Page 137 of Tales of a Monstrous Heart
He watched me cautiously as I felt the texture beneath my fingertips, raised and red despite the time that had passed.
‘I have a habit of being where I shouldn’t.’ He spoke quietly, hearing the question in my touch – pain hidden in it but no hesitation in telling me his truth. ‘I went back into the darkness of battle for Gideon, thinking if I didn’t make it, at least we’d all be together.’
The finality of the statement made my heart hurt, that it was possible none of this could have happened. That he would have been lost to me without ever meeting him. Never knowing the beauty of what it was to be found by him.
‘He made it,’ I whispered, already knowing a part of that story. Wherever he was, Gideon Swift had made it.
‘He never forgave me for it,’ he replied, continuing to play with the hair that fell against my collarbone.
‘I’m sorry.’ I was. Sorry for his pain and that he couldn’t get better from such grief. That we were all sick with it and would be until the end.
‘It’s in the past.’ He kissed my forehead, a small reassurance that didn’t reach that darkness in his eyes.
I lifted myself off the pillow until I could press a kiss against the rough texture of his throat, the most brutal part of thisbeautiful, impossible man. He captured my face before I could settle, tipping my head and kissing me softly.
There was a lazy seduction to the intimacy of lying here with him until my breathing settled, hands drifting over sensitive flesh as we lay there until I could barely keep my eyes open, half draped across the expanse of him as his fingers traced the shape of me … committing it to memory.
I didn’t know how long we lay there, or how he moved without me noticing, but I felt the brush of fabric. A silent command as something slipped over me. Soft and filled with the scent of that forsaken bark and smoke. Of my magic and his. Settling me further. I felt his hand tracing shapes along my hip, lulling me to sleep. My head resting on his chest listening to the calm beat of his heart.
‘They once used beasam bark to fend off possession of the dark,’ I whispered against his skin, unsure if it was a dream. ‘My father told me a story once, about Serus and the princes beneath the earth. About wraiths and spirits who serve them.’
He went still for the barest moment, his fingers pausing, digging into my hip before his movements continued. More cautiously than before, but he didn’t respond.
‘You could be a wraith. You move about like one,’ I half mumbled, curling closer into his warmth as I felt the weight of covers coming over us.
‘I’m not a wraith.’ There was a softness to his voice where I expected humour, a hesitation that confused me as I felt myself become weightless with sleep’s arrival.
You’d still want him, that voice mocked, no fear accompanying that truth. I’d want him anyway. In whatever form he came to me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Kysillia reigned with a heart of fire, her veins gold with the molten blood of the earth. The endless starlight in her will cast back the darkness beneath. Made the shadows bow and death itself retreat. For she was chaos entire, untethered like the flames she summoned. Flames she used to form ancient blades of her will, so even when she reigned with the ancestors above, her kin would know. She was starlight entire.
– The Song of Kysillia– Unknown
Temez.The ancient word echoed through my mind in the darkness. Eluding me despite how heavily its meaning sat upon my tongue. A calling that sent my magic turning uncomfortably inside me.
Too late, that desperate voice in the darkness whispered, forcing my tired eyes open. The dim morning light streamed through the arched windows, tiny specks of dust dancing in its stream. A peaceful flutter to their movements as I curled my toes, body weighted with deep rest.
A hard warmth along my back, the brush of soft breath at the nape of my neck and the heavy weight of an arm draped across the curve of my waist. Curled so protectively. My eyes ran along the muscular line of his forearm, the pattern of thosescars as they caught the soft grey light. How our fingers had intertwined on the bed next to me.
Emrys.
That small crescent moon at his knuckle caught the weak sunrise.
I turned ever so slightly in the tangle of sheets and with the barest motion he fell to his back. I rose on my elbow, expecting to find him considering me with sleepy curiosity, but he was still asleep. The dark shadow of stubble at his jaw, hair falling across his brow. Hand resting on his toned stomach. Breaths even and calm.
I bit my lip against the urge to kiss him as I drank in the sight of him so unarmed. So peaceful. Something sharply protective pierced my heart. Those ash smears remained on his skin. Traces of me.
The brutal nature of his scars as they curved down his body, even beyond the waistband of his trousers, still half unbuttoned after the frenzy of last night. How quickly it had been smothered, but not extinguished. Simply became something else. Gentle and intimate, making my heart ache.
I wanted to stay, but I looked to the creeping grey light of dawn. That feeling didn’t go. Didn’t dissipate.
Too late, that darkness mocked before I’d silenced it with that killing blow. My muscles were tender with a strange aching I understood. For too long I’d pretended to be mortal, played their game. My body needed more, the Kysillian in me demanded more and I’d ignored it too long.
Quietly I slipped from the bed, feet soundless on the rug. The cool morning air nipping at my thighs where Emrys’s shirt came to rest and I realised that was what he’d put on me.
My cheeks burned, ignoring how the brush of the fabric had not long ago been his lips. At all the things still unsaid.
