“I’ll deliver, have no fear,” he promised in a voice that was both rich and low while stroking the side of her hand, sendinga shiver down her spine. A step back, and he dipped into a bow. “Allow me.”
Smiling, she slid her hand onto his offered forearm and let him lead her toward a doorway.
The quarters behind it were slightly smaller than the dining room, with dark wooden upholstered seats, a few side tables, and another soft, thick rug. Tapestries with motifs of Eichlandt’s past covered one of the walls, artwork another—portraits of men and women in Dewingar colors, a six-spoked crest on their chests. In the middle of the wall hung a larger one of a warrior hurling a battle axe against a horde of creatures like snow and ice.
Wax candles offered weak light, the hearth remaining unlit. Open doors led to the darkened balcony from where the night air entered the space. Even with the sun down, the air brushed too warm against her skin. A harp stood in the corner, and she tilted her head. Her magic stirred, almost curious.
“Is that…”
“Lynjef’s,” Blainor finished for her. An old pain shadowed his face. “A memory of other times.”
She shot a glance at him. It wasn’t because of the old bard that he’d kept the harp. The presence of a departed young boy whispered through the air. She looked up at Blainor with deep sympathy, giving a gentle squeeze to his arm.
Blainor sighed, a slight tremor in his exhale. “You can test it, if you’d like. No one’s touched it since…”
“No, I shouldn’t. Well, I mean, not unless you want me to play? And besides, if it’s stood unused for years, it’ll be out of tune,” she said, hoping the subtext of respect came through her words.
He glanced at her. “So, other instruments, too? Not just the lyre?”
“I can play almost anything. My teachers were quite… demanding.” Her fingers twitched at the memory, the heat of her magic rising to the surface of her skin like it was listening in on their conversation. “But I prefer my lyre.”
He observed her before saying, “Perhaps one day you’ll tell me more about that place… where you were taught.”
“Perhaps,” Trisha dodged.
A quick smile followed. He let go of her, crossing the space to the table. Meanwhile, Trisha meandered around the room. She inspected the portraits of bearded men and stern women holding weapons and staring into the distance from an unknown past. No children among them. No innocence or softness caught in the brushstrokes, only waiting warriors.
Blainor’s steps approached, and she turned to accept a small glass filled with a clear liquid. Lifting it to her nose, she sniffed and chuckled. “Livatz?”
“Good for health, they say.”
She looked at the paintings again. “Are these all family?”
“Most.” Almost hesitantly, he gestured at a pair. “Those… my parents.”
Curious, Trisha leaned closer. Holden seemed brawnier, his hair lighter, and his face beneath the thick beard more rugged. But the shape of his eyes, their light color, did echo the man beside her. When observing the portrait of a woman in a dark purple gown, she no longer doubted his words. The woman’s hair was just as dark as Blainor’s, her face finely shaped. But the expression in her eyes, the lines around her mouth, hinted at sorrow. Of the two, Blainor resembled his mother more. That same look had haunted him when he thought no one was watching.
“What was her name?”
“Margund.” The way he said it, almost reluctant. She glanced at him, but Blainor didn’t elaborate, instead placing a hand on her back, steering her toward the balcony doors. “Butthat’s enough of a history lesson for one night. I’m sure your brain is swelling.”
“I’m fine. I think you just don’t want to talk about them.”
“Guilty.” He flashed his teeth, leaning closer as his hand slid over her back. “I much prefer learning about you.”
Outside, the starless night surrounded them—the rising wind, the distant murmur of waves. Trisha faced him, the shaded outlines of his face, the glimmer of his eyes. His hand rose to her cheek. Sighing, she leaned into his heat, into the scent of earth and pine. As he moved closer, the soft candlelight picked out the planes of his face, catching in his eyes.
“Will you stay, Trisha?” he breathed, as though asking out loud would shatter everything.
She smiled, lips caressing his palm. “Yes, Blainor. I’ll stay.”
His other arm looped around her waist, pressing her close enough to feel the hard length of him. A shiver went through Trisha. Inside her bones, magic twitched, awakening, warm, alert. A breathless moment passed, and he quickly claimed her mouth.
She opened up to him, letting the kiss deepen. His lips were soft and warm, and the herbal drink lingered on his tongue. She slid her hands up his chest, sensing the strength of his bulging muscles.
Blainor’s fingertips followed the arch of her hips and traced how each soft curve fitted into his palms. In return, she pressed closer to him, testing his skin, the hardness of his body. His cedar musk swallowed her, and his touch drowned all other thoughts: the drumming of her heart, the wind, the rising tide within.
When Blainor pulled back, she blinked, dazed. Lightning split the sky, and a cold drop grazed her cheek.
