“I offered to heal her scars. The ones on her back. She wouldn’t let me,” Shenna said, her voice troubled.
That sounded like Sasha. Still, he didn’t turn around. He needed a moment, and it didn’t seem like he was going to get one.
“How did you know about her scars?” he asked.
“They are still tender. I sensed them.”
He flinched.
“She said they are a reminder,” Shenna continued.
“Of what?” His tone was plaintive.
“That she may not be able to heal, but she can save.”
“Bloody hell,” he cursed.
“It does no good to fight what she sees. Or to fight her,” she added softly. “Mother Gwyn is the same way. It’s like throwing yourself against the rocks.”
He nodded, suddenly resigned, and stepped out of the garden gate, waiting for Sasha.
If there was to be a journey to Kilmorda, he would need to talk to his brother.
He was reminded of the days when Tiras locked himself away in dungeon rooms or sequestered himself to his chambers. Kjell had become his eyes and ears and feet and hands, keeping the kingdom afloat while continually covering for his brother, who was losing himself a little more each day. He’d dragged Lark through the halls at all hours of the night to help him, desperate for assistance, yet distrustful and derisive, convinced she was his brother’s worst mistake.
And she had saved them all.
Now he found himself walking through the halls of the castle again, seeking Sasha, wanting redemption yet unable to trust himself. He’d loved a woman once. Or thought he did. A woman who understood him well enough to play him like a harp. A woman who had brought Jeru to its knees. He’d been wrong before. He’d been foolish and afraid. Fear makes hate, and he’d hated all the wrong people. He would not be used again.
She met him at the door of her chamber, flinging it wide as if she’d watched him approach. Her color was high, her eyes bright, her lips parted like she was struggling for breath.
“You saw me coming?” he murmured, stopping in the entry, wanting her desperately while wishing he’d never come.
“I don’t see everything,” she began, and he said the words with her, matching her tone and pitch even as he added, “Yes. I know.”
“You’re creating ripples with your stony heart,” she said softly, and he wanted to smile at her word play, at the memory of her explanation of the ripples in the pond and how they often managed to reach her on the shore eventually.
She turned and walked into her room, and he followed, shutting the chamber door behind them. She perched on the edge of her bed, her hair pooling around her, reminding him of the day she stood in the rain, battered and bedraggled, clinging to her clothes while he clung to his resistance.
He loved her then. He loved her now.
He’d loved her from the moment she’d opened her eyes beneath a moonlit sky in Quondoon and greeted him like she’d been waiting forever. And he needed to tell her.
He sank to his knees before her, abandoning his resistance completely, and she drew him to her, cradling his head in her lap, and stroking his hair.
“Did you see . . . us?” he whispered, needing reassurance.
“When I see you, I rarely see myself,” she whispered. “But I hoped.”
Still kneeling in front of her, he wrapped his arms around her hips and drew her from the bed and into him, connecting them from their knees to their noses, his arms supporting her weight. For a moment she hovered slightly above him, her hands braced on his shoulders, eyes searching, wanting but waiting, until the exquisite became the excruciating, and he wound one hand in her hair, lifted his chin, and pulled her to him, mouth to mouth.
He kissed her, taking her to the floor because he was too overcome to stand, clinging to her body because he was too undone to go slow. The storm pounding in his limbs and in his belly began to build in his heart, seeping through his skin and gathering in the corners of his eyes. He wanted to weep. It was the strangest sensation, the most puzzling reaction he’d ever experienced. He wanted to lay his head on Sasha’s chest and weep.
Instead he breathed against her lips, withdrawing enough to move his mouth along the delicate bones of her collar, over the swell of her breasts, before he paused, his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to her abdomen.
He was happy. The feeling surged through him, an echo of the swelling he’d felt when Sasha had told him his kisses made her joyful. He was . . . happy. And he wasn’t killing anything. There wasn’t a sword in sight or a birdman in the sky. He was lying on a stone floor with Sasha in his arms, her hair twined around them, her hands on his face, her heart pounding beneath his cheek, and he was perfectly and completely happy.
“There once was a man named Kjell of Jeru who could pull trees from the ground with his bare hands,” he began, not even knowing exactly what he was going to say.
“So he was a very strong man?” Sasha asked, not missing a beat.
“Yes. The strongest.”
She laughed softly, the tremor making her body move against his.
“He could wrestle lions and toss bears and once killed ten birdmen with his bare hands. But the man was lonely. And his heart was dark.”
“Not so dark,” she murmured.
“Shh. It is my story.”
She pinched him and he rose up to kiss her again, punishing her mouth with his lips and his tongue, unable to help himself.
After a breathless moment he withdrew, panting, his eyes still on her mouth, even as he tried to refocus his thoughts. Sasha’s eyes pleaded and her lips begged, and he knew if he didn’t continue with his story now, there would be no more conversation.
“One day he found a beautiful girl with hair like the sunrise and skin dappled with light,” he continued softly. Sasha grew still and her hands ceased caressing his back. “The girl was kind to Kjell of Jeru, even though he was cold. She was patient with him, even though he was angry. She was soft, even though he was hard.”
Kjell made himself look at her, made himself meet her gaze. She was listening intently, her eyes so wet and deep he wanted to sink into them. Then he couldn’t look away.
“She followed him around and held his hand in the dark. She helped him find his way home and tried to slay birdmen for him. She wasn’t very good at it. But she tried.”
Ah. A smile. Good. His chest expanded again, nearly exploding, and he couldn’t breathe.
“The mighty warrior, mightiest in all the land—” He paused, unable to tell her he loved her. The words were too flimsy and too formal, too misused and too overused. So he gave her another truth. “The mighty warrior was . . . happy. And he wasn’t lonely anymore.”
Moisture trickled from the corners of her eyes and hid in her hair, and he rushed to finish, unable to bear her tears, even if they were happy ones.
“Sasha of Kilmorda, of Solemn, of Enoch, of the plains of Janda, of every place in between, will you be Sasha of Jeru?”
“Sasha of Kjell?” she asked.
“Sasha of Kjell,” he answered.
“I am yours, remember?” she reminded him, as if she’d already said yes a thousand times.
“And I am yours,” he whispered. She beamed through her tears, making his chest burn all over again. “The bans will be read. Tiras has given his blessing. And if you must go to Kilmorda, I will go with you.”
“Soon?” she asked, her lips still wet from his kisses.
“Very soon,” he agreed.
She surged up, and her lips found his again, frantic and clinging, and he answered with a desperation of his own. But he would not love her on the floor. Not the first time. He would be a good man. A wise man. A gentleman. For the first time in his life, he would be a gentle man. He would ask her to take him, but not before he gave himself away.