He loved her then. He loved her now.
He’d loved her from the moment she’d opened her eyes beneath a moonlit sky in Quondoon and greeted him like she’d been waiting forever. And he needed to tell her.
He sank to his knees before her, abandoning his resistance completely, and she drew him to her, cradling his head in her lap, and stroking his hair.
“Did you see . . . us?” he whispered, needing reassurance.
“When I see you, I rarely see myself,” she whispered. “But I hoped.”
Still kneeling in front of her, he wrapped his arms around her hips and drew her from the bed and into him, connecting them from their knees to their noses, his arms supporting her weight. For a moment she hovered slightly above him, her hands braced on his shoulders, eyes searching, wanting but waiting, until the exquisite became the excruciating, and he wound one hand in her hair, lifted his chin, and pulled her to him, mouth to mouth.
He kissed her, taking her to the floor because he was too overcome to stand, clinging to her body because he was too undone to go slow. The storm pounding in his limbs and in his belly began to build in his heart, seeping through his skin and gathering in the corners of his eyes. He wanted to weep. It was the strangest sensation, the most puzzling reaction he’d ever experienced. He wanted to lay his head on Sasha’s chest and weep.
Instead he breathed against her lips, withdrawing enough to move his mouth along the delicate bones of her collar, over the swell of her breasts, before he paused, his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to her abdomen.
He was happy. The feeling surged through him, an echo of the swelling he’d felt when Sasha had told him his kisses made her joyful. He was . . . happy. And he wasn’t killing anything. There wasn’t a sword in sight or a birdman in the sky. He was lying on a stone floor with Sasha in his arms, her hair twined around them, her hands on his face, her heart pounding beneath his cheek, and he was perfectly and completely happy.
“There once was a man named Kjell of Jeru who could pull trees from the ground with his bare hands,” he began, not even knowing exactly what he was going to say.
“So he was a very strong man?” Sasha asked, not missing a beat.
“Yes. The strongest.”
She laughed softly, the tremor making her body move against his.
“He could wrestle lions and toss bears and once killed ten birdmen with his bare hands. But the man was lonely. And his heart was dark.”
“Not so dark,” she murmured.
“Shh. It is my story.”
She pinched him and he rose up to kiss her again, punishing her mouth with his lips and his tongue, unable to help himself.
After a breathless moment he withdrew, panting, his eyes still on her mouth, even as he tried to refocus his thoughts. Sasha’s eyes pleaded and her lips begged, and he knew if he didn’t continue with his story now, there would be no more conversation.
“One day he found a beautiful girl with hair like the sunrise and skin dappled with light,” he continued softly. Sasha grew still and her hands ceased caressing his back. “The girl was kind to Kjell of Jeru, even though he was cold. She was patient with him, even though he was angry. She was soft, even though he was hard.”
Kjell made himself look at her, made himself meet her gaze. She was listening intently, her eyes so wet and deep he wanted to sink into them. Then he couldn’t look away.
“She followed him around and held his hand in the dark. She helped him find his way home and tried to slay birdmen for him. She wasn’t very good at it. But she tried.”
Ah. A smile. Good. His chest expanded again, nearly exploding, and he couldn’t breathe.
“The mighty warrior, mightiest in all the land—” He paused, unable to tell her he loved her. The words were too flimsy and too formal, too misused and too overused. So he gave her another truth. “The mighty warrior was . . . happy. And he wasn’t lonely anymore.”
Moisture trickled from the corners of her eyes and hid in her hair, and he rushed to finish, unable to bear her tears, even if they were happy ones.
“Sasha of Kilmorda, of Solemn, of Enoch, of the plains of Janda, of every place in between, will you be Sasha of Jeru?”
“Sasha of Kjell?” she asked.
“Sasha of Kjell,” he answered.
“I am yours, remember?” she reminded him, as if she’d already said yes a thousand times.
“And I am yours,” he whispered. She beamed through her tears, making his chest burn all over again. “The bans will be read. Tiras has given his blessing. And if you must go to Kilmorda, I will go with you.”
“Soon?” she asked, her lips still wet from his kisses.
“Very soon,” he agreed.
She surged up, and her lips found his again, frantic and clinging, and he answered with a desperation of his own. But he would not love her on the floor. Not the first time. He would be a good man. A wise man. A gentleman. For the first time in his life, he would be a gentle man. He would ask her to take him, but not before he gave himself away.
He pushed back to his haunches and rose to his feet, lifting her in his arms. When he laid her across the bed, she watched his hands loosen the ties of her gown, watched him remove her clothes, and when he was through, she watched him touch her. She didn’t close her eyes or drift away in sightless pleasure. She didn’t turn her head into the pillow or gaze blindly into the flickering light. With her eyes she followed his fingers and trailed his palms, observing the path he took and the reverence he administered.
Her thumbs caressed the corners of his mouth, feeling his kisses with her fingers as he pressed them onto her lips and into her skin. She didn’t look away when he shed his own clothes and wrapped her body around him. She didn’t shy from his ministrations or tremble from his weight, but pulled him close, eyes wide, lips parted, breathing him in as he sank inside her.
There were no secrets, no sorrows, nothing hidden, nothing lost. They saw not what would be or what had been, but only what was.
She saw him.
He saw her.
And they saw nothing else.
***