“When?” he asks.
“Tomorrow,” Mother Sanque says. “Rest tonight. Leave at dawn.”
We don't argue.
Mother Sanque puts us in the guest chamber again. The same narrow room, the same too-small bed, the same stone walls. But different now. The last time we slept here, the bond was raw and new, and he'd stopped when I said wait.
I don't say wait tonight.
He closes the door. Turns to me. The room is dim and he fills most of it and I can see the tension in him, the fear of tomorrow, the weight of what Mother Sanque is asking.
“Come here,” I say.
He crosses the room in one stride. His hands find my waist and I pull at his shirt and the urgency between us is different from Korsmot. In Korsmot it was discovery. Here it's need. Raw, desperate, the kind that comes from knowing what's ahead.
“I need you,” I tell him. “Right now. Not slow. Not careful.”
His hands tighten. “Maren.”
“I know what I'm asking.”
He picks me up. My legs wrap around his hips, my back against the wall, and his mouth is on my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder. The wall is cold stone against my spine and his body is furnace-hot against my front and the contrast is sharp enough to make me gasp.
The oil is in my pack. I dig for it one-handed, the other hand gripping his shoulder, and he holds me up with one arm while I work the cap off. We manage. Not gracefully. We're past grace.
When he pushes into me, I bury my face in his neck and hold on.
This is not our wedding night. The wedding night was careful, exploratory, two people learning how to fit. This is something else. His hands grip my hips and pull me onto him with each thrust and I can feel the power he's holding back, the fraction he's using, and I want more of it.
“Harder,” I say against his throat. “I won't break.”
He gives me harder. The wall shakes behind me, dust sifting from the ceiling, and I don't care. I'm gripping his shoulders with both hands, and he's buried inside me. The bond is thrumming between us, bright and loud, his heartbeat and mine hammering in unison.
“This might be...” he starts.
“Don't.” I pull back enough to see his face. “Don't say it. Don't think it. This is not the last time.”
“Maren.”
“This is not the last time. Swear it.”
His hips slow. His forehead presses against mine. I feel him shaking.
“I swear,” he says. “This is not the last time.”
“Then come back to me. Tomorrow. Whatever happens. You come back.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I pull him in and kiss him and we stop talking.
After, we lie on the stone floor, tangled together, breathing hard. His hand traces circles on my back and I can feel the calluses of his fingers catching on my skin.
His chin rests on the top of my head, and I can feel his breath moving my hair.
