His fingers paused on the spoon. Black eyes found hers. He smiled slowly. “Hmm?”
“Never mind,” she muttered, flushing when his eyes traced her like silk, amusement flaring in their depths when she hurriedly stood to search for a mysterious third spoon they didn’t need.
“This is unexpected.” He prowled after her, lifting her on top of the table when she tried to sidle away. He caged her with his arms, his smile widening. “My stoic Petitor seems to have vanished.”
“You’ll have her back if you let me off this table,” she grumbled, embarrassed. “I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to—”
“The day we sheltered under a tree during stormfall,” he said in the slow, deep timbre she loved. “You looked up at me, and I craved you. I didn’t want you afraid of me.” The humor faded from his stern face. “I wanted to shield you from everything, and I knew I couldn’t.”
Oh. Heat suffused her face as she realized that she was grinning ear-to-ear. He looked fascinated at the sight.
She leaned in. “I loved you first. Since the night you took me to free the Metals Guild debt-slaves.”
“Six days.” A world of surprise in his voice. He stroked her cheek tenderly. “Even after the Fall, Sarai?”
She leaned against his forehead. “You’re everything I’ve ever yearned for.” His sudden harsh breath against her mouth told her just how much the words had affected him. She found herself crushed against his chest, his mouth moving ardently over hers in a kiss so hungry that she went liquid.
“Dinner, first, yes?” she finally tore her mouth away to whisper.
He reluctantly set her free. They ate in companionable quiet.
“Do you think people will flock to the Elsarian Order and Noceo now that they’ve been proven right?”
His teeth flashed in a rare, genuine grin. “It’s a terrible time to be the Order. The populace will be looking for divine solutions to a divine problem. And the Inquisitors won’t be able to offer so much as a Summoning.”
Sarai nearly choked on her stew with a laugh. “Gods! I shouldn’t gloat, but it serves them right.”
“Let them do as they wish and run amok with religious authoritarianism for the next few days. We’ll find who called this god and why.”
Her spoon clattered against her bowl. “You don’t think I caused it?” she asked quietly.
“No.” He reached for her hand with a hesitance that she hadn’t ever seen in him and exhaled heavily when she took it.
“How old are you?” she asked after a moment. “There’s so much I don’t… know.”
His jaw tensed, but his answer was soft. “Almost twenty-five.” A corner of his mouth rose at her doubletake. “Too old?” he asked whimsically.
“It’s just odd to hear you say it aloud. You’ve the gravitas of the Kaycakh Mountains, and it turns out that you’re barely a quarter century? It boggles the mind.”
He traced the back of her hand like she was infinitely precious, absently following a scar’s weave.
“How does one fight a god, Kadra?”
“With another god,” he said, low and quiet. He’d already thought this through.
Anguish boiled in the back of her throat. “You never did say which god claimed you.”
The smile faded from his face. “Do you truly want to know?”
She understood what he really meant. “Yes.”
His hand stilled on hers. All levity vanished, his features could have been carved from slate. Tension built in his shoulders as they finished their meal, seeping to the lean muscle of his forearms. By the time she had reached the bedroom Méherre had indicated they could use, her perennially trembling fingers shook even worse with nerves.
Inhaling deeply, she turned to Kadra. “We should probably…” The words died in her throat.
He stood before the wardrobes, hands fisted, knuckles straining against the skin as he fought to collect himself.Well, shit. One way or another, this would be a reckoning. There was no one to interrupt them. The adrenaline she had tried to contain finally wrested control, turning her limbs into springs of unreleased tension when he turned to her.
“I said I would give you everything.” Limned in the wintry glow of twilight, he seemed hewn of ice and granite. Only the sparks hissing the air spoke to his fraying control. “Eleven years—”
