CHAPTER SEVEN #3
Affection spread through Deckard’s chest. He opened his mouth to reply but couldn’t find words sufficient enough to express how her admission made him feel.
Everything inside him desired the same thing.
Not months, but years—centuries of life—with her.
He’d told her back in the countryside of the Shires that he intended to be a good husband to her, to do everything in his power to make her happy, no matter what that looked like.
That was the promise he’d made her. And he intended to spend every moment of his life fulfilling that vow.
Forsaking words, Deckard kissed his wife.
Her arms wrapped around his neck as he drew her onto his lap.
He trailed his fingers across her thighs to slip under the hem of the shirt she wore.
These were the slow, tender kisses they shared most often, testing, exploratory, and gentle.
Even as their touches grew more intimate, their lips were unhurried in their caresses.
Evylin sighed as his hands slid up her bare back. He fought a smile, determined not to cause any impediment to the continuation of their kisses. She settled a hand on his jaw, growing more intense in her ardor. He was scarcely less eager.
A sudden, irritating trio of knocks sounded on their door.
They froze, lips still pressed together as their eyes flew open.
Another knock, and Evylin pulled back. They turned to glare in the offending sound’s direction.
“Jonn,” Thom called from the other side. “It’s me. Open up.”
Evylin quirked her brow at Deckard, a twinkle coming into her eyes.
Deckard didn’t return her amusement.
Thom started knocking again. “Jonn, I have to talk to you.”
Evylin slid off Deckard’s lap.
“I’m going to kill him,” Deckard grumbled, climbing free of the blankets. The cold floor seared his bare feet, and he cursed as Thom started knocking again. “Give me a second!”
Chuckling at his irritation, Evylin leaped from the bed, kissed his cheek as he struggled into his pants, and moved for the changing screen. Flirt that she was, she began to remove the shirt before disappearing from view.
Sure that he was about to have a conniption, Deckard crossed the room and yanked open the door to glare at his brother. “What?” he snarled.
Thom furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, pushing into the room. “Where’s Evie?”
Evylin’s hand appeared above the screen. “Here.”
“Ah,” Thom said, then took in the bed and Deckard’s disheveled state, raised his brow, and said, “Ah.” He grimaced and murmured, “Sorry.”
“Do you have a reason for being here?” Deckard asked.
“I do,” Thom said, then gave a dramatically flourished bow. “I’m officially a page. Archminister Fishere is here—Lord Fishere, as his title is, apparently—and he’s requested that I usher you down to his office on some pressing Alliance matter.”
“His office?” Deckard asked, shutting the door.
Thom took a seat at the corner table. “Your room is fancier than mine,” he noted. He shrugged. “The nobleman owns the place. Maurus is just his manager. Fishere comes in every so often to check the books and such. Why is it so cold in here?”
“That’s an excellent question,” Evylin called.
Deckard didn’t bother to divert his attention to lighting the corner stove but moved to finish dressing. “Did the Archminister say why he wants to meet with me?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” Thom said. “Only that he requires your presence in a meeting, and he’s sending you off to meet with someone else afterward. Granted, I got all this from the clerk’s daughter, so I might’ve missed something.”
“Mm.” Deckard tucked his shirt into his trousers, then grabbed his boots. “Hopefully, one of these meetings will include Highlord Obel.”
“Who?”
“The Night Mage.”
Thom nodded. “Right. I assumed one would be about tonight’s ceremony, what with you two Bonding and all.”
Evylin appeared from behind the screen fully dressed, a light blue skirt swirling around her hips. “Then why ask for only Jonn’s attendance?” she asked. “If it’s about Bonding, I should be there, too, shouldn’t I?”
“I should think so,” Deckard agreed. He snagged his coat from the wardrobe and shrugged it on, turning to Evylin. “Are you ready?”
“Just about,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed, tying off her boots. She slipped a small dagger next to her ankle and reached toward the nightstand. “Here.”
Deckard caught the Night Relic. “I’ll be glad to get rid of this thing,” he said, draping it over his head. He tucked it out of sight, then buttoned his coat.
Thom watched the process with an expression of worry. “You could always give it back to Rafferty or me,” he offered.
Though the idea was tempting, Deckard shook his head. “We only have two Relics left. Rafferty can keep one safe easily enough, but I’m the only one who can alter the appearance of this one. As it doesn’t affect me like it does others, it’s best that I keep it for now.”
“But why doesn’t it affect you?” Evylin said, joining him and Thom at the door. “You should ask Highlord Obel that question.”
“I will,” Deckard promised.
They headed for the stairs, Thom and Evylin keeping pace on either side of him.
Deckard couldn’t help but let a faint smile emerge.
For once in his life, everything seemed to be going right, at least relationally.
He and his wife were in love. He and his brother were friends.
So what if they were fighting for their lives? They were soldiers—that was their job.
Now, he just needed to ensure his magic didn’t ruin everything they were working toward.