by Ada Harper
The sureness in his voice was unassailable. Olivia used to find it exhausting, back when she’d seen it as blocking her way, but now it felt familiar. A solid, unmovable spot to have against her back and center the world. The sun would rise, the twin moons would turn, and Galen de Corvus would not change his blasted mind.
Olivia let out a slow breath, allowing the moment to dissipate through her fingers, strangely certain in her own way that there’d be another one, just like this. Him looking at her like that. It was a feeling she could get used to. She fished her eyes around the courtyard before finding something that caught her interest. “In the meantime...”
“What?” Galen followed her gaze and sighed. “No.”
“Come on, Lyre said it wasn’t approved for Imperial soldiers yet. She didn’t say anything about political refugees. I know you, Galen—don’t tell me you didn’t test it out first.” She cocked a smile and waited until Galen made eye contact. “Please.”
It was three heartbeats until the sigh of defeat. He stepped in close, pressing a warning finger to her chin. “One try. And not until daylight. You listen, don’t try anything foolish, and Lyre never hears a word of this.”
Olivia’s grin widened. “When?”
“I’ll find you tomorrow.” Galen’s finger rasped lightly across her lips, drawing out a smile he caught in a featherlight kiss.
Chapter Nineteen
He’d find her, he’d said. Galen meant to steal an hour after sharing breakfast, knowing how little Olivia enjoyed waiting, but he hadn’t even made it that far. The moment he emerged from his rooms, Lyre’d had a hand at his shoulder, nudging him into facing a series of small catastrophes and low-banked fires that made up the far reaches of their country now. Everything was more urgent now that they had a plan of attack. It wasn’t the plan Galen wished, leaving Sabine and Ameranthe so understaffed while he took most of the forces, but he had to admit it had the highest likelihood of squashing the gathering traitors before they could gain traction.
Still, it went against his tactical inclinations. His head was aching and his energy drained by the time he found his way to the caricae residences. It took a few inquiries to learn that Olivia, as usual, was not where she was meant to be. A few more led him to the back courtyard and the base of the practice tower.
“Tit-fucking son of a...” Olivia muttered as she lost her battle with the aethercloak’s knitted series of straps. Galen stopped a couple paces away to avoid startling her and to admire the sight. She had her clean hair braided back and wore a black fitted tank with loose pants that had bunched with the straps, pulling everything tight across her very pleasing curves. They probably looked like an exercise outfit to Syn eyes. Galen would have to inform her she was running around in the Imperial equivalent to pajamas. Later. Much later.
“You intended to start without me?”
She spun at his voice, pink tripping its way up to her ears as she sputtered excuses. Galen’s heart eased, and his headache faded as he found his first easy smile all day.
Olivia huffed. “Wouldn’t have had to if you’d showed up. Are you going to stand there staring like a pervert or are you going to help me with this bondage gear shit?”
Galen stepped up and crouched to begin untangling the fine straps around each thigh. He hummed. “Wouldn’t that make you the pervert?”
Her next set of curses was animated enough Galen had to loop a hand around the back of her knee to keep her still. It should probably be alarming how soothing it was to stand there and be cussed at by his mate, but he’d liked her filthy mouth from the start. He righted the fine straps around the curve of her hips and indulged in smoothing the thin fabric out under the flat of his hand. Her warmth filled his palm and he thought she shivered, tempting him to undo the straps all over again but he doubted that would be well received at the moment.
Olivia fidgeted as he stood and adjusted the cloud-colored cloak on her frame. Embroidered leather wings, rimmed with bits of aether crystal more utilitarian than decorative, engulfed her shoulders. She’d become his kestrel in flight. “Leave it to the Empire to make gear a godsdamn trap.”
“It’s simple to wear once you are taught the trick. In training.”
“So train me,” Olivia said with a challenging jerk of her chin.
Galen allowed his smile to grow until Olivia’s cheeks pinked again, but she refused to look away. Instead she smiled back, suddenly more relaxed than he’d seen her. It was a new kind of smile, and it served to only remind him how much more must still be there, hidden in her. Inches revealed at a time. Shadows thrown into relief by the light.
