Chapter 4
“I think you’re fearless. And I love you for it. But fear keeps us alive.” ~ Cush
Elora sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, glaring at the bedspread as if it had betrayed her.
Under her skin, it felt too tight, even strange, as if the anger inside was pulling it snuggly over her bones.
The darkness that she knew lived inside of her churned in her gut, though it wasn’t fully black, more like the grey of a shadow.
She flexed her fingers and pulled her shoulders back, attempting to relax. It didn’t work.
She blew a frustrated breath. The room caught the moonlight as it tangled in the sheer drapes, the balcony door open to the wild, pine-laced air.
The palace’s magic usually thrummed in the walls, a gentle background hum she hardly noticed, but tonight it pressed in close, agitated. Restless, just like her.
She rubbed her palm, muttering, “Get it together, Elora. Calm, centered—remember?”
Behind her, leather whispered against metal, followed by the soft thump of a sword set aside.
She didn’t have to look to know it was Cush, methodical and silent, always putting things in their place.
She’d watched him a hundred times, peeling off armor, organizing weapons, every move precise.
It should’ve soothed her, but all it did was set her more on edge.
“You’re still angry,” he said finally, his voice like velvet dragged over stone, soft, but you’d cut yourself if you weren’t careful.
She didn’t bother turning around. “I’m not angry. I’m irritated. There’s a difference.”
“And that difference would be?” he asked.
She caught his reflection in the mirror, bare-chested, hair loose and shining like a weapon, eyes fixed on her with that infuriating, unwavering calm. Her pulse jumped, as it always did. “The former involves thoughts of murder, the latter, only maiming,” she shot back, dry as dust.
His eyes narrowed, mouth twitching in a way that hinted at a fight or a kiss. “You could have been hurt today.”
Elora rolled her eyes, letting her head drop back against the pillow. “I was sparring, Cush. That’s the whole point.”
“With Leeland.” He lifted his arm, his hand wrapping around the back of his neck, squeezing tight. “He’s impulsive and uncontrolled at times in his fighting.”
“He’s competitive,” she argued, “and you’re smothering.”
“There’s a difference between competitive and dangerous,” he said, dropping his hand and crossing his arms in that way that made his biceps flex and her resolve slip. “He could have—”
“Oh, for stars’ sake, he wasn’t trying to take my head off. If he had, he would’ve done it. You’re giving me too much credit.”
“That would be impossible,” Cush said, so simply, like it was just a fact of nature. The way he looked at her made her stomach twist. It always did. Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, and that terrified her more than any sparring match.
The silence between them stretched, thick with everything unsaid. She focused on the runes carved into the beams above, the erratic pulse of the palace’s magic. It made her skin crawl, all those anxious little flickers.
She dropped her voice. “Do you feel that?”
He stilled, listening the way only an elf can, head cocked, eyes narrowed. “The magic is unsettled. Probably the book again.”
She huffed, hugging her knees to her chest. “You make it sound like it’s alive.”
“Old magic usually is.” He moved closer, the bed dipping beneath his weight, his presence a force field she couldn’t ignore. “You’re trembling.”
She looked down. Sure enough, a fine shimmer was running through her skin, sparks of dark and light flickering, tangled and wrong. She yanked the blanket up. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
His voice was gentle, but she heard the steel in it. “You’re half dark elf, Elora. If something’s changing in that part of our realm, you’ll feel it more than I would.”
“Wonderful. I’m a magical weather vane.” She tried for a joke, but her voice caught.
He almost smiled, but there was nothing light about it. “A beautiful one.”
She rolled her eyes, but her chest ached. “Flattery doesn’t make you less overbearing.”
He leaned in, the mattress shifting, heat radiating between them. “I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m trying to keep you alive.”
She reached out, tracing a line down his forearm, and felt him shiver at her touch—always so controlled, except when it came to her. “I know you think I’m reckless.”
He caught her chin, tilting her face to his. “I think you’re fearless. And I love you for it. But fear keeps us alive.”
