Chapter 4 #2
The name hung unspoken between us—Edda, always Edda. Her ghost in every corner of this place, in the untouched chambers and the careful distance he maintained and the way he looked at me sometimes like he was seeing through me to someone else.
Through the bond I felt his pain at the comparison, sharp as broken glass. But also, underneath it, that flicker of hope growing stronger. Because I hadn't said no. I hadn't chosen to leave. I was asking for time, for proof, for a chance to choose with full knowledge instead of magical compulsion.
"Three days," I said, meeting his eyes steadily despite the chaos in my chest. "Then I'll decide about the Pact. Either way, we'll both know the truth."
His hands clenched and unclenched in a rhythm that matched his breathing—controlled, deliberate, the movements of someone talking himself through each second of restraint.
I watched him struggle, saw it in every line of his body.
The war between what he wanted—to grab this chance with both hands—and what he feared—that three days would only make losing me worse.
Through the bond came fragments of his thoughts, not words but impressions. The last person who'd slept in this bed. The last time he'd felt hope. The crushing weight of centuries alone, and how three days of almost-having might be worse than never having at all.
"You would stay," he said slowly, testing each word. "For three days. To . . . explore."
"To understand," I corrected. "To know what I'm choosing, really choosing, not just being swept along by magic and desperation."
His laugh was short and bitter. "As if any of us truly choose. The bond—"
"The bond brought us together," I interrupted, surprising myself with my boldness. "But what we do with that connection, how we build on it or ignore it or shape it—that's choice. That's human. Or dragon. Or whatever we are together."
Something shifted in his expression, the ancient weight of him settling into a different configuration. When he spoke again, his voice carried notes I hadn't heard before—younger somehow, less certain.
"You don't understand what you're asking. To care, to truly care again—"
"I'm not asking you to love me," I said quickly, though something in my chest twisted at the words. “And I want to explore what this dynamic means—the rules, the discipline, the . . . intimacy."
The last word hung between us like a struck bell, resonating through the bond.
Arousal spiked from both sides, his mixing with mine until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
My thighs pressed together involuntarily, seeking pressure, and his hands clenched hard enough that I heard knuckles crack.
"But no sex," he stated flatly, though his voice had gone rough as mountain stone. "Not until the Pact. Your body couldn't handle it.”
“No sex?”
He shook his head, and I knew he was telling the truth.
I’d be obliterated.
"Then everything else," I said, surprising myself with my boldness. The words came from somewhere deeper than thought, some part of me that knew what it needed. "Touch, closeness, whatever is safe. I need to know how it feels before I commit to forever."
The silence stretched between us like a living thing.
Through the bond I felt him cycling through emotions too complex to name—want that burned like forge-fire, terror cold as underground rivers, need that went beyond physical into something cellular, grief that had roots a thousand years deep.
All of it spinning through him while he stood perfectly still, only those pulsing veins betraying the storm inside.
"You're asking me to open doors I sealed centuries ago," he said finally, each word careful as cut stone.
"I'm asking you to try." I uncurled from my defensive position, legs sliding off the bed to touch the floor. "Three days of trying. That's all."
Another long silence. Pebble chirped from his chair, the sound somehow both encouragement and warning. Garruk's gaze flicked to the little dragon, and something passed between them—some communication I couldn't interpret but felt the edges of through the bond.
"Three days," he said finally, and I felt the moment he decided, like watching a dam crack before the flood. "Starting now. But if at any point you want to stop, to leave, you say so immediately. No hesitation, no sparing my feelings. You speak your truth."
I nodded, throat suddenly tight with something that might have been relief or fear or both. "I promise."
"First," he said, moving toward the door with sudden purpose that made my stomach flip.
His entire demeanor had shifted—still controlled but directed now, decision made and action following.
"We must remove the scent of the human world.
The warrens cling to you—fear, hunger, desperation.
It will interfere with the bond's development. "
He paused in the doorway, looking back at me with eyes that held heat I hadn't seen before.
