“You said you love me,” he told her. “Say it again.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, I said . . . No, I meant—”
“Do not. Do not begin to pretend that you don’t love me, aknasha,” he whispered. “I have seen inside your heart, remember? When all of Atlantis might be destroyed in the next forty-eight hours, do not deprive me of the truth of your feelings during this brief moment before duty calls me away from you.”
She suddenly shoved him, hard, and he fell over next to her. She rolled over to face him, and her expression was far too serious. Or maybe not serious enough. Alaric found himself wishing he could take back his impulsive words.
“I do love you,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to admit it, because if ever there were a textbook version of a doomed relationship, we’re pretty much it. But I can’t help myself, no matter how hard I’ve tried. I’ve seen inside your heart, too, remember? And there you were, shining in the darkness. Honor, courage, duty, and a heaping helping of iron will. How could I not love you?”
He rolled onto his back and shouted a wordless cry of triumph to the world, and then he paused and looked at her. “And?”
“And what?”
“And world-bending kisses,” he said, and he pulled her on top of his chest. “Let me demonstrate.”
So he did. He kissed her until he no longer knew where they were or what their names were. There was no Alaric; no Quinn. Only the passion that burned so brightly between them he could hardly countenance that it did not set the room on fire. The silken feel of her lips against his breathed hope and laughter into his soul, and hunger turned to an emotion far deeper—far more powerful—far more life-sustaining.
Fire and warmth and home. She was and forever would be home to him, no matter what foes or battles he faced. The realization blazed through him like the summer sun breaking through the clouds after a tropical thunderstorm, and the kind of peace he’d never known suffused his mind, his heart, and his soul.
His body hardened past the point of endurance, until need and hunger drove him toward madness. He had to touch her—touch her now—touch her everywhere. He stroked the silky skin of her arms and shoulders, and even dared to press kisses along the elegant line of her collarbone. She was so thin—too thin—but far more beautiful than any woman he’d ever known.
More beautiful than any woman in the history of the world.
He abruptly stopped kissing her when a concern surfaced. “You need food.”
“No, I had room service, remember?” She pulled his head back to kiss him some more and then she raised her head. “Do you need food?”
“I’m interested in dessert. You,” he said, his voice straining to sound even a little calm. “Quinn, I think we have to make a decision right now, because I’m going to tear your clothes off in approximately seven seconds if we keep this up.”
She grinned. “Oh, are we keeping you up?”
She put her hand on his erection, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
“I cannot believe you did that,” he said, trying not to go off in his pants like an untried youngling. Or, more to the point, like a man who had been celibate for most of his five centuries of existence.
“I don’t actually believe it, either,” she said, looking a little stunned.
“Five seconds,” he ground out. “Four, three—”
“Wait!” She jumped up and off the bed and backed away, panic written on her delicate features. “Nothing has changed. You can’t—we can’t—”
“Apparently I can,” he said dryly, adjusting his pants to try to find a comfortable fit.
“But Poseidon—”
“He can get his own woman.”
Alaric climbed off the bed and started stalking her across the room, step by step.
“We can’t,” she blurted out. “Not with Atlantis hanging in the balance.”
Maddeningly, that was the ultimate truth. No matter how hard he’d tried not to think about it, just for these few stolen moments, everyone in his world depended upon him. He had to find Poseidon’s Pride and return to Atlantis, no matter how tempting this interlude with Quinn had been.
It was as if the cold light of reality had suddenly pierced through the web of self-delusion he’d been hiding in for the past hour or so. His exhilaration at finding Quinn had left him stupid—almost punch-drunk—and now he must face his responsibilities and save his people.
“You’re right,” he said flatly. “But there is one thing we can do. If you agree, however, it must be solely for your own reasons, or for what is between us, and not from any misplaced feeling of altruism. You have given enough, done enough, and suffered enough for one hundred lifetimes.”
“What are you asking me?”
He stared at the perfect face that had haunted his dreams since he’d first met her and asked the question driven by need; the question that should have been posed only through love:
“Quinn Dawson, will you agree to attempt the soul-meld with me?”
Chapter 23
Quinn forced herself to pause before shouting yes. Everything about Alaric made her crazy: crazy impulsive, crazy passionate, just . . . crazy. She wanted that feeling of belonging to him forever and ever, didn’t she?
Doubts and fears tried to edge their way into her mind, but she shoved them aside. Not now. Not this time. There was no room for doubt, and yet . . . what if?
What if the celibacy thing was real, and Alaric lost all of his power? How long would it take for him to hate her? What if the emotion that had caught them up with the force of a whirlwind was driven by excitement and danger, and now that she was no longer a rebel leader, their lives would become ordinary and boring? What if they wound up stuck together for a very long time, maybe even hating each other?
But she looked at him—really looked at him—and she realized she didn’t believe any of the doubts or fears. She couldn’t believe them. She’d seen inside of this man, this proud, dangerous, terrifyingly courageous man, and she knew him. Knew his heart; knew his spirit. He’d never stop loving her—even though he hadn’t yet said the words, she knew he did—and sometimes, life was worth a leap of faith.
“Yes,” she said, finally, simply, staring into his incredibly green eyes. “Yes, I accept you. Um, I thought the soul-meld had to be—”
“No. It can take place platonically,” he said, but then he flashed a breathtakingly wicked smile at her. “But it won’t be nearly as pleasurable, I imagine.”
He crossed the room in three quick strides and took her hands, but she shook her head, placing a hand on his chest to stop him. “Not here. There’s no magic here. Downstairs, with the art. If we can’t create beauty with our bodies while we do this, let’s at least be surrounded by it.”
He led the way down the stairs, and the weight of what they intended to do—and the knowledge of what it might mean for Atlantis’s survival—echoed in each footstep. She glanced around the room and almost immediately settled on the perfect spot in front of the windows, as the sun set in a blaze of glorious golden light. She turned and held out a hand to Alaric, swallowing any nervousness when she saw him walking toward her, walking into the spotlight of sunshine, his strength and passion outlined in every line and angle of his strong, beautiful face.
He would be hers—for as long as she survived—and the knowledge was a gift she held close to her heart.
“The painting you admired,” he said, gesturing to the canvas. “What better symbol for our union than hope?”
She nodded, unable to trust her voice, as Alaric took her hands in his and solemnly looked at her.