He hums approvingly.
“Taliesin,” I whisper.
Then he stills. And with a torturous sigh, he pulls back.
“I can’t,” he says roughly. “Fuck, I want to, but I can’t.”
“Because I don’t have my memories of us,” I say, my heart still pounding.
“It doesn’t feel right.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I know the shape of your body.” His voice dips lower. “I know how you taste. It isn’t right for me to fuck you now, when I know all that and you don’t.”
The words hang there between us for a long moment.
Then a rueful smile curves his lips. “Besides, I’d rather not have an audience when I make you scream my name. I want to be the only one who hears it.”
I sit back, the aching want nothing compared to the warmth I feel from his words.
“You’re a good man,” I whisper. “There are many who would just take what they want without thinking of the cost. Their partner’s state of mind wouldn’t matter.”
“How you feel will always matter to me.”
I link my arms around his neck, letting myself hold him for a few more moments. In his arms, I feel anchored and safe, like fire could rain down from above and still couldn’t reach me here. My gaze traces his face, committing it to memory, hoping I never lose it this time. The strong curve of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the slant of his brow over his ice blue eyes.
A sudden urge rises within me. I want to draw him.
Slowly, I extract myself from his arms and settle back onto the ground beside him. As I search my pack for the last sheet of parchment, I feel his gaze track my every movement. When I find my silverpoint, I begin to sketch.
At first, I steal glances at his face to ensure I draw the right lines. But soon, I don’t need to look. My hands seem to know him better than they know anything else—better than even my own reflection. The long line of his neck takes shape first, then the curve of his sharply tipped ear. Then the arc of a crown stretching across his brow.
The stylus slips from my fingers and clatters against stone.
I stare down at the drawing, my heart wrenching painfully.
“Are those the iron bands?” he asks with a soft chuckle. “Rhian will get a kick out of that.”
“It’s not the iron bands,” I whisper. “It’s a crown.”
“A crown?” He arches a brow. “Well, I suppose when all this is over, we can rule over the exiled lands side by side. Bryn can be the Hand of the King. She’d like that.”
I swallow hard. My hands are so slick I have to press them against my trousers. “No, you don’t understand. This isn’t something I imagined. It’s a memory. You, wearing that crown.”
But there’s more. So much more.
“I’ve never worn a crown in my life,” Taliesin says, the humor gone from his voice.
“You have,” I whisper, lifting my eyes to his. “All gods did. You’re the King of Winter.”
Something dark passes over his face. “That’s impossible.”
“You don’t remember your childhood. You said so yourself.”
“Yes, but…” he trails off.
“And your power is beyond anyone else’s,” I press, a feverish heat rising to my cheeks. “You’re one of the gods. You survived the Culling. You just…don’t remember it.”
His eyes glint with that ancient darkness that for once I understand. Taliesin Wynn is not just an elven man. He’s an ancient being, one who once walked this earth with unbound magic running through his veins.
“If I’m a god, then what does that make you?” he asks in a low, dangerous voice.
