Page 110 of Heart Cradle
Soren pointed upward. “Look.”
The sky unfurled above them, vast, velvet and endless. Stars burned in unfamiliar constellations, the moon hung low and full, casting an ivory hush across their faces.
“Reminds me of you, Laren,” Fenric said, gazing into her eyes. “Beautiful, powerful and always pulling me in.”
“Bloody hell, Fen, give it a rest.” Calen said, then he turned to Hayvalaine. “Do you know the gender of the baby yet?”
“Yes.” Hayvalaine smiled, radiant. “Another boy.”
Aeilanna groaned. “Another bloody brother?”
“That makes six,” Nolenne muttered. “Should we start a militia?”
“You and I will have to hold the line,” Laren said to Maeve, lifting her glass.
Maeve clinked hers against it. “Us? The ones of chaos.”
“Poor realm,” Fenric sighed dramatically. “It doesn’t stand a bloody chance.”
“It never did,” Orilan said, but there was laughter in his voice.
Elenwe gave Laren a long look, the kind that held pride and something fiercer beneath it. Laren caught it, nodded once, that was all that was needed between them.
The family lingered there a long time, the chill held back by bodies, wine, and a large brazier Soren produced with one movement of his head. Talk shifted from light to longing, from laughter to memory and from battles fought to futures not yet written, and beneath the sky, with the world trembling just beyond the horizon, they stayed.
Chapter Forty-Eight – Longing for the Moon
Fenric wasn’t drunk, but he was certainly fuzzy with wine, and haunted by the sound of her laughter. He moved through the corridors of Elanthir tall and broad, all sharp angles and heavy silence, his shirt half-unbuttoned and long hair a tousled mess. He looked every bit the soldier he was, except for the flicker in his eyes, dark and distant.
He entered his chambers and shut the door behind him with a soft thud. The hearth still glowed low, casting restless shadows across stone and floor. He didn’t bother lighting a faelight. Instead, he stood there for a long moment, staring into the flames.
Laren.
He could still feel her fingers brushing his. That dress, barely there. That look, quick as an arrow and twice as dangerous. The way she curled one leg under herself like she wasn’t driving him to madness with every breath. His parents had long since stopped being subtle, encouraging him to bind with someone else. Noble daughters. Politicians’ heirs. Magicers with loud power and quiet eyes.
“She’ll never settle,” his mother had warned.
“She doesn’t see what you are,” his father had said.
Except, Fenric had seen her, all of her. Wild and brilliant and impossible and he hadn’t wanted anyone else, ever. She hadn’t asked him to wait, she never would, but he had. He always would.
He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, flopping back onto the bed with a frustrated groan. Limbs sprawled, head tipped back, chest rising like he couldn’t catch his breath.
It was longing, almost painful yearning.
Not just for her body, though gods knew that too, but for her laugh. For her mind, for the way her eyes softened just for him when no one else was looking. He had waited for most of his life and he’d wait longer still. He wanted her, needed her. Not just in the heated way that wine and moonlight stirred, but in the quiet ache of wanting to listen to her speak and to watch the way her brow creased when she talked about archery or riding. To hear the lilt in her voice when she recounted falling out of trees orslipping on icy cobbles. She had bewitched him with her honesty and her strength and with her maddening refusal to see herself the way he did.
There could never be another, never.
A soft knock stirred him from his thoughts and he groaned. “Soren, fuck off and go annoy Calen!”
The knock came again, still gentle but more insistent. Grumbling, Fenric sat up and used magic to swing the door open.
“Soren, I told you to fuck…” His frustration caught in his throat the moment he saw Laren.
She stood in the hall, cheeks flushed but eyes ever sharp beneath the shimmer of firelight. Blush silk shimmered against her deep bronze skin, each fold a soft glint of light on dark copper. The sheer panels of her gown clung to a body sculpted by combat, legs long and thick with strength. She looked fearless, unbothered and beautiful. He noticed her fingers tugged lightly at the edge of the fabric, a small, quiet sign that even someone like her could feel uncertain, when drowning in vulnerability.
“Shit, Laren. I thought you were…I’m sorry, come in.” he said, stumbling over his words and scrabbling from the bed and replacing his shirt.
