Fire Falling, стр. 68

Serien recognized the name of the capital of the North, the last major blockade to the Empire’s victory. She crossed her arms over her chest. Using the memories of the other woman, a smirk appeared on her face knowing that Vhalla Yarl once advised the Emperor about splitting royalty.

“Your commanding majors will announce your assignments tomorrow. Prepare for war.”

SERIEN LAY AWAKE, listening to Daniel’s breathing. She watched as his chest rose and fell in the moonlight, punctuated by the soft sighs of dreamlands. She wondered what he saw behind his closed eyes. His dreams could in no way be as tortured as hers.

Being next to him was becoming painfully normal. She missed Fritz and Larel with an ache that could never be filled. But Daniel was kind and attentive. He was thoughtful and preempted her needs to a surprising degree.

Serien rolled onto her side. If things had been different, what would they be? She bit her lip.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Even as a hushed whisper, Prince Baldair’s voice carried.

“How many times must I tell you?” A voice, deep and dark as midnight, replied—its whispering tones echoing straight through Serien and into a woman who had been suppressed for weeks. “I will accept it no other way.”

“You and her ...” The voices grew near and Serien heard two sets of footsteps in the sand pass by Daniel’s tent.

“Again, how many times must I tell you?” She could see him pinching the bridge of his nose in her mind’s eye.

“I know,” Baldair muttered in disbelief. “You’ve thought this through, right?”

The question went ignored. “How is she?” The voices began to grow faint.

“Well cared for. I have my own looking out for her. They’re reporting into me and I’ve kept my promise, brother: she’s had everything she’s needed to be well.”

Serien glanced at Daniel.

“You mean the Easterner.”

“How did you know?” Baldair seemed as surprised as Serien.

“I must speak with ...” Their hushed whispers were almost out of earshot.

He was there. He was right there, a voice in the back of her mind echoed. If she moved now she would see him. Serien knew she couldn’t let herself. She’d been so careful to avoid the Black Legion at all costs. She knew what the sight of him would do to the other woman within her.

When his voice faded away entirely, her feet were under her, moving without thought. Serien made haste from the tent, praying she didn’t wake Daniel. She saw them in the distance, the two princes side by side, walking toward Baldair’s tent. A tiny mote of flame lit their path, and Serien staggered toward it, hypnotized.

His lean frame was swathed in black as if cut from the night itself. His elegant fingers curled around each other at the small of his back. His presence radiated the essence of poise to all who gazed upon him.

“Aldrik,” she breathed.

It should have been impossible for him to hear, but he turned anyway. He stilled as though he saw a specter. Baldair turned as well, curious to see what had so enthralled his sibling. The second he saw her, he knew.

She took another step forward, and Aldrik said nothing, his arms suddenly limp at his sides. Serien staggered across the gap between them. Her eyes were lost in Aldrik’s and the crown prince seemed to see nothing else either. They were both oblivious to Baldair’s nervous glances for any onlookers.

“Vhalla,” he whispered, holding out a hand to her.

Prince Baldair gripped his brother’s wrist. “In my tent.” He gave her a pointed glance, and she quickly followed behind them.

The moment they were both inside, Aldrik’s hands were in her hair. His long fingers wove themselves into the dark strands, as if trying to entangle himself with her very essence. She felt Serien melt away and, without the other woman’s armor, Vhalla was as naked as a babe, raw to the world and the emotions fighting within her.

She tilted her head upward, grabbing Aldrik’s face and pulling it toward her. The prince obliged, dipping his tall frame to crash his lips against hers. His chainmail dug into her chest and her fingers scratched against it, searching for a grip to cling to. She was desperate for him, for the life only he could instill in her.

Baldair cleared his throat for their attention. Aldrik pulled away only a fraction, his eyes searching her face. His hands ran over her cheeks, down her neck and shoulders. He stared at her, at the broken and scarred creature that she was, in amazement.

“I’ll go stay with Raylynn tonight, I think,” Baldair announced.

They both turned to see the tent flap falling back into place. Vhalla felt a blush sneak across her cheeks for her forwardness in front of Aldrik’s brother. But the hand that hooked her chin brought his lips to hers once more erased all thought of it.

Every slight turn of his head, shift of his wet lips over hers, was an ecstasy she had not known until the first time she had kissed him. It was the sweetest taste she had ever tried, one that only improved in flavor with each passing moment. It was the perfect thing to lose herself in and forget the pain. Aldrik pulled his body away, eliciting a whimper from her.

The arrogant royal grinned against her mouth. His hands fumbled with his chainmail, pulling it over his head between kisses. It fell heavily to the sand, and he pressed his body against hers once more.

It was a dance that only they knew the steps to, each movement purposeful. His hands, her hands, his mouth, her mouth, their bodies, all moved with perfect precision. The backs of her ankles hit Baldair’s bed and Vhalla was forced upon it. Carrying such a thing on the march now seemed much more pragmatic than she had first given the younger prince credit for.

Her hands fell on Aldrik’s hips, her thumbs finding their way under the hem of his shirt. Soft, Mother, his skin was soft. His palm ran lazily up and down her side, catching on her shirt now and then, pushing it up and exposing her own raw skin to the hot pads of his fingers.

Aldrik broke the kiss, breathless and flushed. Vhalla’s chest heaved as she stared up at him, their faces close. He said nothing, but his eyes told her the promise of a world of barely containable desire. Vhalla hooked his neck and pulled his lips back to hers. He couldn’t look at her like that without kissing her. Aldrik obliged her hungrily, and he discarded any previous timid notions of invading her mouth.

Her fingers walked around his neck, down his collarbone, and into the wide opening of his shirt. She indulged upon the exposed skin of his chest. He tilted his head, devouring her collarbone.

“I want to feel you,” she moaned softy. It was a noise that she should be embarrassed at herself for making. But her head was too clouded for that. Her head wasn’t in control.

Aldrik straightened, his knees on either side of her legs at the edge of the bed. He looked down at her uncertainly, insecurely, processing her words. Grabbing the back of his shirt he leaned forward, tugging it over his head and discarding it with the chainmail on the ground.

Vhalla stared at him. Her heart could drum or she could breathe, doing both was too much for her body right now. He was lithe, sinewy muscle cutting into and curving under the ghostly pale of his skin. The tiny flame cast deep shadows into his abdomen. There was an ugly scar on his right hip, another on his shoulder and a few minor ones here and there. He was almost too thin and the luster of his flesh could be borderline unhealthy. His nose was a little crooked and his face was angular and sharp.

“You’re perfect,” she whispered.

Aldrik seemed utterly taken aback. Other women clearly hadn’t thought so.

Vhalla reached for him and he conceded, scooping her up and situating her farther on the bed. His mouth was on her once more, his palms exploring her form.