It prodded him to ask, “Why are you so keen to do this?”
Olivia’s lips twitched. Her chin tilted up, in the way that accompanied especially blustery lies. “It looks useful.”
Galen smiled, letting the silence translate his disbelief. He watched Olivia fidget until she finally shrugged and tried again.
“It’s an Imperial thing, isn’t it? I saw the way you watched the races and—I wanted—” Her teeth clicked shut around that sentence. She scowled up at him again, face flushed. “It looks fun. I like fun. Don’t got anything better to do, do I? Now are we going to waste time here or...?”
A tender feeling welled up. He gestured for her to start up the ladder while he grabbed his own gear. “We’ll start with the first platform.”
It was unsurprising to find that Olivia was a quick learner, bordering on an impatient one. He demonstrated how the straps and aetheric lattice in the cape responded to small hand gestures, force control contributed by a trio of rings on each hand. The cloak worked with an ingenious series of tiny grav-repulsors. Not enough to stop a fall on their own, but with careful use by a trained soldier, it could result in a controlled fall—or wild acrobatics, as the races had demonstrated. It was a clever, if not gentle, mobility device.
“Seems needlessly limited to me,” Olivia said after inspecting the navy wings stitched into the cloak. “You’re still restricted to falling. Didn’t Lyre ever think of adding a grappling hook to deal with this nonsense?”
The sun was setting by the time he deemed her ready to make a first jump. He nodded to a platform one flight above them. The tower had launch platforms every twenty feet or so. “You can jump from there. I’ll watch from here to check your form.” Monitoring from a lower platform also allowed him to do a rescue jump if she started to fall too fast.
Olivia nodded, but her eyes weren’t on him. He followed her gaze over to the training course connected to the multi-level tower, then up to the top platforms. “No,” he said. And then, because she was already on the ladder: “You won’t have the air this jump.”
Which caused Olivia to reach the second platform and keep on climbing. Galen cursed under his breath but knew better than to stop her. Instead he readied his gear for an emergency jump. He’d have to intercede and stop her fall before she crashed into the metal struts and shattered her spine. It would be a hard landing for him but—
“In air.” Olivia called her leap just like he’d taught her, voice only a little ragged with nerves. She disappeared from the rim of the third platform for a running approach, and then swam into open air. Galen’s pulse stopped as she plummeted clear of the platform. For a faltering moment her stubborn damned head seemed angled toward the training course while her ankles were angled for a maiming fall. And then her hands snapped out and...
She flew. Of course she flew. The cloak bloomed open, a white shiver igniting the air around her as the repulsors twitched and tugged at her momentum. For a stunning moment, she was a halo against the settling dusk. Her back arched and she spun her legs around in time to catch the first strut with only minor altitude loss. She snapped off it again—burning too much speed on each contact, too heavy on the push, but that would be an easy mistake to correct—and gained a spiral as she flung herself across the training constructs. She la
nded, hard but sure, on the nearest half-wall but instead of pushing off again, she gripped the edge and arrested her motion entirely. She looked for Galen over her shoulder.
The smile—that brilliant, at ease, stunningly half-mad smile she got when she was attempting something especially dangerous, bright eyes and a grin bracketed by adrenaline—left Galen in a helpless surge of love and anxiety that was probably not good for his heart.
She looked at him, brows raised, grinning. “What are you waiting for? Race you.”
“What are we racing for?” he called back.
Olivia appeared to consider. “For proof!”
Galen gave a low, rumbling chuckle and launched himself into the air.
Of course she flew. The sky was where horizons belonged.
* * *
The race turned into a chase, as it always did between them. Galen, with greater experience and training, was holding back, even in the moments when he pulled ahead of Olivia or forced her into bleeding momentum in a series of tight corners. Olivia didn’t care. Her chest had unfurled with the cloak on her shoulders and she reveled in the exertion of holding herself in the air. She became the callouses on the balls of her feet, the whip of braid on her back, the goose bumps on her skin. Parts of her opened, and laughter bubbled up in the new spaces. It was a foreign feeling, unmoored hope for an unmoored future.