She laughed, but it sounded brittle. “And love makes us stupid.”
He smiled, real and unguarded, and her heart thudded in her chest. She wanted to say something, wanted to demand he stop looking at her like she was breakable, like she was a secret only he could keep safe.
But something in her blood jolted—a rush of shadow, a flash of light, colliding until she gasped.
Cush’s hand clamped over hers, light pouring from his skin, chasing the darkness from her veins. The glow was so bright it hurt, then it faded, leaving them both breathless.
He looked shaken, voice rough. “Elora—”
“I’m fine,” she lied, voice barely above a whisper. She leaned into him, pressing her forehead against his, letting his warmth wash through her, desperate for the anchor he always gave her.
He cupped the back of her neck, drawing her near, his breath warm and unsteady across her lips. “Don’t lie to me, Elora. Not about this.”
She wanted to protest, to push back with stubborn pride, but he silenced her with a kiss that was fierce, hungry, and claiming.
The tension that had been straining between them snapped, replaced by a rush of heat that made her ache everywhere he touched.
She threaded her fingers through his hair as his hands moved over her, finding the places she’d been holding herself together and coaxing her to unravel.
In moments like this, Cush never hesitated.
His touch was certain, sure, and gently demanding in a way that made her want to give in completely.
She needed that from him, the confidence, the strength, the way he took over when her own resolve faltered.
Tonight, she wanted nothing more than to let him lead, to let him be the force that steadied her when her own shadows threatened to break her apart.
He shifted over her, pressing her down into the mattress, his body a shield and a promise.
She welcomed it, craved the reassurance of his weight, the way his presence pressed her fears to the edges of the room.
His lips traced a slow path along her jaw and down her neck, sending sparks over her skin.
His hands, warm and sure, mapped her body as if he could soothe the places where darkness lingered.
She lost herself in sensation, the taste of his skin, the wild scent of him, the brush of his hair against her cheek.
Every caress was grounding, every kiss another anchor holding her to the present.
For a little while, she let go of the shadows within, letting his light fill her up, driving back the cold that had haunted her all evening.
Cush murmured her name against her throat, voice rough and reverent, and she trembled beneath him.
He shifted, guiding her with a gentle insistence she couldn’t refuse.
She needed to be claimed, to surrender her strength and let him take control.
When their bodies joined, she felt his light pour into her, fierce and unwavering, chasing away every trace of darkness.
In his arms, she found the peace she’d been searching for, the chaos inside her quieted for a moment.
Their movements became a silent conversation, his strength answering her vulnerability, her surrender inviting his devotion.
She arched into him, sighing his name, her world reduced to the taste of his mouth, the heat of his skin, the unyielding comfort of his embrace.
With every touch, he anchored her, holding her together when she was tempted to come apart.
He whispered promises into her hair, his hands sliding through the strands as if memorizing every piece of her. She clung to him, letting his certainty become her solace, letting the warmth of his love burn away all the shadows she carried.
Cush’s heart still thundered from the way Elora clung to him, her breath warm against his chest, her form draped trustingly atop him.
He could feel the echo of her darkness, a trembling thread that had woven through every brush of skin and every gasp.
It had been stronger tonight, more insistent, more desperate in its hunger.
That terrified him, but he would never let her see it.
He let out a slow breath, tightening his arms around her.
How could this woman be so infuriating and so necessary in the same heartbeat?
Elora drove him mad, her stubbornness, her refusal to yield even when her own body betrayed her.
When she was awake, she met his warnings with biting wit and a glare that could set the world ablaze.
But in these moments, when she gave in and let him take control, Cush felt more alive than he had in centuries.
He smoothed a hand over her back, feeling the heat of her skin, the silk of her hair spilling across his chest. She always said he was overbearing, too protective, but he couldn’t help it.
How could he not want to shield her from every threat, seen or unseen?
She was his center, his reason for breathing, fighting, hoping.
The idea of losing her to the darkness lurking in her blood made his jaw clench so hard it ached.