“These threads do what they want.”
My eyebrows rise. “They do what you tell them to do.”
Her forehead creases, her arms settling at her sides before her head tilts. “They really don’t.” She quickly rephrases. “Even in the Alak-Teah, that was all the threads’ doing. It wasn’t because of me.”
Despite my vow to keep my distance, I peel myself from the wall and prowl toward her, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “It was all you.”
Her forehead creases, the first sign since we entered this space that she’s unsettled. “How?”
The gap between us narrows, but I stop before making contact. I’m standing so close to her now that the sound of her heart dominates my mind.
“Every sound you make matters.” Slowly, I lower my face to hers, drowning in her quick inhale, the dilation of her pupils, the life in her eyes now that she isn’t battling icy temperatures. “Every breath. Every exhalation. Every soft sigh. Every deep moan.”
I speak without touching her.
Battle to keep my power from my voice.
I promised myself I’d leave my Voice behind in the Alak-Teah, and I can’t break that illusion.
Her gaze sweeps across my face, her lips parted as she searches my eyes.
No matter her questions, I’m determined she won’t find the cold truth at the heart of me.
I can’t stop myself from reaching for her hand. The hand she presses to my heart. Warm fingertips from which I take no heat.
Her cries of pleasure echo in my memory, a bare fraction of what I could give her.
Lowering my lips to hers, barely making contact, I repeat, “Every sound you make matters. Especially your screams.”
She tenses, and I realize…
She must think I mean screams of pain.
We were talking about her armor and now I’ve reminded her that I triggered the Lethian threads in the bloodlands by hurting her.
I drop her hand and take a step away from her, mentally berating myself because the reality of her situation is clear.
She’s wise to expect pain from me.
Chapter Forty-Two
Thyra
Icatch Stellen’s hand before he can retreat.
He stiffens, but I don’t let him go.
My breathing is tight, my throat more so. When Stellan talked of screams, my survival instincts warned me of physical pain, but his rapid retreat convinces me that wasn’t his intention.
Whatever fear I felt, it’s fleeting, drowned by the heat building within my core and a need to understand the power of sound and how it can help me control the threads covering my body.
“Teach me,” I say, ensuring I speak as a command, not a request.
He withdraws a little, but still, I won’t let go.
“Teach me how to control my armor,” I say, determined to persist. “I can’t keep activating these beautiful threads by accident. You may not be able to sing the blade out of my body, but you can teach me how to communicate with this dress.”
While my hold on him tightens, his return grip softens, hisfingers closing around my palm, his thumb stroking the base of my wrist where my long sleeve reaches.