They eventually ran out of altitude and came to a slippery landing on a perma-plast platform at the far end of the field. Olivia landed laughing and breathless, skidding to the edge of the small sheet before feeling Galen arrest her with a grab at her straps. The platform was a small alcove overlooking the forest, sheltered from the estate lights far enough that the stars were visible through the distortion of the shield. It felt a little like the Caeweld, just for a moment, alone, an escape. The breeze was a gentle chill, pulling the heat from her sweat-damp skin.
“That,” Olivia wheezed, “was fucking amazing.”
Galen’s laugh was low and relaxed. Olivia’s heart constricted painfully at the sound, then released with a soft, hot hush. He tugged at the straps again until she turned in his arms to face him. “I’m glad not everything Imperial-made is horrible.”
“Not everything.” Olivia’s voice betrayed her as her eyes dipped to his chest and up again. Adrenaline was still coursing through her pulse. The open air had left a taste of power and freedom on her skin and left behind impossible impulses and desires she couldn’t possibly shake. She existed in a night that gave her wings and nothing else was real except the air above and the salt-laced skin under her hands.
Swept up in it, she stretched to her toes and her lips found the hard corner of his jaw. It tasted just like he smelled: warm and clean and full of unexplored avenues.
Galen’s breath hitched before he responded eagerly. His jaw moved, sweeping her up into a proper kiss. His hand twined in her hair before his attention wandered. His lips were pressed to the hollow of her ear, but it was his fingertips ghosting along the exposed line of her neck, the obvious focus of his attention. His touch stopped at the rise of her spine and his chest shuddered under her hands. He looked down at her, expression in shadow. “Liv, would you like—could I—”
That wouldn’t do. She was already barefoot. It was easy enough to raise her foot, toes hooking into the strap around his knee, and lever another few inches, back braced against the wall until she could look him in the eyes. Press her answer against his jaw. “Keep going.”
Her head dropped to his shoulder and she could taste the salt of him. His lips moved over sensitive skin. The angle was wrong for him to press those kisses to her nape, but it was enough to send liquid light along her nerves. It was the opposite of scruffing, this touch. Instead of losing all will, she rode on a hot well of active desire. Instead of denying nothing, she wanted everything in a clear-minded, crisp clarity that had her fingers tightening on his shoulders. She’d been afraid of this feeling, fearing it would be some external thing, like every fear in her life, pressed on her without consent. But this... This was hers, hers, and so was he. He was hers. She wanted to suddenly clench it all between her teeth and not let go.
His lips left her skin and she hissed a complaint. His palm on her ass fluttered as she rode up on his thigh, chasing the feeling. The curse he breathed was a prayer across her heated skin. His palm slid, a delicious friction over thin fabric until his fingers slid between the wedge of their thighs. An added press of contact. And the world collapsed into her breath until it was nothing but that feeling. And Olivia wanted more. Her skin suddenly felt too tight. She tried to dig the buttons on his shirt apart before giving up and sliding her palm down his stomach.
A rumbling laugh vibrated beneath her fingertips. His free hand caught her not-so-free hand for a moment before letting go. “Easy, Liv, easy.” His nails drew lightly down her back, causing her to arch into the sensation until his other hand navigated her waist. He freed the pertinent straps around her hips with swift and economic movements before lingering over the drawstring. His thumb traced over her skin below the hem in a way that promised to set her nerves alight. He hesitated. She was half-climbing him, rutting against his hand, and he hesitated. “We said we’d take it slow.”
“Oh, hell with that,” she mumbled. Her fingers finally conquered blasted Imperial tailoring and found a sharp line of taut skin. She took advantage of her precarious position to lever up and explore his collarbone. Galen groaned, flinching beneath her mouth. He tasted of salt and sunlight and she could smell him, solid and warm and for her. Like the golden crust of a perfectly baked bread. She knew, distantly, it was partially the mix of altus pheromones but frankly it didn’t dissuade her from wanting to eat him alive.
