“It’s...that blade. Or what remains of it.”
The faint dusting continued to drift down until it coated Tyriel and Aryn. She was still thin, but there was a flush of color to her cheeks even now. “Alys...” Lorne whispered, not daring to hope.
His consort reached out and touched the sleeping woman. Her eyes, when she looked back at Lorne, were filled with dismay and a wild joy.
“She is...filled, Lorne. That hollow void left inside her psyche when she stripped away her magic...it’s full.”
Lorne looked at the foot of the bed.
But the enchanter was gone.
* * * * *
Tyriel was so, so warm.
Strong arms held her and when she breathed in, a familiar scent flooded her head, filling her with a deep ache.
Aryn...
As if she’d summoned him, the arm around her waist tightened, pulling her even closer to the source of warmth—a hard male body.
A dream, she thought.
And a lovely one.
Abruptly, he moved and with his arm around her waist, she had no voice but to go with him. The bedclothes fell away, exposing her ass to the air. After being cocooned with him and his warmth, the cooler air felt like an insult, jolting her into surprised wakefulness just as a big hand landed on her rump.
She blinked in confusion as she looked around, then down.
Her mouth fell open when she saw Aryn, his head turned to the side to give her a look at his profile. He was unshaven, several weeks worth of beard growth darkening his face and the normally silken skein of his hair was a mess, tangled around his shoulders.
And he wore...a night shirt.
“I’m...not dreaming,” she whispered.
Aryn grumbled under his breath and rolled again, still clutching her to him like she was naught by a ragdoll. A much loved ragdoll, though, for his grip on her was very tight.
She wiggled and squirmed until she could peer into his face, her mind racing as she took stock. She felt...weak. Weak, but not frail.
Closing her eyes, she tried to focus. It took several moments to calm her racing mind enough that she could center her thoughts on the rapid beat of her heart.
A strong heart.
And...
“No,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes at the shock of the other discovery.
Magic burned inside her.
The shock of it flooded her, wiping away every last vestige of sleep. She still felt weak but now, giddy with joy, she whispered, “Aryn.”
His brow furrowed but he didn’t waken.
So very unlike the swordsman. He wasn’t as light a sleeper as she—under normal circumstances—but there was nothing normal about the pulse of magic inside her, as sure and steady as the heart that no longer failed her.
Scraps of memory came to her as she stroked Aryn’s cheek.
“Sparks can turn into raging wildfires.”
Irian’s voice, strong and certain as he spoke to her in that unrelenting vastness.
“You have to take this step, Tyriel. I cannot do this for you.”
“Sparks,” she whispered.
She was tempted to reach out to the enchanter and ask him, but the man in the bed with her was far more important than any questions she might have.
Echoes of that conversation with Aryn when she’d realized her path in life had come to its final destination.
“Feel this heart...it beats only for you.”
“I’ll fill the cracks. I’ll fix the edges.”
She’d been so angry at him when he’d spoken those words. The love she’d felt for him had flared to life inside her, only to sputter and fade. Her death had loomed before her. That was when he’d told her what she’d longed for.
And now...
The short beard growth was silken under her hand, his lashes long and spiky as they hid his blue eyes from her.
Moving closer, she pressed her mouth to his, her heart clenching like a fist as she did so. “Aryn.”
The arm around her waist tightened and she felt him tense, but still, he didn’t waken. She caught her breath as he rolled onto his back again, one more taking her with him.
But when the movement exposed her naked bum to the cool air, she didn’t have time for a chill to settle in. Aryn clamped a possessive hand over her hip, his fingers spread wide to curve over her rump.
She kissed him again, his mouth soft under explorations. Wiggling until she had one knee on either side of his hips, she kissed a line down to his neck and pushed aside the soft material of the nightshirt he wore.
She might have laughed at the oddity of that if she hadn’t been so needy, so desperate to keep touching him…and to have him awaken and touch her.
The hand on her hip squeezed and he sighed, his body flexing under hers.
Ah...there you are, my beautiful man.
He came awake in the next instant and Tyriel yelped at the suddenness as he flipped them so she lay under him. He stared at her with wide, startled eyes.
She smiled at him. “Hello.”
“Tyriel...what...how?” Shock had chased away the sleep from his eyes and he looked at her as though he feared she’d disappear from his sight.
“I don’t know.” She forced a smile and laid a hand on his chest where his heart pound like a Wildling festival drum. “Can we figure it out later? I seem to have this vague recollection of you claiming that this heart beat only for me.”
His only response was to crush his mouth to hers.
She moaned into his kiss, twining her arms around his neck only to release him a moment later so she could fist the material of his nightshirt in her hands. Breaking the kiss, she said, “Off. I want this off.”
Aryn shoved up onto his knees and went to peel it away only to pause a moment to study the fine material. He cocked a brow at her.
“Likely Alys’s doing.” She looked down at the silk covering her to her waist. Between her wiggling and Aryn’s incessant movements as he clung to her while sleeping, the gown was in a tangle around her waist. “While I’m sure my father is pleased I wasn’t in here naked with you, I doubt he had any hand in...that.”
His lips twitched as he yanked the offending material off, then came down over her. “If this is a dream...” he murmured, his lips against her neck.
“It’s not. Oh!”
He’d slid down and caught one silk-covered nipple in his mouth and the pleasure of it ripped through her, savage in its intensity.
“Aryn...” Her lashes started to close, but she forced her eyes to stay open. She didn’t want to blink, want to miss a moment of this—an impossible dream somehow made real.
“Are you attached to this gown?” Aryn murmured, kissing a path upward until he could murmur the question in her ear.
“Attached...? What? No.”
“Good.” He shoved up once more and Tyriel’s only warning was the glint in his eyes as he curled his hands in the laced-up vee of her sleeping gown. It ripped.
She was just a decade shy of her first century.
She could knock a fully grown human male across the room with one blow if she chose.
There was simply no reason for her heart to leap into a mad race at what Aryn had just done. But race, her heart did.
He curved his hands over her waist and tugged her upright, wrapping one muscled forearm around her waist to hold her against him as he brushed the remaining shreds of her sleeping down again.