Chapter 26
The past few weeks had been good for my body.
That was apparent as I braided my hair in the vanity, the straw-colored strands strong between my fingers.
I’d grown accustomed to their usual brittleness, but they weren’t breaking as easily now as they once had.
And that wasn’t the only change. Whereas I’d once thought my cheeks rather sunken and dull, they now glowed with health in the firelight, and my limbs had begun to thicken with muscle.
I imagined that, were my eyes still brown, they might have a liveliness to them.
The violet and gold, however, were always vibrant.
And still odd to see on my face.
There was a knock at my door, and I turned just as Harthon stepped in and closed the door behind him, a tan tunic hanging freely over black trousers.
The vee at his neck was unlaced, the top of his chest unabashedly peeking through.
In his hands were the leather straps that held his daggers.
In the night-darkened room, shadows and firelight danced across his muscled form, his loose hair and the whiskers on his angular jaw appearing more black than brown.
It was late, the Citadel having turned down for bed an hour or two ago, leaving only the men who guarded us at night in the hallways and on the grounds.
The quiet made for a sense of privacy I didn’t always feel in my room, even if the door was closed.
Callen or Stefano or Felda and Frannie were always bustling in, but this time of night brought no interruptions.
My body became fully aware of this as I took in the man at my entranceway. Briefly, I remembered how it felt to share the saddle with him today, the way he sternly pushed but gave praise, how content I was to have his hands on my thighs.
Save for last night, Harthon had never entered my room this late.
I cleared my throat. “What’s going on?”
His attention slid to the chairs and table grouped next to the door. “Were you planning to barricade your door?”
The idea had felt silly when I’d thought of it earlier, but I wasn’t taking any chances. “With all the pulling I did today, I could have another dream like last night, and I’d like to keep myself in one living piece.”
“You won’t need the barricade,” he said, focusing his sights back on me. He walked further into the room, all confident strides. Even when he wasn’t intending to, he owned a space, commanded it.
Or maybe he always intended to.
“Why?”
“I’ll be here,” he answered simply.
He’s here to sleep with you.
My pulse quickened, but it wasn’t from apprehension. A small part of me, one I’d tried my best to ignore, had hoped he would join me again tonight. The tendril of attraction I felt for him had only been strengthened by our day, and now, in the intimate seclusion of my room, that tendril expanded.
It’s attraction and comradery, nothing more.
More than a little unsure of how to handle my internal reaction, I tried for a joke. “Are you going to do this every night?”
“Until we know you won’t launch yourself from a window, I think I’ll have to.”
Who knew how long that would take? “Won’t you miss your own bed? You might not sleep as well here.”
Why in the Domus are you giving him reasons not to stay? Because I was a blubbering idiot. That’s why.
The side of his lips curved up. “It’s no burden to stay with you. Trust me,” he drawled, effectively closing my mouth. Then he walked to my bed, where he toed off his boots and then tugged off his tunic.
Unable to help it, I took in the muscles and scars along his torso, watching his arms flex as he gripped the fabric and tossed it to the floor. His knives landed on top of it, within easy reach of the mattress. It really was unfair for any man to be built as he was.
He caught my greedy eyes, and I fumbled for something to say. “I…did you need to do that?”
His small smile expanded into one that was all rogue. “I grew up sleeping outside in the cold. I get hot at night in these rooms.”
Yes, of course. It wasn’t as if he was stripping for my pleasure.
I approached the bed before I could make a bigger fool of myself, carefully crawling in beside him as he stretched out, his feet nearly hanging off the end.
“You know, as Princeps, nothing is stopping you from sleeping outside in the garden where it’s cooler.”
Harthon turned onto his side and propped himself on an elbow, facing me. “Stripping seems to work just fine, but if you’d rather we sleep together outside stuffed in layers of clothing, we can do that.”
We both knew I’d rather be enveloped in his heat against his bare skin, but I’d be damned to say that out loud. “I’ve never had a comfortable bed until now. I want to use it as much as possible,” I replied instead, trying to relax against my pillow.
Instead of relaxing, though, my body only came more alive with awareness.
