Page 160 of The Demon Tide

But I didn’t move.

Like a coward, Vothe rues, pained by the memory of how he let the boundaries between them stand. Let fear of what everyone else would think stand—fear of how his family would react to him aligning himself with the grandson of the last Black Witch. Would they bar him from returning home to Zhilaan, like his uncle Sholin when he fell in love with Fain Quillen?

Vothe’s own storming magic rises at the thought.

I’m done with the boundaries, he inwardly growls.Done with being a coward.

Done with pretending I haven’t fallen in love with Trystan Gardner.

“Trystan,” Vothe says, and Trystan trains his fierce eyes on him. Those blazingly emerald eyes... For a moment Vothe’s thoughts scatter.

Dive in, Vothe. Just dive in.

“Be my Xishlon’vir,” Vothe says, leaning in, his voice pitched low, having asked before without ever receiving an answer. “Before all the hells converge. Be my Xishlon’vir, Trystan Gardner.”

Trystan stills, the energy in his lines kicking up, flashing out toward Vothe.

“And not just my Xishlon’vir,” Vothe says as Wyvern blood pounds through his veins. “I want to court you. A formal Zhilon’ile courting.”

Trystan stops breathing, his water magic pulsing so hard, the scene momentarily liquefies around them. “With war looming?” Trystan finally manages, challenge in his tone even as his lightning forks toward Vothe.

Vothe leans toward him, growing even more impassioned. “What do you think we’ll be fighting for?” He motions between them. “This. This is what I’ll be fighting for.”

“A forbidden union?”

“Forfreedom.”

Trystan swallows, his magic now swirling in a torrent around Vothe. “What does...a courting entail?”

“First, a bite.”

Incredulous amusement flickers in Trystan’s eyes. “Abite?”

His confusion catches Vothe off guard, as it so often does. “Yes. The formal claim of a Wyvern.”

Trystan coughs out a short laugh and narrows his gaze at Vothe. “That is not a usual offer.”

Vothe’s mouth quirks. “What about us is usual?”

“But your family...” Trystan says, hurt breaking through. But also concern. “You told me they’ll shun you.”

A defiant spark of lightning crackles through Vothe. “I don’t care. I don’t care what anyone makes of this. Not anymore.” Vothe reaches across the table and takes Trystan’s hand, a sudden, mutual flare of power coursing through them both. Trystan’s breathing goes erratic as he glances around like a cornered animal and then withdraws his hand, and Vothe feels the sting of his rejection acutely.

Trystan shakes his head, as if silently refuting Vothe’s thoughts, his tone strained when it comes. “You don’t understand. None of you do. In Gardneria, if you and I showed any closeness in public...” His lips tighten as he looks away, his brow rigidly furrowing.

Vothe leans toward him, swept up in sudden understanding. “We arenot there. You’re not hated for this here.”

Trystan coughs out a bitter laugh. “Oh, no. I’m only hated for everything else.”

Emboldened, Vothe holds his hand out on the table for Trystan once more, palm up. An offering and a challenge. Trystan glances at Vothe’s hand, then looks away. He swallows, his throat bobbing, and Vothe can sense a swell of heat in him that’s reaching out for Vothe along with the heightened turbulence in his waterline.

“I don’t want to fight this any longer,” Vothe gently prods.

Trystan shakes his head, his voice fractured when it comes. “I don’t either.”

“Then give in to it,” Vothe offers, his lips edging up. “And kiss me on this night of the Xishlonmoon, since it’s in unforgivably poor taste to not kiss someone on this night.”

Trystan raises an ironic brow, but Vothe can feel the unsettled fire rising in him. “Vothe, think carefully about what this is going to mean for you. And...the whole world is about to descend into chaos.”

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