Page 29 of The Demon Tide

Xishlon.

She’s surprised by his mention of the holiday. It’s been a topic of conversation for weeks. The Lavender Moon festival is the biggest of Noilaan’s thirteen moon holidays, most soldiers being given all or part of that day off before they deploy.

Tierney stares at the river, acutely aware of the intense way Fyordin’s magic is rippling around her. He’s a confusing mix of attitudes. So harsh with her during training, repeatedly pushing her until an exhaustion overtakes her that’s so fierce all she wants to do is dive into the Vo and be done with the Wyvernguard. But whenever he’s not snarling out commands and driving her well past her limits...his magic is sofocusedon her lately. Just like hers is on him, the draw getting stronger and stronger, like two tides determined to crash into each other.

Fyordin’s water power touches hers lightly, and Tierney reflexively throws up a rippling wall of magic against it.

“We need to stop this...this trance we fall into with each other,” Tierney forces out. “It’s our joint bond to the Vo that’s fueling it.”

His jaw tenses. “I havetriedto keep my magic in check.”

“As have I,” Tierney blurts out, barely able to keep hold of her composure.

“I know,” he acknowledges, a mounting tension in his aura’s flow. “But for me, this has moved beyond our kindred draw. As your commander I wasn’t able to voice my interest in you.”

Tierney’s eyes widen and she blinks at him. “So...” she says, flummoxed, “you’re...interested?”

Fyordin pulls his gaze from the Vo and their river-hued eyes meet. “Quite.”

Tierney’s cheeks flush. She shakes her head. “I never dealt with this type of attention before coming here. Honestly, I don’t know how to handle it.”

Fyordin’s eyes tense questioningly. “You’ve never had anyone interested in you?”

Tierney suppresses a tingling shiver, all too aware of the masculine lines of Fyordin’s body, so close to hers. She swallows, flustered. “I was glamoured from three years of age on to escape Mage attention.”

“So...do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Tierney’s flush deepens, but there’s sincerity in his question. She decides to level with him. “No. It’s...too big of a switch. And there’s too much going on in the world to think about it.”

“But you do have a mirror?”

The warmth in Tierney’s cheeks spreads to her neck as she considers how she stunned herself this morning when she caught sight of her image in her washroom’s mirror, her long hair such a mesmerizing, curly kaleidoscope of deep blues. Her soft, wide features undeniably arresting, her looks and newly curvaceous figure enhanced by the rippling-blue hue that perfectly matches the Vo’s entrancing, changeable waters.

Tierney’s gaze flicks over Fyordin’s spectacular physique, highlighted by his formfitting sapphire Wyvernguard tunic. “You wouldn’t understand,” she rejoins. “You’re used to being ridiculously attractive.”

A knowing gleam enters his gaze.

Tierney averts her eyes, irritated with herself for letting Fyordin’s swoony looks fluster her. Because what she does yearn for, when she’s not focused on impending war, is a connection that goes far deeper than surface attraction.

“I was glamoured as well for a time,” Fyordin says, taking Tierney by surprise. “After my family fled east, we glamoured ourselves to look like Kelts to gain passage through the Central Desert. I was a young child, but I can still access a glamour.” Fyordin’s eyes go half-lidded, as if he’s concentrating deeply. His whole form ripples and loses its blue hue as it rapidly morphs into a brown-haired, hazel-eyed Kelt.

A spectacularly attractive Kelt.

“Sweet gods,” Tierney blurts out, giving up on reticence as she boldly looks him over. “No wonder you’re so cocky.”

Fyordin laughs, then morphs back to Asrai.

“You’re quite good at glamouring,” Tierney notes with a sigh. “I’ve no glamour abilities. If I did, I’d demonstrateexactlywhat I was trapped in to avoid wandfasting attention.” She regrets the emotional tremor of her voice as soon as the words leave her lips. Her throat clenches, and she looks away from him, mortified by her flare of honesty and the way their power is now rippling around each other.

Fyordin bumps his shoulder lightly against Tierney’s, the contact sending a thrilling shiver through her aura. “You might be able to glamour in time,” he says, growing serious. “You don’t know what you can do, Asrai’lir.” He draws back and considers her closely, a warmth in his gaze that deepens Tierney’s pulse. “Spend Xishlon with me.”

Tierney stills, then cocks a blue brow at him. “Fyordin...our magical draw to each other aside...when you’re not barking orders at me, you’re debating my loyalty to the Asrai Fae because I’m close friends with Gardnerians. Now you suddenly want me to spend a purple moon holiday with you?”

“I want you to be my Xishlon’vir.”

Holy hells.

Tierney blinks at him, unable to form a coherent response.

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