“You know I didn’t mean you.”
My chin jerked up and down once. “I know.”
“It’s different. You’re… I’m…” He stumbled over the words as though his ability to use them had abandoned him.
“It’s never going to go away,” I said, my knees shaking so hard they knocked together as I visualized the livid red scar running down the side of my ribcage. “For the rest of my life, it’s going to be there, so if you cannot bear to look at…”
The heat of his lips pressing against the flaw marring my skin turned my thought into a gasp. I swayed on my feet, but his arms wrapped around my hips, holding me steady. “Don’t say it.” His voice was muffled. “Do not ever even think it.”
Letting my fingers tangle in his snow-damp hair, I finally looked down. Tristan sat on his heels at my feet, face pressed against my side, arms gripping me so tightly it almost hurt. He was half-holding me up, and yet I felt as though he were clinging to me like I was a rock in a storm.
“Part of me would erase it, wipe it away if I could,” he said. “Because seeing it makes me remember when I thought I was going to lose you. Reminds me of all the hurt that has come to you because of us. Because of me.” Letting go with one arm, he traced the scar from top to bottom with one finger, and I shivered, feeling it in places I should not.
He tilted his face up, his eyes no longer dulled to grey by magic and once again the strange silver pools I never ceased to lose myself in. “But part of me is glad that it will always be there for me to see,” he continued, “because it is a sign of how much you can endure and survive. And it makes me less afraid.”
His hand caught at the silk hanging on my hips, and I waited for him to pull it up. For him to cover up my skin, and for both of us to back away from a moment that we both wanted and yet always retreated away from. Because it was not wise. Because it could cause complications. Because, because, because.
But instead, his hand drifted lower, fingertips scoring a line of fire against my bottom, the back of my thigh, and the curve of my calf. And before I could breathe, the warm silk of my shift pooled around my ankles. He let his hand drop to his side, and I watched his eyes take me in.
I let my knees buckle, not because they were weak, but because it was what I wanted. Tristan caught me, pulling me against him, and when he kissed me, he tasted like spilled wine and melted snow, and I drank it in like one who has walked desert sands for days. I buried one hand in his hair, kissing him back hard enough that my lips felt bruised while my other hand skimmed the hard muscles of his back, my nails digging into his skin and teeth catching at his bottom lip.
Then my back was against the floor, the plush weave of the rug rough between my shoulder blades and Tristan’s breath hot against my throat. He caught my hands in his, our fingers interlocking, and the fabric wrapped around his wrists all that was left between us.
“Cécile.” He lifted his head up so that we were eye to eye, his fingers squeezing mine tight.
“Yes?” His voice was serious, and concern made my heart beat a little faster.
He let go of one of my hands and pushed back the tendrils of hair crossing my face. “I know we shouldn’t do this,” he said, eyes flicking away from mine, then back again. “There are risks and consequences, and logic, reason, and… and good sense say that I should stop now.” He bit at his lower lip, and I held my breath. “But I don’t want to. We’ve almost lost each other too many times, and I don’t want to regret not giving you everything when I had the chance.”
The flames burned high next to us, the heat leaving half of me hot and half of me chill, but all of me was on fire. The choice was mine, and for once, it was easy to make. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pulled myself up until my lips brushed against his ear. Then I whispered one word.
“Yes.”
Forty-Three
Cécile
Tristan lay on the sofa with his head on my lap, one leg bent at the knee and the other heel resting on the arm of the sofa – with the disregard of someone who has never had to scrub upholstery in his life. His silver eyes gleamed like coins, distant and unblinking, his mind a twist of dread and frustration as it raced through scenario after scenario. As we waited to see what or who would come.
Both of us were fully clothed, and had been since I’d woken in the dark hours of the night, silken sheets twisted around my legs and my skin cold from Tristan’s absence. My eyes had found him standing at the window, one hand pressed against the glass as he gazed out at the night sky. “My father has sent me a letter every night since I left Trollus,” he’d said, sensing I was awake.
“What do they say?” My throat parched and voice hoarse. My head throbbed, though I hadn’t had nearly enough wine to account for it.