Page 45 of Beds and Blades

Something happened in my body at those words. It had nothing to do with theology. It had everything to do with the fact that I was lying on his chest with nothing between us, while he described a sacred bond that would be sealed by him finishing deep inside me.

Irrevocably. A bond that would last for the rest of our lives.

Yravel, I was beginning to suspect, had seen my search history. This explained several things.

“That act is also the moment a child may be conceived. You should understand something about this world. We do not consider desire shameful. What you want, what your body wants, what you reach for in the dark. These are not things Mytharo asks you to hide or manage or apologize for. Desire is Yravel’s first principle.”

His thumb moved once against my skin, slow and thoughtful, as if he were choosing the next words with care.

“But fertility is Yravel’s second principle, and it is equally sacred. Life itself. The capacity to create it. The act that can bring a child into the world is the most sacred act there is, which is why it must be the act that seals the bond. Not despite the desire involved. Because of it.”

His eyes held mine then, steady and serious.

“That is why it cannot be casual. That is why I am telling you now.”

His hand rested at my waist, warm and still.

“Others choose differently. Some take lovers without the bond. Some wait. Some do not. Their choices are their own, and I do not judge them for it.”

His eyes stayed on mine.

“But I am a man of tradition. For me, to enter a woman in that way is not only pleasure. It is a vow made with the body. I do not take that step unless I mean to bind my life to hers.”

I blinked, still lazily tracing the ridges of his chest.

No penetration before the claiming. But everything else is permitted.

I could work with that. I could absolutely work with that.

“I respect your traditions,” I said solemnly.

His eyes narrowed slightly, which suggested he was learning to identify when I was about to become a problem.

I let my hand drift lower.

“In the interest of cultural accuracy,” I continued, “I do need a comprehensive list of permitted acts.”

Skip laughed then, low and warm, his hand closing around my wrist.

“A list would take too long,” he said.

His thumb moved once against my pulse.

“And I would rather show you.”

Then he kissed me.

Slowly. Deeply. With patience that suggested the list was, in fact, extensive, and he intended to be very thorough.

When he finally let me breathe again, my thoughts returned, unfortunately, to the theological implications.

I registered, in the practical corner of my mind that never fully clocks out, the reason for the restriction. It was reproductive. The claiming provided the sanctioned context for conception. The act that could create life was reserved for the bond that made it sacred. This was, theologically speaking, internally consistent.

It also meant that the one variable I would normally manage with a small white pill, taken every morning since 2010, was now being managed by ancient Mytharo custom.

I was fairly confident two days off the pill was not enough time for anything to become an immediate concern. Fairly confident. But I was not about to explain ovulation, synthetic hormones, and pharmaceutical contraception to a man who had never heard of Philadelphia. The claiming covered the variable at the theological level. The biological level, I decided, was a conversation for another woman. Probably Caen.

Definitely Caen.