Chapter Twenty-Six
Calliope opened her eyes to find another pair already on her. Lord. Those eyes. Dark, unblinking, unbearably intense. Maxen lay on his side, head propped in one hand, as though he’d been content to spend the rest of the morning simply watching her breathe.
A blush of heat spread through her whole body at his regard.
“Don’t look at me,” she squawked, her voice still raspy with sleep.
“Why not?” His mouth curved faintly. “You’re so beautiful.”
“No one is beautiful in the mornings.”
“You are.”
So beautiful. In a way that defied even beauty.
Was this what happened when a man you desired so completely that you began questioning your whole being smiled at you in such a way?
Her bones softened all at once. Perhaps peace was the biggest, most elusive, dream of them all.
Always hoped for but never quite accomplished.
Perhaps peace lived in a wild wilderness that was never meant to be tamed.
Perhaps that was the allure of the hopeful understanding of peace.
He traced the curve of her nose with a knuckle. “How are you feeling?”
Embarrassed! “I might ask the same of you.”
“My scalp is numb from all your yanking, but other than that, I’ve never felt better.”
Her body burned hotter at the bluntness. “Why are you so honest in the morning? I think I much prefer the silent, broody you.”
“I, myself, am surprised.”
“What’s the hour?” she asked, diverting the subject to a less embarrassing one. “Do you know?”
“Noon.”
She shot upright, clutching the blanket to her body. “Noon?” Her mind leapt ridiculously to his brothers. What would they think? What would they say? “I need to return to my shop!”
His brow furrowed as he rose with her. “Why?”
“The threat is gone, is it not? I can’t just abandon my shop. And you must have,” she hesitated, “you know, underlord things to do.”
“I don’t.” He drew her back lazily against him. “Stay for a little while longer.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
She blinked at him. “Is that a demand?”
He rubbed his cheek against hers. “No. Just a command.”
She gave him a snort.
Hah! Hah . . . She could still scarcely believe this moment.
She had—heavens above—slept with a man. In his bed.
Joined bodies with him. With him. The very thought probably should have horrified her even just the slightest bit now that the adventure of the night had passed.
Not now. She had done the most natural thing in all the world.
Her body, her heart, her very bones had always known he was meant to be hers.
And she his.
Which was absurd, of course. Entirely mad. And yet . . .
Promise me.
Lord. For the love of wax, Lord.
She had promised. She’d made a promise! In her books, she might as well have married the man. And she wanted nothing more than to laze in this bed, curl herself into him, and allow the day melt away. But she could not. Her shop called. Responsibility tugged. She couldn’t let him sway her. Right?
Wait! Her dog! She glanced up at Maxen. “Where is Prince?”
Not even a pause. “Knight has him.”
Wait . . . “Knight, as in your brother?”
“Is there another?”
Her face went hot. “Maxen! Does he know?” She motioned wildly at the tangle of linens between them.
A soft chuckle grazed her ear, unexpectedly wicked. “Feeling embarrassed?”
“Yes!” she hissed. She jabbed a finger at him. “Wouldn’t you?”
He pushed into her, his lips brushing her temple, his breath warm and sure. “I could never feel embarrassed with you.”
The words shot straight through her chest, as did the hardness of his body, leaving her momentarily speechless. What kind of man said such things after ruining a woman’s every good sense? And worse, what kind of woman’s whole body went weak at them?
Yours.
Hah!
Calliope, you harlot, you!
“Such deep words in the morning.”
This time he hesitated before murmuring lowly, but with conviction, “I’m not a man of depth.”
She didn’t believe that. But then, all people had multiple depths to them. “It’s all right to have shallows as well. The ocean isn’t all deep. It’s shallow too. And the deep parts push out waves that roll out to crash onto shallow shores. They are all still beautiful.”
“There is nothing beautiful about me.”
“I suppose you are right. Handsome would be the better word.”
A grunt-like scoff.
“But you know, you make me forget the world I left behind,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “That cannot be a good thing.”
“We all leave worlds behind. I’d like to believe that’s a good thing.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“Your past?” Calliope asked. That world, she could understand. Some worlds weren’t meant to be carried forward. Others were meant to be loosened from the heart.
His lips brushed hers. “Past, future, everything except every moment with you.”
He bit back a grin. “And you claim not to be romantic.”
“Don’t fool yourself.” A sneer touched his features.
