“You can take the sofa in the living room.” She lit the lamp and pulled her robe tighter. “I told you. No more. There is no electricity here. You can use the lamp on the table if you need light around the house. They put in pumps last year, so there is plumbing inside now. If you want hot water, you’ll have to boil it yourself. The toilet is down the hall.”
Max took a deep breath, forcing back the anger that wanted to take the reins. They did this to each other. They had been sporadic lovers, sparring partners, and wary allies for eighteen years. No one knew how to push his buttons like Renata.
“You made a decision,” he said quietly, “that you decided was for my best interests—”
“You know I’m right.”
“—but you never consulted me.”
Max stepped closer until his lips were inches from hers. He could feel her energy, the pulsing, powerful magic that drew him. Max didn’t need a fire when he had her. She’d thawed out the cold heart of him, and then she’d had the audacity to take that heat and life away.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” he said. “But I’ll see you in the morning.”
Sometime in the dead of night, she came to him. Part of him knew she would. Their attraction was a force of nature and always had been.
The couch was too small for his large frame, so he’d rolled out a pallet on the rug in front of the fire. With the thick wool rug, heavy blankets, and down pillows from the sofa, it was far from the most uncomfortable place he’d slept.
Renata slipped under the blankets and scooted her back to his chest. “Don’t say anything.”
He didn’t. Max knew better than to question her need when he felt it just as keenly.
She laid her head on his bicep, using his arm as her pillow. Max combed his fingers through the length of her hair, bringing the weight of it to his lips so he could feel the satin against his skin. Then he laid his head on the down-filled pillow and tucked his arm around her waist, fitting her body to his.
This is how it should be. This is how it should always be.
“Rest with me tonight,” he whispered. “Wake with me in the morning. I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you. It’s time to finish this.”
1
South Tyrol, Italy
Summer, 1810
Renata tried hiding her smile as she watched the fine cut of Balien’s hips as he led them up the mountain. Her parents lagged behind them, no doubt having paused to debate the manuscript they were writing together. They’d been arguing over a minor point since they’d left the village.
Balien looked over his shoulder and caught her gaze. “Shameless,” he said with a slight smile.
“Can you blame me?” Renata asked, glancing again at his firm backside. “You are a fine specimen of a man, Balien of Damascus.”
He paused and let Renata catch up to him, hooking an arm around her waist and bringing her lips to his. “And you are the most beautiful of women.” He kissed her. “How was I so lucky to find my peace in you?”
“You had to fight wars, traverse deserts, and climb mountains to find me.” Renata laid her head on his broad shoulder. “I don’t think luck had anything to do with it. You’ve earned your peace.”
“When so many of my brothers fell around me?” He brushed his lips over her forehead. “It was only by the blessing of heaven that I survived to find my reshon.”
Her heart swelled at the sound of his soul voice whispering within him, resonant as a bell struck in the clear mountain air. Renata closed her eyes and listened. This is the greatest joy. Nothing is more beautiful than this.
She’d lived a quiet life with her parents, but a happy one. Trained as an Irina archivist, she spent countless hours listening to her mother and learning the songs the women of their race perfected to pass along magic, history, and learning. Renata knew songs to make the earth and the womb more fertile. She knew songs to heal sickness and fever. She knew magic that could move the very mountain their home sat upon, creating protected caves in the hills to house the library where her father and his brothers stored the written knowledge they were tasked to protect.
Balien, on the other hand, had traveled the whole world. He’d come to the mountain the summer before, a weary warrior who’d fought too long without respite. Balien of Damascus was a warrior of an ancient order, his blood a rich mixture of the Near East, Northern Africa, and Europe. Like his blood, his looks were a striking combination that had fascinated Renata and drawn her attention at first glance.
His people were not the rulers of their territory, but they were renowned for two things: skill in battle and magic in healing. Balien was a Rafaene scribe, descended from the offspring of the archangel Rafael and gifted in healing arts.
A blessing and a curse for one destined to wage war. Most Rafaenes took regular breaks from battle against the Grigori—the descendants of fallen angels who preyed on humanity—to rest and heal their spirit. It was accepted and necessary.
But when Renata had met him, Balien hadn’t taken a break in three decades. Forced into respite, he’d come to Renata’s beloved mountains, acting as a courier for a scribe house in Jerusalem. A tedious job for a warrior feared by demons on three continents.
But Renata had met him, and she knew. Balien had taken one look at her and been struck dumb. All they’d needed was a single touch to feel their connection.
Reshon.
Destined by heaven, Balien was the man designed to complete Renata’s soul, as she’d been created for him. Once they mated, they would live in each other’s subconscious, connected by dreams, even if their paths took them to opposite corners of the earth. It was the mating that every Irin dreamed of.
She rested her head against his heart, listening to the strong beat of it as her parents’ distant voices grew nearer.
“… the conflict between the written and the oral versions of the tale only confirm—”
“That there is no conflict?” her mother asked with a laugh. “Why must everything be so rigid, Giorgio? Scribes must write everything down and file everything in neat boxes. That is not how Irina history is kept.”
“Which makes it less exact,” Giorgio said.
“Which makes your scrolls only words on a page,” said her mother, Heidi. “They convey nothing of the meaning—the emotion—behind the history.”
“And do you want emotion with your history?” Giorgio asked. “Is that necessary for learning?”
“Of course we do,” Balien said quietly, interrupting him. “For the horror of war isn’t captured by words, Father, but by the lament of a widow. The cries of a fallen brother. If we forget the emotion behind history, we have lost our souls.”
Giorgio nodded deeply. “I see your point, my son.”
“But you didn’t see mine?” Heidi said. “It had to come from a soldier for you to listen?” She narrowed her eyes and stalked up the path, brushing past Balien as Giorgio ran after her.
“Heidi!” he cried. “That’s not what I was trying to say. I was only…”
Their voices drifted in the distance as Renata bit her lips to hold in her laughter.
“They will be like this always,” Balien said. “Won’t they?”
Renata let herself laugh. “I’m afraid so.”
He took her hand and tugged her along. “Ah, we can always take to the roads if it becomes too much.”