Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I’m safe.
In Zev’s arms, I’m safe.
He cradles me against the firm pillar of his chest, murmuring soothing words as the storm rages around us. His large hand rubs tender circles over my back, anchoring me against him.
Every crack of thunder echoes in my chest.
Zev wipes my tears with the pads of his thumbs, still whispering reassurances muffled by the ringing in my ears. But I feel them—like the steady beat of a drum calling me back from the dark.
Hours later, or maybe just minutes, the storm dies down, softening into a gentle drizzle.
My body trembles in his arms. I’m wrung out—bone-deep tired, like my muscles remember the fear, even now.
I pull back slightly, just slightly, and look at my husband’s face.
His gray eyes brim with worry, a deep crease set between his strong brows.
I take a shaky breath. “Thank you,” I whisper, the words dry in my ravaged throat.
My eyes widen. Tides drown me. “The Volcan delegation. You were supposed to—”
“It’s all right,” he says gently, brushing back a damp lock of my hair. “My father and brother will take care of it. I need to take care of you.”
My heart stutters. I don’t know what to say, what I can say to him that would express the warm gratitude flowing through me like a gentle current.
I know what I want to say, but the raging storm within my chest terrifies me. I’m terrified of being hurt—and of hurting.
So I don’t say anything, just let myself melt into the strong circle of his arms.
“You said there were thunderstorms in Tundrayn? Over the last two decades?” he asks, long fingers tracing patterns across the bare skin of my shoulder.
“Nearly every month. Sometimes several.”
“What did you do, then?”
I swallow my shame, even as it threatens to choke me.
“I cried. Cowered.” My words sharpen with self-loathing.
“Sometimes I passed out in bed.” My eyes cut to him.
I don’t know what possesses me to speak the next words, but I want to be truthful with him.
I owe him at least this much after all he’s done for me.
“And when I was older, I wasn’t always …
alone. I mean—I’ve never, um. But…” I trail off, unsure how to explain my relationship with Daak.
His fingers still on my skin.
“Does that upset you?” I whisper.
He works his jaw, hands gripping me tighter.
“I don’t care what you did before.” A beat passes, then he sighs.
His fingers drag down his face, frustration etched into the motion.
“No, that’s not true. I do care. I’m burning with jealousy, actually.
But I don’t hold it against you. You weren’t my wife then. ”
I’m silent for a heartbeat, a strange mix of emotions pulsing in my chest. “You’ve had lovers.” Not a question.
“Yes,” he admits softly. His iron-tight grip loosens marginally around me. “But the last one was months before I met you.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
There’s a bitter taste in my mouth. I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“No. I find most people … disappointing. I become disenchanted quickly.” His eyes cut to me. But not with you, they seem to say.
We fall into a silence that isn’t entirely comfortable, but not unpleasant either.
“Your father,” Zev says slowly. “Did he comfort you during storms?”
I stiffen in his arms. “No. Not once.” It’s difficult to speak past the shards of ice in my throat.
“He knew I was afraid—I’d burst into his chambers often enough as a child, tears streaming down my face.
Searching for a mother that wasn’t there.
Desperate for a comfort that never came.
He’d always look disappointed. Disgusted, even.
A servant would walk me back to my chambers.
Some were kind enough to stay until the storm passed. ”
Zev is quiet for several heartbeats, his fingers tracing the shell of my ear. “It must have gutted you to marry me,” he finally says, remorse coating each syllable. “The embodiment of your greatest fear.”
“No,” I say immediately, cupping his cheek. “I may fear storms, Zev, but I don’t fear you. Not at all.”
I hold his intense, searing gaze until I fall asleep.
My eyelids slowly flutter open. I try to stretch, but I can’t. Strong, muscular arms wrap around me, my back flush with a firm, broad chest.
Zev. He’s still in bed.
I shift slightly—and freeze.
The hard, unmistakable length of him presses against me. Heat pools low in my belly. I shift my hips again.
A ragged breath tears through his throat, hot against my neck.
Tides, he’s awake.
Half of me is desperate to flee, the other desperate to melt deeper into him.
“Sorry,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep. “I usually leave before you wake. I don’t want you to feel … that.”
But I do feel it. And it sparks something dangerous inside me.
I swallow hard. My heart batters my ribcage.
“It’s all right,” I whisper. “When I came here, I knew I’d have to … with Faramir—”
“Don’t say his name in our bed,” Zev growls, hand braced firmly over my clavicle. “Or at all.”
“Sorry,” I murmur.
I worry my lower lip. Zev’s been nothing but patient.
Nothing but kind.
He holds me when I fall apart. Protects me when I can’t breathe.
“You’ve done so much for me,” I whisper into the charged air of the room. I’m too nervous to turn and meet his gaze. “You keep me safe—and I know I don’t make it easy. And it’s your right as my husband. So … if you wanted to … I’d be willing.”
Zev looses a deep, shuddering sigh, and I fill my lungs with it.
His fingers caress my collarbones, skimming down to splay over my ribs.
Bright, electric pulses burst across my skin everywhere he touches me.
His searing heat seeps through the flimsy fabric of my nightgown, and Tides, I want to burn.
When he speaks, his voice sounds as if it’s been raked over shards of serrated glass. “Skies, Mayah.” His lips brush my temple like a vow. His fingers ghost over my hip, dragging lower to grip my bare thigh.
He stills.
“I don’t want you just willing, Mayah,” he groans into my ear. “And definitely not because you think you owe me something. When I take you, I want you begging for my touch. You come to me when you ache. I can wait until then.”
But I am aching. It would be so easy to turn around, to say yes, to—
No. No. I can’t.
My pulse races, wild and unsteady, and I’m certain each beat thrums beneath the iron hold where he grips my thigh.
I trace an invisible circle on the bedsheet, voice barely above a whisper. “I could move to another room. Just for a little while. So it’s not so … hard for you.”
The silence that follows is deafening. My chest aches. My fingers curl in on themselves.
“That’s very considerate,” he finally says, his voice stiff. “But I want you right here. With me.”
“But you’re suffering.”
“Nothing a cold shower won’t fix.”
I shift slightly, and he groans, low and guttural.
“A very cold shower.”