"It's traditional," he said when he reached her, his voice low, "for bonded couples to leave the feast early."
"Is it?"
"Mm." He took her hand, fingers interlacing. "The celebration continues. We just... don't need to be here for all of it."
"Don't we?"
"No." His thumb traced circles on her palm. "We have other things to celebrate."
Heat flooded through her—not embarrassment, not shame, just want. Pure and simple and nothing to be ashamed of.
"Then take me home," she said.
His smile was everything she'd ever wanted.
Chapter 28
The door to Ralvar's quarters—their quarters now—had barely closed behind them before his hands were on her.
Not demanding. Never demanding. But urgent in a way that made her breath catch, his fingers finding the laces at her back as his mouth found her throat.
"I've wanted to do this," he murmured against her skin, "since I saw you walk into that courtyard."
Delia laughed, the sound coming out breathless. "You were very restrained."
"I was barely holding myself together." His tusks grazed her pulse point, and she shivered. "Do you know what you looked like? Standing there in blue, with my mother's token around your neck, declaring yourself mine in front of everyone?"
"Tell me."
"Like everything I never let myself want." He found the first tie, loosened it. "Like the answer to a question I'd stopped asking."
The dress loosened around her shoulders, the fabric sliding down to catch at her elbows. She felt the cool air of the room against her newly bare skin, heard his sharp intake of breath as he stepped back to look at her.
"Beautiful," he said, the word rough with reverence.
She would have deflected once. Laughed it off or changed the subject. But that woman felt far away now, a stranger she'd left behind in the back of a wagon on a rain-soaked night.
Instead, she pushed the dress the rest of the way off, letting it pool at her feet in a whisper of blue. She stood before him in nothing but the bone totem against her skin, soft curves lit by the low firelight, and she wasn’t afraid.
His gaze devoured her—the heavy swell of her breasts, the plush curve of her belly, the generous flare of her hips. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, watched his cock twitch visibly in his trousers.
"Your turn," she said.
Understanding flickered in his amber eyes, followed quickly by something hotter. He reached for the collar of his black tunic and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the broad expanse of his chest—the scars she'd traced with her fingers, the war marks she'd learned to read, the place where her stitches still held his flesh together.
The trousers followed. And then he stood before her as bare as she was, massive and green and scarred and hers, ridges already flexing along the thick length of him, the head glistening.
She closed the distance between them.
The first press of bare skin against bare skin made them both groan. His hands found her waist, lifting her effortlessly—she would never get used to that, how easily he moved her, how completely he ignored what human men would have called her size—and she wrapped her legs around him as he carried her toward the bed.
But he didn't lay her down.
Instead, he stopped at the edge, holding her against him, his face buried in her hair. She felt him breathe deep, and he tensed.
"Ralvar?"
"You smell different." His voice dropped into a lower, rougher register. “Since this morning. Since the ceremony."
