I bit my lip at his question, knowing he would need an answer, though I didn’t feel even remotely able to give him one. I wasn’t even sure how to explain the odd cyclone of discomfort and pleasure I was feeling.
“Ilyan… I mean…” I stopped abruptly and looked away from him, my throat feeling swollen and uncomfortable with what I was about to say.
You are the King. I sent the words to him as I swallowed, my eyes still focused away from him.
“It took you this long to realize that? I thought I told you months ago,” he laughed as he spoke, his words obviously meant to break the tension, but instead they made me more uncomfortable.
Yes, I had known he was King. I had seen him dispense orders, and I had seen him with a crown on his head. I knew he was King. Though, somehow, over the past few months I had forgotten what that meant. I had forgotten that I was kissing a king; that I lay next to a king when I slept. Seeing him with Wyn right then had been a devastating reminder, something that had made me feel lowly and unworthy to be around him. I shouldn’t be here.
Ilyan’s hand trailed over my skin as he cupped my jaw, the rough pad of his thumb gliding over my cheek as he caressed me. His magic flowed into me as the strength of his love surged. I sighed at the feeling, the hot water bottle sensation growing as my eyes drifted back to meet with the soft blue of his, the expressive orbs an inch away from me.
I could feel his breath against my lips as he spoke, the warmth of his body so close, somehow taking away the worries that I had let infest me.
“I may be King to Wynifred, to Sain, to Thom, but to you, I am your Protector first. I could never rule over you,” he whispered, his voice soft as his fingers moved over the skin surrounding my mark, the touch a stark reminder of what would happen if he touched the raised brand, of what he really meant to me. That he was more than my Protector.
The touch was meant as a reminder of how different I was to him; a promise of what I meant to him, and why I didn’t need to worry. While my stomach still knit together in embarrassment, the nerves didn’t seem quite so important anymore. Because they weren’t. Even though the touch of his fingers against me set me on fire, Ilyan meant more to me than that. And I to him.
“I just want you to be Ilyan,” I whispered, sure I had stopped breathing.
“Always. For you, my love, I will always be that.”
Fourteen
“I need you to focus, Joclyn,” Ilyan said, his voice a cross between humor and that strict tone he always had when he was training me, which was essentially what he was doing—training me to keep the anxiety out of my mind even when I came face to face with my horrors.
Or in this case, Ryland.
We had about an hour until everyone was to gather in the kitchen and make the final plans for escape; for battle. Ilyan needed everyone to be there, which meant Ryland and I would be in the same room. Face to face. While last night had gone fairly well, Ilyan had essentially been controlling both of our emotions, and with a battle coming, my emotions couldn’t be numbed all the time. I needed to be able to move beyond the fear and anger and try not to kill him every time we saw each other.
Which meant I needed to be able to control my emotions more quickly. Which meant training.
I tried to remind myself that it was only training.
Except this felt like anything other than training.
When he calmed me from the nightmares or held me while I slept, he had never held me this way. This was different.
I stood still on the stone floor of our room, a lightweight blanket wrapped around me while Ilyan’s arm enveloped me, his wide hand fanned out on my stomach as he pressed me against him. I couldn’t feel the touch from his skin through the thin blanket he had wrapped me in, however, I could feel his warmth radiating through the thin fabric as it tried to reach me.
I rested my head back against his chest as he had instructed, my ear pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt as the sound of his heartbeat echoed into me. I focused on the sound as he ran his fingers over the skin of my face, down my neck, and across the lines of my collar bone. The touch felt slow and steady, the burn on his fingers comforting against my skin. Everywhere he touched left fire behind, igniting me even though he kept his magic restrained within him.
He ran his fingers over my lips again and my heart rate jumpstarted, the pulse heavy against my chest.
“Joclyn,” he scolded again, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s really hard for me to focus when you are doing that,” I whispered, not trusting my voice to get louder than that without faltering.
“That is good, my love, because I want you to focus on me and what I am doing.” He continued to run his fingers over my face as he whispered, his accent deepening his voice.
“Mmmhmm,” I moaned as I looked out on the Spanish countryside that stretched beyond the windows in front of us, the low thunderheads kissing the tops of the trees as the lightning fired off in the distance. My breath caught again at Ilyan’s soft touch, my magic flaring in time with a bolt of lightning.