Page 85 of HeartTorn

A growl erupts in his throat even as his mouth twists in a smile.

The next moment we’re on the bed, his great body on top of mine, a dominating force of nature. His kisses capture and claim, deep and bruising, and when I can take no more, he nuzzles against my neck, teeth grazing skin from collarbone to earlobe. There he nips me hard enough to make me cry out. I dig my fingers into his shoulders, drag my nails down his bare back to his belt.

Straddling me, he reaches behind, catches my hands, and draws them forward between us. Then he takes both my wrists in one big hand, pins them over my head. His other hand makes short work of my gown, ripping away the tattered remnants with abandon.

I gasp as his palm and fingers find my flesh. My body writhes, not in any attempt to escape, but in response to the lightning lashing through my veins. He pulls fabric away from my hardened nipples before taking them in his mouth. He bitesplayfully, but not so as to hurt. His tongue licks and teases, while his hand glides lower, slipping between my legs. I struggle, my wrists still captured in his grasp, and moan softly. My moan deepens, growing louder, wilder, as his fingers perform their nimble work.

“That’s a pretty song,zylnala,” he murmurs against my flesh. “But there’s one I like still better.”

He slides away. I gasp in dismay at the sudden removal of his weight and heat, then gasp again when he takes hold of my hips and pulls me to the edge of the bed. This time I don’t lie back. I sit upright and grab hold of his head as he buries his face between my thighs. My fingers knot in his hair, pulling him to me. His mouth, his lips, his tongue do their work, and I become a living flame, burning brighter and hotter. A being of force and energy beyond the confines of this world. He makes me come alive—no longer a feeble spark in the night, but a blazing star, full of song.

As the crescendo takes me, I throw back my head and let song burst from my core, a deep, throaty melody that shakes the walls and rattles the heavens themselves.

When Taar draws back at last, I am panting hard, shivers of delight dancing from my core through every extremity. He pants, his breath hot against my tender place, and his eyes flash, looking up at me. Sweat glistens on both our bodies. I let go of his head, pushing hair back from my own face.

Suddenly I know what I must tell him. “Taar—” I begin.

He lunges. His mouth overwhelms my heat yet again. A single lash of his tongue over my already throbbing center, and constellations explode in my brain. I cry out, falling back on the bed, falling into the gift he gives so generously. Within moments a second song bursts from my gut, from the depths of my very soul. And where the first song was life, this one goes muchdeeper still. A song I recognize, born from only one source, if I can just be brave enough to claim it.

Spent at last, gasping for breath, and unable to utter another note if my life depended on it, I put out a trembling hand and gently press his head back, away from me. He catches that hand, biting my fingers softly, but allows me to draw him up to me, stopping only to caress my swiftly rising and falling breasts with his tongue. Then he stretches himself beside me, propped on one elbow as he gazes down into my face. His finger traces my jaw, my throat, runs down my sternum to my navel, and his eyes follow its trail, drinking in every inch of me.

Finally his eyes meet mine again. And I think:He’s such a fool for loving me!It will only cause trouble and pain. I should reject him—for his sake, if not my own. What a mess I’ve already made of his life, and how much worse will it get if I give in now?

“Taar,” I whisper tremulously.

He presses two fingers to my lips. “You don’t have to say anything. I require nothing of you, now or ever. You give as you like, receive what you wish. No more, no less.”

I take hold of his huge, scarred hand, turn it, and kiss his palm. Then I press that palm to my cheek and gaze up into his eyes. “I love you, Taarthalor.” The relief it is to say those words out loud is almost as beautiful as the expression of dawning wonder illuminating his face. “I love you . . .husband.”

Closing my eyes, I reach inside, down to where my gods-gift ever waits. That gift which hears a song and knows it completely, ready to be summoned and sung again with perfect timing and pitch at a moment’s notice. And what were those words he spoke to me on the steps in the moonlight if not a song? I may not know the Licornyn words, but I understand how they are meant to be sung.

So I sing the vows of a Licornyn marriage, as I never did on my wedding night. And while I may not get the pronunciationexactly right, when I open my eyes and see the delight suffusing Taar’s face, that is encouragement enough to continue.

“Vel-sa almar,”I sing, the words lilting, edged with light. “E luralma idor-hath.”

My life is yours,

And, should you require it,

My death.

EPILOGUE

Larongar Cyhorn leans back in his chair, the contents of his desk spread across every available surface. Several important documents lie pinned beneath a tankard of ale, but one sits before him, crisp and clean as the day it was signed. He studies it now: his own signature and the strange, illegible scrawl beside it: the Shadow King’s mark.

The contract is infused with tremendous magic, pored over many times by the most decorated mages in his court. Were it truly and incomparably broken, the spellwork would have disintegrated the paper, rendering the agreement between Gavaria and the Shadow King’s realm null and void. Yet it remains intact. Even his eye, unsuited to detecting magic influence, catches a gleam of power running between his scrawled name and the Shadow King’s symbol.

Slowly Larongar lifts his gaze to the figure standing on the far side of his desk. Mage Artoris—he remembers the boy he once was, a gawky, arrogant lad, who thought himself above the will of kings because of his close association with that decrepit Miphato, Morthiel. Larongar had taught him a different lesson; one which stuck through the years, judging by the young mage’s nervous twitching.

Larongar’s lip curls faintly. “And you’re quite sure of this?” he says. “She is dead?”

Artoris swallows with some difficulty. He did not want to be the bearer of these tidings. Only desperation could have driven him to his sovereign’s presence once again. “It is certain,” hesays. “No one survived the sack of the temple. The fae left none alive.”

Larongar’s throat tightens. While he prides himself on mastering his emotions, on never letting sentimentality or attachment get in the way of the many responsibilities he must fulfill as king . . . this news hurts.

Ilsevel. Ferocious little Ilsevel—his own spitting image, were she lucky enough to have been born a man. Her gods-gifted voice often soothed him in times of distress, and her fiery spirit amused him when it did not drive him to tear out his hair in sheer frustration. Of all his children, she was the one in whom he could take real pride, a bright reflection on the House of Cyhorn.

The Shadow King had seemed quite taken with her when he came to pay his court. He agreed to the marriage and gave surprisingly little pushback on some of the more pertinent aspects of the alliance contract. Larongar had always known a daughter like Ilsevel would serve him well, but he’d never dreamed she would capture the heart of a man so powerful!

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