Page 35 of HeartTorn

Closing my eyes, I struggle to still my labored breath, to ease the tension from my inflamed body. Gods on high, but I long to reenter that cave! I want to crawl on top of her sleeping body, to breathe in the musky scent of her hair and skin. I want to run my hands down her smooth contours, bury my face between her legs, and wake her with ecstasy. My very soul cries out for that song of hers—that sweet song of bliss which she sings only for me.

Where did my resolve go? Vanished, along with any wisdom and reason. I feel like a lost soul, cut off from all that I know, all that makes me who I am. My kingdom, my people, this endlesswar, and the innumerable responsibilities which I must always keep in such careful balance . . . all of them seem to burn away in the furnace of this madness which grips me. This desire, this need for a woman who is wrong for me in every way.

I can’t do this. Clenching my fist, I turn my wrist as though I could even now snap the binding cord. But it clings, stronger than ever thanks to one night of weakness. How much have I already given up for the sake of this impulsive marriage? Ashika is dead; Nyathri hearttorn. My other brave warriors might be lost as well, and the whole of the Hidden City left vulnerable to attack.

Will all Licorna pay the price for Ilsevel’s life and my unchecked lust?

She is standing in the doorway when I return from the pool, like a pale phantom in the morning mist. Clad in her torn chemise, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, she watches me with wide, solemn eyes, her brow set in that knot which has become so familiar over the last week of our acquaintance.

“Warlord,” she says cooly as I approach. Last night she’d sung my name, an ecstatic melody that filled my soul. Had I only imagined it? Dreamed it in the heat of those stolen hours between us?

I nod. She takes in my dripping frame slowly, then lifts her gaze to mine, one eyebrow slightly lifted. “There is a pool,” I say with a toss of my head. “Over yonder. The rain is fresh from the heavens. Untainted. Safe to bathe in, if you wish.”

She blinks. We both know the mess we made of each other on that tumble of fleeces. A faint flush tinges her cheeks, but she makes a little grunt of acknowledgement. “A moment,” I say and step into the hovel to grab the saddlebags. I try not to look at the indentations on the floor left by our coupled bodies and hasten back out into the budding sunlight. “Here.” I take a blanket fromone of the bags and offer it to her. “To dry yourself. It is cold this morning.”

Ilsevel accepts the offering with all the hauteur of a queen. Without a word she leaves me in the doorway, stepping around to the far side of the hill, following the sound of the rushing stream. I remain where I am, hands clenched into fists, determinedly looking in the opposite direction. Elydark steps into my line of view. His eyes catch mine across the little distance. His song remains silent in my head, but I can feel the condemnation emanating from his soul.

“Shakh,”I curse again for the third time this day and run a hand down my face.

“Warlord?”

I half-turn my head at the sound of Ilsevel’s voice, calling from the far side of the hill, just audible above the stream’s surging. “Yes?” I answer roughly.

“Will you pass me the blanket, please? I cannot reach it.”

I hesitate. Something tells me I should not venture anywhere near her and that pool. War rages in my chest for a count of ten heartbeats. But then I turn, stride swiftly around the side of the hill.

I come to an abrupt stop, heart leaping to my throat.

Ilsevel stands in the shallow part of the pool, up to her waist, shivering a little in the cold. Wet locks of hair hang over her shoulders, across her bare breasts. Droplets run in rivulets down her cheeks, her neck, the hollows of her collarbone, her navel.

But it’s her eyes which capture me. Those dark eyes of hers, fixed on my face with absolute intensity, watching for whatever I might reveal, for any sign of weakness. There is defiance in that gaze, but also a strange vulnerability that scarcely seems to fit in those proud features of hers. Most of all there’s heat—the fiery heat of a song waiting to be sung once again, needing only the right spark to set it ablaze.

I want her. Gods spare me, but I want her. Some part of me had hoped that to give in to temptation for one night would mean satiation. Surely now that the tension in my loins has known relief, I can suppress any unwanted feelings and focus on the task at hand. It’s just a simple matter of physical bodies and physical needs after all. Once the meal is devoured, hunger must abate.

But no. Here in the cold light of the dawning day, I cannot deny the truth: I want her. More than ever. I want her with a gnawing starvation that hollows me out from the inside, turning all reason to madness.

And here she stands before me, offering herself. Her chest rises and falls in quick panting breaths, and her flesh trembles with cold. But her eyes hold mine fiercely, as though she’s waiting for her life’s sentence to be pronounced.

My feet move, heavy as iron blocks. I make my way down to the pool’s edge, kneel, and take the folded blanket in my hand. Slowly, without breaking her gaze, I extend it to her.

Her eyes lower, dropping to look at the blanket. I watch her nostrils flare as she draws a little breath. Then her lashes rise, and she meets my gaze again. Fury blazes in the dark centers of her pupils. She snatches the blanket from my grasp, little caring how the edge falls in the water.

Rising, I turn swiftly and march back to the other side of the hillock. My breath comes heavily in my tight chest. The sun crests the horizon now. We must ride soon if we are to make it to Elanlein by moonrise. And we must. Gods spare me, we must! I can’t take any more of this.

I hear her footsteps approaching, hear the chatter of her teeth. She stands behind me by several paces. I cannot bring myself to turn and face her. “Dress quickly,” I say without looking around. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”

She draws in a sharp breath. Then, in a voice of ice: “So that’s it then?”

My throat thickens. I drop my head, stare at the ground between my feet. For some moments, I cannot speak. Whatever I say will be wrong. But I must say something. I owe her that much.

“What happened last night”—the words are heavy, but I force them out, hard and clear—“that cannot happen again.” Slowly I turn to face her, taking care to steel my expression, to reveal nothing she does not need to see. “It was a mistake, Ilsevel. I hope not a dire one.”

She stands before me, clad once more in that torn chemise, which clings to her still-damp skin. It falls from one shoulder, and I’m reminded keenly of the moment when, unable to restrain myself, I’d ripped it away from her body. Her wet hair hangs down her back, and her jaw is clenched as though to keep her teeth from chattering with cold.

“I’m sorry.” I hate how weak I sound but am uncertain what else to offer. “I should have . . . I should never have . . .” I stop and turn my face away, unable to continue meeting that furious stare. “I vowed to protect you. I will continue to do just that. I will set you free and return you to your people as agreed.” My heart constricts. I breathe hard, trying to loosen it, but it won’t relent. “I can offer nothing more.”

“Nothing?” Her voice is low, soft, but there’s a knife’s edge in her tone.

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