He tilts his head consideringly. “In a manner. We have that in common, I suppose. I exist at all because of a witch’s curse. A witch cannot cast a death spell, so she did the next best thing.” His lips twist with scorn. He takes the last bite of his bread and sweeps it around his now empty bowl, mopping up the last bit of gravy.
“I have family in the Borg.” All this time I told myself they would be safe in the north’s largest city, home to the Lord of the Borderlands. As long as he retains power over the north, it would be the safest place for them to be. Safer, clearly, than Isstad. Except now I’m wondering if there is any place safe in all of the kingdom.
“So not all your family was lost? That is good.”
“Yes. My brother and his wife and children. I would like to go to them.” I inject force into these last words, letting him know I’m not content to remain here as his guest indefinitely.
He pauses a beat before spooning some stew into his mouth. “I don’t—”
“Just don’t say no,” I interrupt, dreading the wordno. “Do you really think I will tell anyone?” At his continued silence, I press on. “Just think about it. I wouldn’t—”
“You’re not going anywhere. Not yet.”
I growl in frustration and drop my mug back on the tray with a noisy clatter. With a huff, I pull the fur back up to my chin and roll onto my side, presenting him with my back. “You can’t keep me here forever.”
His voice gentles. “I just need to be certain before I let you go.”
“Certain that I won’t betray your pride?” I push, and that stings a little. Does he think I would do that to him? After...everything. “I won’t. I will keep your secrets, take them to the grave.”
Iseehim thinking, reading the hesitation in his eyes before he speaks. “It’s not even just my pride. I have all of dragonkind to consider. I promise you will come to no harm while you’re here.”
I shoot an arm up in the air, brandishing my bandaged wrist. “You mean nomoreharm?” It’s a low jab, I know. He didn’t want or mean for it to happen, but it did.
He doesn’t say anything more. After a moment, I hear him stacking dishes. The snap of the pelt curtain alerts me that he’s left.
I burrow into the fur, seeking warmth. My lids turn into heavy weights, tugging me to slumber.
I sleep deeply, rousing only once, briefly, giving a small mewl of discontent when the fur lifts and a cool draft rolls over me. It doesn’t last long, however. A presence slides in behind me, and the fur comes down over me again. The solid weight of an arm settles around my waist, pulling me back into a thick wall of muscle that curves along my spine and legs.
I open my eyes fleetingly, but then close them again, caught in the web of a dream, too tired, too comfortable, too surrounded.Touched.Engulfed in vitality, in the warmth of another...the big hand on my tender ribs a pulsing, comforting imprint that I never want to go away, that I would keep forever if I could.
32
Just One Fur
It’s hard to know the precise time of day when youlive in a cave.
Blinking, I turn my head side to side, assessing. It could be morning or noon. Tage’s den has small vents located high in the ceiling, but they’re so far above and so narrow that only paltry light trickles into the cozy space. Again, not a true indicator of the passage of time.
I fidget cautiously, not wanting to jar my ribs. It’s been days since Cyphus kicked me, and in that time I mastered how to move about carefully until I’ve evaluated the tenderness and soreness awaiting me.
Soft, cadenced breathing rustles the hair near my ear, and I hold still, sitting with it for a moment, wrapping the sound of Tage around myself just as his body wraps around me.
I rolled over at some point during the night, onto my side in the soft fur bed so that my back is no longer to him. I’m chest to chest with Tage, my face buried in a warm wall of bare skin. His heady scent fills my nose, the musk of him reminding me of the wind-swept Crags.
One of his arms drapes over me, the palm flat over my spine, the fingers splayed wide, the tips of his fingers brushing my shoulder blade. I wiggle nearer, telling myself it is merely his warmth that draws me closer.
He lets me in, pulling me deeper against him.
Touching him,feelinghim, is still an invigorating experience. Affirmation that I exist and I am here and more alive than ever.
It’s vulnerability, I realize, that amounts to life. Vulnerability that makes one feel exposed and raw and flushed with fever.
That hand on my back moves, sweeping up and then arrowing down, down, pressing me even closer, pushing my stomach flush with him.Naked.Of course. Again. Somehow, he had lost his garments in the night. Or had he removed them before getting into bed with me? He never hesitated to strip off his clothes, his nakedness so natural to him.
He must be in a dead sleep. If awake, he would not be accosting me like this.I won’t touch you again.
That self-imposed code of his would prevent him from touching me this way deliberately, and there is some freedom in that knowledge. If he sleeps and doesn’t know what he’s doing, then he wouldn’t know whatI’mdoing either. I could react to him without fear of judgment or rejection. I inch closer, rubbing against him, seeking pressure and heat and ease to the ache mounting in me.
