by Renee Wildes
“Dara’s husband? You communicate with him?”
“Always. He worries when his people wander far afield.” Cianan smiled. “Now he knows how his father felt all those years while he ran all over the land.”
“And you remind him of that every day.”
“Well, mayhaps every other or so,” he admitted.
Her own smile wobbled a bit. “He’s your best friend?”
Cianan nodded. “We grew up together. It never mattered he is a royal prince and I am a nobody. We went through warrior academy, ranger school and were chosen together. Our war mares are sisters. We are brothers by all but blood.”
“You’ve never spoken of your real family,” she said.
“I have none,” he replied. “I was an only child, and my parents died when I was but a youngling. Lord Elio raised me, Loren’s former weaponsmaster and now Minister of Defense.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “How did they die?”
“My father Daneal was plain infantry, a regular soldier killed in battle,” he replied. “My mother died in an accident a year later.” To his shock, she scooted forward to wrap her arms around him. “What is this for?”
“No one should be alone in life,” she declared, her voice rough with unshed tears.
“It was a long time ago, elingrena, and I have a new family. Family is not blood ties.” He stared down at her. “I am not alone. Lord Elio, Loren and Dara are my family. You and Jovan are also my family. You are not alone anymore, either. We now have each other.” He captured her hand to place a kiss in the palm.
She glanced up to search his eyes. Hers shimmered in the firelight. “You came here for me?”
“Aye. You know of the dreams. I was not about to let you die.”
“I don’t understand. You didn’t know me.”
“I knew your courage, your spirit.” He brushed his lips against her inner wrist. Her skin was so soft. “You were meant to live free.”
She gasped at the contact, but did not pull away. Her fingers curled around his other arm, slid up to his shoulder. Her touch was feather-light, hesitant, barely there—it burned to his soul. The warrior gave way to the woman within. For him. Words failed him. He released her hand, searched her eyes. Shock and confusion flared in her eyes, but no fear. Only her fear would have stopped him. He leaned forward to capture her mouth with his, in a slow, gentle kiss. He touched her with his lips alone, giving her every chance to pull back, move away. He prayed for her to stay.
Maleta stiffened for a moment. He felt her tremble with indecision. Then the hand on his shoulder slid up to cradle the back of his neck, and she relaxed into him. Her mouth opened under his, and her fingers tangled in his hair. Her kiss soaked into him like rain after a long drought, heated his blood quicker than a brushfire. Many times in the past had he unwound with a woman after a battle. Now his body burned for release. With his true life-mate’s kiss, the vow screamed anew for him to start the binding ritual, not to let her get away. Hedda and Tzigana be damned.
He fought for control, not to let passion slip its tether. Her trust was too new, too fragile. Seducing a virgin was easier—she knew nothing. Maleta was much more difficult—all she knew of sex was horror and abuse. All she knew of soul-binding was Hedda’s possession. But in this moment she trusted him to show her a gentler way. They kissed for long moments, until he caught the first hitch in her breath and she moved closer, both her hands anchored in his hair. He stroked her lower lip with his tongue. She started, whimpered into his mouth, then—miracle of miracles—she touched her own tongue to his.
It was like being struck by lightning. Cianan went rigid with the holding back. Slow, dark, sensuous, drugging kisses, over and over, again and again, that had Maleta shaking and clinging to him. He dared not touch her, dared not fall back onto the quilt afore the fire, although he could barely hold himself upright. All he wanted was to lose himself in her touch, in the taste of her, the feel of her, the scent and sound of newly awakened passion. The blood pounded in his ears and in parts of him a great deal lower. He was lost and pulled back from the precipice to prevent himself from taking that final leap. It almost killed him, but he gentled the kiss, stilled her hands, and was the first to pull back and open his eyes.
Her skin was flushed, her lips glistened. She dragged her eyelids open, and the sultry, smoky look in her eyes stole his breath. He saw the exact moment clarity returned—her cheeks flamed scarlet. He turned away to pour them each a cup of mead, to give her a moment to compose herself. She took the cup from his hand with a shy smile, and took a sip.
“Are you all right?” Cianan asked.
Maleta nodded. “I feel…almost normal, I guess. Hopeful. If I can come back, there has to be a way for Jovan to come back too. Sunniva didn’t win.”
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