Page 85 of Heart of the Shadow King

I jerk away, chains clattering. “No,” I whisper.

Vor freezes. His brow is tight, his expression unreadable. Despite the lead, I try to sense him, my gods-gift straining but useless. He is as unknowable as a distant moon. Does he hate me? Loathe me for my sin? Surely, he must, and yet . . . and yet . . .

“I cannot leave you. Not like this.” His voice is ragged, rough.

I shake my head. “I can’t bear it.” Can’t bear that he should wash me. Can’t bear that he should tend me, serve me. Like I’m still the beloved bride he left behind. I don’t deserve it. I never did.

He takes a step closer. Heat radiates from his body, quickening my blood. Despite the ugly weight of guilt in my breast, the rest of me is suddenly weightless, dizzy. And so very alive. He lowers his head, brings his gaze nearer mine. “I cannot leave you like this,” he says again, a dangerous edge to his tone. “I will care for your needs. Then I will set you free.”

The words are a promise. Unbreakable, harder than diamond. Whether he speaks them to me or to himself, I cannot say. I know only that I have neither the strength nor the desire to resist.

I close my eyes, submitting as he touches that wet cloth to my face once more. Slowly, gently, he wipes away the grime, the muddy tracks of tears. I feel it peel away like scales, revealing the soft and tender flesh beneath. When he comes to the cut on my forehead, I draw a sharp breath at the sting of soap. He pauses. “Where did you get this?” he asks softly.

“I’m not sure.” The words come out breathless, a mere whisper. “It’s been . . . a busy few days.”

He grunts. Then, with utmost care, he continues his task, washing the wound thoroughly. Water drips down my cheeks, my neck, pooling in the hollow of my throat before running in rivulets between my breasts. I hear his breath catch. Lifting my lashes, I discover his gaze drawn down. Staring at the damp front of my bodice.

My pulse throbs. I don’t need a gods-gift to know what that look in his eye means.

He shakes his head. Without lifting his gaze back to mine, he bends to retrieve his bucket and moves to stand behind me. My chains prevent me from turning, from watching him. But my senses are alive now, every nerve attuned to his least movement. He soaks his cloth again, then wrings out the soapy water over my head. I gasp at the cold shower of droplets. The next moment, his fingers are in my hair, massaging my scalp, gently pulling out tangles. It’s the most delicious feeling to my starved senses. I cannot help the low moan that escapes my lips or the way my body shifts in these chains, responding to his touch.

His hands freeze. Water drips down my neck, between my shoulder blades, soaking the back of my gown. The fabric is thin, almost sheer even when dry. Dampened, it can’t leave much to the imagination. Vor’s fingers slip free of my hair. He steps back. I want to turn, to face him. To read in his eyes that longing I’d thought I glimpsed a moment before. I try to speak his name, my lips moving soundlessly.

Then his hands are on me. His large palms burn through the wet, clinging fabric as they slide down lower and lower, until he grips my buttocks, fingers tense. The breadth of his chest warms my back as he presses in close, nuzzling my hair. He breathes in deeply and utters a terrible groan. “You don’t know how I’ve hungered for you. How every waking hour I’ve starved for your touch. How every fevered dream has plagued me with devouring need.”

I close my eyes, lean my head back against his shoulder. One of his hands glides up to touch my shackled arm overhead, then drifts down, down, fingers dancing over my skin before slipping to the front of my gown. He cups my breast, and my body arches into his touch. Heat bursts through my veins. I struggle to breathe, writhing in my chains, everything in me crying out for more, more,more.

With a growl he steps back. The chill of his sudden absence draws a whimper from my lips. Once again, I strive to face him, but the chains hold me fast. “Vor?” I whisper, straining my ears for the least sound of him. I hear nothing. Only heavy breathing.

Then: “I should go.”

“No!” The word bursts from me, a gut-wrenching cry.

He picks up his bucket, circles back into my line of vision, his face turned away from me. Thelorstlight illuminates only the hard line of his jaw, the slope of his brow. “Vor, please,” I begin. But what can I say?

I thought of you too. Longed for the touch of your hand, the sound of your voice, the atmosphere of your presence. Longed for you, my love, like the very breath of life.

It was for you I made myself stronger.

It was for you I explored the possibilities of my power.

It was for you I destroyed a city full of people. Your people.

Everyone you know and love.

For you.

For you.

I bow my head, overcome with shame. There is nothing I can say to keep him here, nothing I can say to earn his forgiveness, to restore his love. He should leave me; he must leave me. Flee this cell, flee this mounting fire threatening to destroy us. Flee while he still can and leave me to the darkness.

But the bucket hits the stone floor, a loudthunkand a slosh of water. My head jerks up. I stare at the shadowed figure of my husband as he kneels, swirls his cloth in the water once again, wringing out the excess. He stands and, without meeting my gaze, begins to wash my arms. They are pulled up high on either side of my head, but he is so tall, he has no trouble reaching them. He pays special attention to my hands first, washing each finger carefully in turn. I fight to hold still, refuse to let my body react each time his skin brushes mine. Water trails down my arms as he continues to work over my palms, my wrists, my elbows. By the time he reaches my armpits, I’m shivering. But not with cold.

He steps back. His gaze fixes on the front of my bodice. Only now do I notice how hard and dark my nipples are, standing out through the thin, pale fabric. Vor’s breath comes in short, hot pants, burning my skin, sending lava pooling in my lower gut. His hand moves. Slowly, deliberately, he presses that cool cloth against my clavicle. Trails it lower, lower. Wetness seeps into the crisscrossed ribbons holding my bodice together across my heaving breast. He comes to those ribbons, pauses at my neckline. One finger extends, sliding back and forth across the topmost lace, considering. With the same deliberation, he slips that finger under the ribbon and tugs.

The laces come apart.

I struggle to catch a breath as he explores further, tracing the curve of my bared breast, burning a trail of heat across my flesh. At last, his eyes lift to mine once more. Shadows cover his face, but red light burns in the depths of his pupils. I do not look away. Not even when his fingertip flicks across my nipple, and heat explodes through my body. My eyelashes flutter, but I hold his gaze.

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