Oh.” Realization struck, and she tried to mask her disappointment by turning away. He had meant take her to bed, nottake her to bed, which, of course, that was what he meant. Who in their right mind would be thinking about intense, magnetic physical and emotional attraction to a companion at a dire time like this?
Logic battled fiendish impulses all the way through the uneven terrain to the tent. Wild fantasies filled her imagination, and she leaned against Sikras for support, until they passed below the tent’s flap to enter the cramped interior.
Heavy canvas flanked them on all sides. Given the claustrophobic interior, it almost seemed as if the tent itself encouraged them to press their bodies against one another. She couldn’t just stand there and argue with a tent’s logic. Ridiculously impulsive or not, she would regret it more if she didn’t take a chance.
Turning into him, she let her blanket fall. It was almost cruel how much he warmed her, which was strange given how cold his natural body temperature ran. Her senses dizzied when she inhaled. Whatever soap Sikras had used to wash the blood from his garments and wounds must’ve been infused with bergamot.
Bed him. Now.
She couldn’t deny it. She wanted him. All of him. And she was tired of waiting. One hand slid up his chest, the other traveling to the back of his neck and into his silvery hair.
There. Even a blind man could read those cues.
Helspira thought for a moment he might say something. A flicker of fear spiked inside her when he didn’t. His body remained rigid under her touch, but she felt the faintest release of tension when he rested the side of his head against hers.
Near darkness veiled the finer details of the tent’s interior, but her demonic lineage granted the gift of night vision. She saw only perfection. Felt only yearning. The gentle pressure of his jaw against her temple. The reliable chill of his hand sent shivers through her body. The tips of her claws grazed his scalp, and his nearly inaudible, pleasure-filled groan was her reward.
“If you asked me to stay,” he whispered with noticeable reluctance, “I wouldn’t have the conviction to say no.”
She pulled back enough to search his eyes—the pallid green eyes that refused to meet hers. His tone spoke of his desire, his yearning, his eagerness to taste her, feel her, breathe her in. But his distant gaze held only guilt.
Immovable, endless, all-consuming guilt.
Helspira grazed her cheek against his jaw once more, closed her eyes, and lingered in the moment. Not as long as she wanted; there wasn’t enough time in the world for that. But as long as she felt she could without making him suffer more than he already did. “Goodnight, Sikras.”
The remaining tension in his shoulders melted. He stood with her in silence, until his face tilted toward hers, just enough to brush the softest kiss on her temple. “Goodnight, Helspira.”
Her chest ached from his absence when he pulled away and headed for the exit.
Hope bloomed when he stopped in the opening and looked over his shoulder. “Rest well.”
Crushed, she did her best to maintain a smile. “I’ll try.”
Helspira held her breath until he walked out. Left with nothing but quiet, she eased into a resting position atop his bed roll. It was unfair how much it held his scent. She dragged a hand over her aching stomach, closed her eyes, and sighed.
Countless circumstances had plagued her throughout her lifetime. The list of trials she had endured both in and out of Chthonia was not short. But letting Sikras Nikabod walk out that tent flap without confessing how much he meant to her competed for most difficult.
It was strange finding rest without the company of stars. They had aided her countless evenings prior, little glowing sedatives that soothed her frazzled mind. Fortunately, Sikras’s lingering scent had a similar effect. Just as the peacefulness of sleep quieted her mind, a sound outside the tent forced her eyes to reopen.
“Sikras?” Helspira ignored the pain from suddenly sitting upright.
All hope drained when Banneret Rowan entered, holding her armor.
“Can you walk?” he asked, tone unreadable.
She gathered the nearby blanket to hide her exposed torso but assumed the rigid pose of a standing sentinel. A trickle of sweat snaked down her neck as she wrestled to disguise her pain. “Yes, Banneret. Have you need of me?”
“Not anymore.” Her belongings hit the floor, all except her sword and her iconic Red Sentinel scarf.
Helspira’s fingers dug into the blanket. “Banneret, please, I can still help in the fight—”
