Page 47 of White Horse Black Nights

Great. Now my cheeks areblazing.

I trade places with him at the window as he drags his shirt over his head and tosses it on the bed. Even though I keep my back turned, the sounds of him stripping out of his boots and pants and easing into the warm water with a masculine sigh stoke my curiosity until it’s aflame. I’ve seen Basten’s bare chest almost every night, but what lies below on a man’s body is a mystery. All I have to go off are the illustrations in Immortal Alyssantha’s sections of the Book of the Immortals: One, in particular, comes to mind, featuring Immortal Alyssantha and Immortal Samaur, naked together with their fey lines glowing. The God of Sun’s member enters the goddess’s sacred center while her ankles rest on his shoulders; her head is tipped back in ecstasy, his tanned hand squeezes her breast.

It’s all I can do not to wonder if Basten has ever had a woman in that position.

The innkeeper brings us supper, and we sit at the table and eat with actual silverware like two civilized people. It feels foreign and strange to be with Basten like this, instead of crouched around a campfire, and it thrills me as much as throws me off balance.

I’m so busy savoring the wine and warm-baked, buttery bread that I don’t even notice we’ve talked all evening, until Basten lights a candle. To my surprise, dusk slipped in at some point and darkened the room.

I stifle a yawn.

“You should sleep, Lady Sabine. Tomorrow, we’ll press on north, and be in Duren within two days.” He stands and arranges his rucksack on the rug, by the fireplace, as though he’s planning on using it as a pillow.

It’s now or never.

Slowly, I untie the wool overdress and tug it over my head, leaving me in the long chemise. I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes as I draw back the bedcovers.

I clear my throat. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor, you know. We shared a blanket in the forest. It’s no different to share a bed.”

He considers the soft, clean sheets as I slide into them, making an exaggerated show of leaving the other side open in invitation. But he doesn’t make a move toward the bed—yet.

I pat the other pillow insistently, keeping my voice light. “I can see how your shoulder pains you—you need a night on a mattress. Otherwise, how will you be able to throw punches at all the men leering at me tomorrow?”

He gives a faint laugh, though his eyes remain serious. Wordlessly, he dims the lamp. Then, finally decided, he tugs off his shirt so that he’s only in his pants.

“Very kind of you, Lady Sabine.”

The mattress groans as his weight sinks onto it. It’s all I can do not to roll into the dip his massive body creates.

I ease back against my pillow, my heart walloping. “Good night, Basten.”

“Good night, my lady.”

In the lantern’s dim light, I stare up at the rafters. My body is exhausted, yet I’ve never felt more awake. Though we’ve slept next to each other before, something about sharing a beddoesfeel different, despite what I assured him. I’m aware of every crack of his joints and rustle of his pillow. The tension is so visceral that it feels like there’s a third person in bed with us.

I briefly close my eyes and recall Myst’s advice.

Make him loyal to you.

Gathering all my courage, I roll over to face him. Gods, I hope he can’t hear how fast my heartbeat flutters. But of course, he can.

“Basten?” I whisper. “I’m worried about what happens when we get to Duren. When I marry Rian and—and the wedding night.”

He has one arm folded under his pillow, his raven-black hair loose and sinfully silky now that it’s clean. I have to stop myself from reaching out to stroke it. He’s close enough that I can see the dark stubble dusting his chin.

His eyes simmer like he’s sensed danger and knows to proceed with caution. Gruffly, he says, “Trust me, Lady Sabine, no man would be disappointed to find you in his marital bed.”

My throat bobs in a dry swallow as I try to calm the nerves that his gravely voice stirs in my belly. “It’s just that . . . I don’t know what to do. To please a man, I mean.”

His jaw parts as he drags in a breath, like breathing through his nose alone isn’t enough anymore. He says haltingly, “Some men like an inexperienced woman.”

I slowly trace my finger along the lines of the bedspread’s quilted pattern, watching the rise and fall of his breath beneath the covers. Demurely, I look up through my eyelashes. “Do you?”

Basten lets slip a stifled moan. A tremor shudders throughout his body like he’s been brushed by feathered wingtips. He seems to be at a loss for words. Eventually, he says evasively, “I’ve never been with a virgin. I wouldn’t know.”

I can feel him trying to throw up walls of resistance with every word. He wants me, I’m sure of it, but he wants to serve his master more. His stubborn loyalty is like a set of iron shackles around his wrists.

But I’m determined to win his devotion at any cost. So, I channel my inner Immortal Alyssantha. Digging for every ounce of courage I possess, I snake my bare foot beneath the covers in his direction until my big toe strokes his ankle.

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