She chuckled. One fact stood above the rest: A part of her, perhaps the biggest part, wanted to be rescued. Not slay the villain herself. A part that longed to lay the burden down. Simply be happy. But him? In a curious twist of fate, she’d save him, even if it meant she perished in his stead.
Fanciful thoughts, no doubt.
“Nevertheless, I really must go.”
“Why a candle shop?” he asked suddenly, his thumb idly tracing a circle on her skin as though the question were nothing.
Calliope didn’t have to think to answer.
“My mother. I used to sit with her while she coaxed light from wax. The motion of her hands. The puckered brow while she deeply concentrated on her task. Her smile when my father interrupted. Him joining their efforts. Starting my shop, it’s .
. . it’s the only part of them I could keep alive. ”
“You are honoring them. Noble.”
She smiled at him. “Noble, eh?”
“Noble.” He shifted, hovering, no, looming over her, his arm braced in the pillows, caging her in with the sheer breadth of him.
Her breath hitched as his shadow fell across her face, his eyes dark and determined, as though he’d read every frantic beat of her heart and had decided precisely what to do with it!
And she had a clue.
“Maxen,” she whispered, nerves tangling with sudden want. “I really—”
Her words cut off as his mouth found hers. A slow, deliberate kiss that unraveled her protest before it ever formed.
Between breaths, she tried again, desperate for reason. “I—”
Kiss.
“Need—”
Kiss.
“To—”
Another kiss, harder, hotter, until her thoughts frayed completely.
“Go,” she managed, though the word came out ragged, half-melted against his lips.
He claimed her thoroughly then, robbing her of all thoughts until there was nothing left but the feel of him, the taste of him, the wild certainty that she belonged here.
With him.
Her fingers curled helplessly in the bedding, the other slipping up to his chest. Stars, sun, and wax, his heart pounded beneath her palm.
“I can’t stay,” she whispered against his mouth, though her lips sought his even as she said the words.
“You can,” he answered, his hand cupping her cheek, holding her still for yet another kiss. “And you will.”
Her pulse rioted. “Maxen, for the love of wax, Fury . . .”
“Calliope, for the love of my sanity, Turner,” he returned.
Her lips parted, but before she could say anything, he kissed her again, sweeping away all rationality until she was lost, wholly and completely, beneath the onslaught of him.
By the time he drew back, leaving her dazed and panting beneath him, Calliope had forgotten every sensible reason she’d had to leave.
And stars help her. How was she supposed to care?
*
Maxen leaned over the desk in his room at the tavern, papers spread in chaotic disarray before him.
Columns of figures bled together, black ink smudged by his restless fingers, the abominable accounts staring back like a damn battlefield.
He had neglected them for days. Ever since Calliope had stepped, uninvited, into his world and left him unwilling to think about anything else.
Damn it.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, glaring at a ledger that stubbornly refused to make sense.
It ought to have his complete focus. He was, after all, responsible for keeping order over a realm most men of his birth would never dream to rule.
But numbers, profits, collections—all of it seemed a pale, bloodless thing compared to the warmth of Calliope in his bed this morning.
He leaned back in the chair and shut his eyes. He had not wanted to let her go. Hadn’t wanted to leave her to her lodgings tonight, alone. The beast inside him had snarled at the very thought of it, urging him to keep her close, to keep her his.
And yet, urgent matters required his attention. Debts to tally, shipments to account for, men to pay. Losses to count. Retribution to plot. He told himself he would see to each quickly, neatly, so that tomorrow he might call on her with his conscience clear.
Tomorrow.
He shifted in the chair, eyes snapping open to slide to the clock. Four hours. It had only been four blasted hours.
That was enough time, surely. Enough time for her to catch her breath?
Or was it too soon?
Might she want more space? He thought of her blush this morning, her startled laugh, the way she’d clutched him as if her modesty might yet be salvaged.
Or had that been a slap? Regardless, she might prefer a night of peace.
A night without him looming in doorways, stealing her protests with kisses.
His jaw tightened, hating the thought of separating even for a night. Should he wait? Could he wait? Was the threat truly over? He could use that as an excuse . . .
His eyes fixed once more on the clock.
Four hours.
Damnation. He was already halfway to the door when it swung open and Drake strode in. The arse didn’t even bother with greetings. Just jabbed a folded parchment into his chest and crossed his arms.
Maxen arched a brow. “You look like you need a drink.”