Not the careful control of yesterday but something rawer, more immediate.
The three days had begun, and already I could feel the change in him—walls coming down by deliberate choice rather than magical compulsion.
"Come with me."
The command in his voice sent heat straight to my core, pooling low and insistent. My body responded before my mind could catch up, already moving to follow him.
"Bring nothing," he added as I reached for my belt. "The warrens end here. For the next three days, you're mine to tend."
Mine. The word echoed through the bond, carrying layers of meaning—possession and protection, desire and determination.
I left Mica on the pillow—even she smelled of the warrens, of years of desperate clutching and whispered fears. Barefoot, wearing only the shift he'd given me, I followed him from the room.
The thermal pool chamber took my breath away—it was incredibly beautiful.
Natural hot springs cascaded down through terraced stone basins, each pool carved by centuries of mineral-rich water into perfect hollows.
Steam rose in luminous veils that caught light from somewhere deep beneath the surface, turning the air into liquid silver that tasted of deep earth and ancient heat.
The pools descended in levels, each one a different shade of blue-green, from pale seafoam at the highest to deep jade at the lowest. The sound of water moving between them created a constant music—not the desperate drip of warren pipes but something deliberate, eternal.
Mineral deposits had painted the stone in ribbons of white and gold and rust, nature's artwork that no human hand could replicate.
"This has always been here," Garruk said, voice softening with something that might have been reverence. "Before I claimed the mountain, before the first humans walked these peaks. The water comes from so deep it carries the earth's own heat."
He moved to stand near the middle pool, where steam rose thickest. "Remove your shift."
The command sent dual reactions through me—my body responding with heat while my mind stuttered over the casualness of it. But this was what I'd asked for, wasn't it? To explore the dynamic, to understand what surrender meant.
He turned his back before I could respond, giving me privacy I hadn't expected.
But through the bond, I felt his awareness of every sound—fabric sliding over skin, the soft rustle as the shift pooled at my feet, my shallow breathing that had nothing to do with the steam and everything to do with being naked while he stood three feet away.
His shoulders were rigid with control, those crystalline veins pulsing faster than their usual rhythm. Through our connection came waves of want barely leashed, the effort it took to keep his back turned when every instinct demanded he look, touch, claim.
The water was perfect—hot enough to sting at first contact, then soothing as my body adjusted.
This water had weight to it, mineral-rich and almost silky, like being held by the mountain itself.
I sank deeper, letting it cover me to my shoulders, and couldn't suppress a small sound of pleasure as my muscles began to unknot.
"May I?" He had turned back while I was distracted, now kneeling beside the pool with a cloth and soap that looked nothing like the harsh lye bars of the warrens.
His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms corded with strength, those strange crystalline veins creating patterns beneath his skin that shifted with his pulse.
At my nod, he dipped the cloth in the water, then worked the soap into a lather that smelled of minerals and moss, earth and growing things. "Your hair first."
I turned my back to him, the position requiring trust I didn't know I had.
His fingers slid into my tangled hair with infinite patience, working through knots that had accumulated over years of inadequate care.
The warrens didn't waste water on luxury like proper hair washing.
Quick dunks in cold basins, harsh soap that left everything brittle—that was all I'd known.
This was something else entirely. His fingers against my scalp were firm but gentle, massaging in circles that made every nerve ending spark to life. The soap was creamy, almost oil-like, and as he worked it through the length of my hair, I could feel years of grime and fear washing away.
I moaned involuntarily—couldn't help it. The sensation was too good, too much, too everything.
He froze. Through the bond white-hot want crashed into me like a physical force, his control fracturing. His fingers tightened in my hair, not painful but possessive, and I felt his breathing change behind me.
"Don't," he said roughly. "Don't make those sounds unless you want—"
"What if I do want?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His hands left my hair abruptly, and I heard him take a deliberate step back. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully controlled, though I could feel the effort it cost him.
"Turn around."