Perhaps as his only available counterattack, Galen’s hand slipped beneath her waistband. His fingertips tracked down over her hot skin, fueling an ache that grew. Until they found the hot apex of nerves that made Olivia’s breath stop in her throat. Her head fell back, mind blank until the tiniest fraction of his movement made her eyes snap open.
Galen’s smile had just a touch of predatory smugness tucked in the corner of his lips. He twisted, pressing her back into the shelter of the wall. His hand was on the small of her back, supporting, capturing. His eyes were hot, more bottomless black than brown. “As I said, I—” his voice was a purred promise “—am going to take it slow. You’re too precious.”
If Olivia had the faculties to roll her eyes, she would have. She licked her lips. “Fuck, Galen, I don’t want to be precious, I want—”
He curled his fingers back, calloused pads suddenly velvet slick, and—oh, that was exactly what she wanted—she choked back a sob of pleasure. Her fist was in his shirt and Galen smiled. “Relax for me. That’s all I want.”
A breeze picked through their secluded corner, pricking goose bumps on her skin. The chill, counterpoint to the fire coiling in her made her shiver. Galen’s other hand slid under her shirt, finding and circling a hard nipple. He found the reach of his lips restricted by her perch. He shifted his hold, unapologetically letting her slide down the length of him and drawing a gasp from her before setting her feet on the ground. He smiled and sank lower, then freed the crisscross of straps that held her pants up and soothed the slight red marks they left with his lips. Galen paused, breathing ragged and hot at the curve of her stomach. “Liv.”
She looked down, a frustrated word on her lips that died as she saw the soft expression on his face. He kissed her belly again. “Are you sure—”
“Galen,” she interrupted him because the earnestness in his voice was constricting hot, tender things in her chest. “I might be inexperienced in some things, but I’m not dead. I know my desires.” She shifted against his hand. “I’ll coach you if you need help.”
His eyes darkened and narrowed, a predatory gleam reigniting at the challenge. He held her gaze and breathed a slow, hot breath across her thighs. He was still watching h
er face as his lips replaced his hand and Olivia’s words fled her.
Later, after languid warmth had returned her back to her skin, she could feel him, hard desire pressed against her thigh, though he wouldn’t let her do anything about it. Galen hummed and continued the soothing trace of shapes on her back. “I don’t remember who won the race, but I like the outcome. Does that count as proof enough?”
Proof of something, though Olivia’s mind was too much of a lazy syrup to decide what. She considered him. “Not sure. Might have to wait for a repeat to be sure.”
Galen toyed the hair out of her face before leaning forward to kiss her brow. “As often as you want.”
Olivia sniffed. They untangled and began gathering their equipment to return to the estate. “As I want? I wouldn’t want to bore you.”
“I could think of a few tactical variations on the theme to keep us entertained.”
Tactics. The prospect was enough to make Olivia pause and consider the mental images that provided before climbing down the ladder to Galen’s waiting hand.
Chapter Twenty
Olivia didn’t want to go slow. Not anymore. It was the one thing she didn’t want, so it was the thing she focused on. Because her wants? Oh, she could drown in her wants now.
She wanted Galen. She wanted him. She wanted him, and this life with him—or any life with him, really—and she had no idea what to do with that. She knew what to do with fear. She knew what to do with doubt. She even knew what to do with her few, small needs. She wasn’t sure Galen was a need yet—the thought terrified her, because needs were facts. Galen was quickly approaching a fact in her life. She wasn’t sure she’d die without him, but living without was becoming a prickling thing.
Which made him a want. And oh, Olivia wanted. She wanted to taste his laugh on his lips, the sweat on his skin, the low growl of tension that could press its way out of his bones, through his skin into hers if she touched him just right. She wasn’t sure what touch that was yet. But she had ideas. Gods, did Olivia have ideas.