Chapter 36 Tamsin
Tamsin
The first thing I notice is her hand.
Draped across my ribs, fingers slack with sleep, her palm curled slightly like she’s still holding onto me in a dream. It anchors me to the bed, to the breath-warm hush between us, to the impossible softness of this moment.
Of her.
Marienne sleeps without apology.
She’s turned toward me, head tipped across the edge of the pillow we’re both halfway stealing. One leg is slung over mine, her bare knee hooked at my thigh. The rise and fall of her back is slow. Steady. Each breath parting the morning like prayer.
Her hair’s a glorious mess—unpinned and wild, all honey and tangled copper in the first light bleeding through the curtains.
There’s a faint smear of dried blood at her lips. Mine.
Did she truly say I tasted like fire, or did I dream that?
Gods.
Either way, I’d let her ruin me a hundred times over just to hear her say it again.
I’ve never wanted the morning to stay longer than necessary. It always brings duty. Armor. The awkwardness of another day survived.
But now?
Now I want it to last forever.
The mural the children painted looms across the far wall—lopsided stars and animals and a peaceful forest. I was skeptical about them painting it.
Now? I’d kill to keep it on the wall.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake her just yet. Just… watching.
She is so alive. And not just in the breathing sense, but there’s that too. There’s a bloom to her, even in sleep. A glow tucked into the corners of her mouth and the place where her lashes kiss her cheeks. She clings to life with such furious grace it makes me ache.
This bed was mine. Stiff sheets, a single pillow, nothing to catch on. It was a knight’s bed in a house that didn’t feel like mine.
She’s transformed it into something else. It even smells like her. Rosewater. Candlewax. Blood and sugar.
And cinnamon.
Gods, I’m in so much trouble.
Marienne shifts with a sigh, her nose nuzzling against my arm. Her voice is scratchy with sleep. “You’re staring.”
“I am,” I admit.
One eye cracks open, green as cut glass, as she teases, “Do I have something on my face?”
I snort. “Just the usual amount of mischief."
She hums, pleased, and stretches in a slow, catlike sprawl. Her thigh brushes higher up mine. The sheet dips. My breath catches.
She notices and smiles. Wicked and soft all at once. “Ser Tamsin, are you blushing?”
“Absolutely not.”
“My goodness, have I seduced a maiden knight?”
“Careful,” I warn, low, already grinning. “I have a sword. And no shame left.”
“You had shame to begin with?”
“A little. It’s dead now. You killed it.”
She laughs. It lights the whole room.
I kiss her.
Not hard. Not desperate. Just to feel her lips under mine again. Just to remind myself she’s real.
She chases the kiss, eyes fluttering shut, hand curling against my jaw. For a breath, the world narrows to this: our mouths, our quiet, the warmth of her thigh pressed to mine.
“I could stay here all day,” she whispers against my lips.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“I’ll always tempt you.”
Is that a warning or promise? Let it be a promise.
I press my forehead to hers. “You’re winning.”
She nuzzles into me with a sigh. “We should get up. The children will start a mutiny if they don’t get breakfast soon.”
“I could live through a mutiny.”
“They’ll burn the manor down.”
I groan. “Fine. You win again.”
Marienne grins as she pulls away, sitting up and stretching with all the elegance of a spoiled cat. The morning sun spills across her bare back. I want to trace every inch of her skin with my mouth, to pin her to this bed, press my face between her thighs, and never move again.
But she’s already reaching for her robe.
“Come on, Ser Tamsin,” she says over her shoulder, teasing.
Gods help me, I follow.
And I smile.
Because for the first time in years, the morning didn’t come as a punishment.
It came as a gift.