As if under a compulsion, I couldn’t stop my eyes from tracing the thick arm that propped him up, following that tanned skin to his sculpted chest and the dusky nipples there, up the thick cords of his neck, and back to his face.
Harthon stilled. “And how do you want to use this comfortable bed?”
There was a spark low in my abdomen. “For sleep,” I whispered.
For a moment, he lay there unmoving. Evaluating. Then he reached out, tracing the hair that swooped across my cheekbone and disappeared behind my ear. The skin of his fingertips was rough, but the touch was almost unbearably light. “Anything else?”
From the way he studied me with such clear intent, eyes nearly black, I knew it was an invitation. “Maybe for other things, too,” I breathed, too cowardly to tell him what I really wanted.
My evasion didn’t deter him in the slightest.
“Other things like this?” he said, and then the fingers on my hair turned into a hand that cupped the back of my head, holding me in place as he leaned in.
He kissed me softly, a gentle mingling of our lips, before pulling away a heartbeat later. Far too soon. I needed so much more.
“Yes, things like that,” I said, and then I closed my eyes and brought my lips to his before my mind could stop me.
Kissing was new to me. Desire wrestled with inhibition as I did my best to mimic him, slowly working at his lips. He lightly kissed me back, but it lacked the hunger he’d shown in the tower.
You’re butchering this.
I stopped, embarrassment hitting swiftly as I pulled away. I was assuming too much. Maybe he was actually here to sleep, or would rather be kissing someone else who actually knew what they were doing—
There was a rumble in his throat, almost a growl, and a second later, I found myself staring up at the shadowed ceiling. Lightning quick, he rolled his mass on top of me, bracing himself on his elbows. Thickly muscled thighs pressed into mine, trapping them there.
“We should stop, carella. But I find that I can’t.”
His lips descended, and then they devoured.
Hands tangling in my hair, the kiss was slow like before, but this time, it was demanding.
Gone was the patient introduction from the tower.
He offered no escape, and I asked for none, losing myself in the feel of him.
His teeth scraped across my lips, and then his tongue swooped in, exploring with a practiced finesse and fierceness that belonged only to Harthon.
The fluttering in my belly exploded into fire, and a muffled moan traveled out of my throat.
He hummed in response, the guttural sound vibrating against my chest that was suddenly aching, arching toward him, seeking something.
My hands found his arms, wrapping around the veined muscles there, just as I felt a hand at the edge of my tunic.
He tore his mouth away, breathing heavily. “Let me touch you.”
I panted, lips swollen, hardly even able to think. From the way he waited, it was a request for permission, not a demand. I nodded, wanting him to return, wanting him to fuel that throbbing heat.
His forehead dropped to mine. “I need to hear you say it, carella.”
How could he even speak so clearly right now? “Yes.”
Eyes blazing, he lowered his mouth to my neck, nipping and suckling, whiskers scraping my skin in a way that sent waves of fiery heat shooting to my toes.
Deft fingers lifted the hem of my tunic and slid onto my belly, caressing, tracing over my ribs and drifting higher and higher until reaching a part of me that no one else had ever touched.
Even there, he just continued to stroke my skin, the gentle exploration a stunning contrast to the way he owned my mouth—the way he moved and carried himself and fought.
My hands drifted to his shoulders, reveling in the strength there, grateful that every dimpled scar beneath my fingers hadn’t killed this man.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered as calloused fingers played with my flesh, the ache in my lower belly intensifying.
So are you.
His lips were on mine again before I could speak the words. Harthon was beautiful. He was strong and brutal yet gentle and caring, scarred and ruthless but selfless and honest. It was the kind of beauty that could ruin a person.
His fingers pinched, and I nearly lost my breath with the pleasure that pulsed between my legs.
I ground my hips into his, both surprised and emboldened by the long, hard ridge there.
He pulled away with a low curse. His hand abruptly left my skin and settled my tunic back in place.
A denial, a plea for more, flew to my lips.
Pride was all that staunched it. Still, I shook my head as his breathing slowed, desperately wanting him to return.
He reached up to stroke my cheek. “The things I want to do with you,” he rumbled, taking a breath that sought control.
“Do them,” I answered, still on fire, eager to let him do whatever it was he wanted, no matter what I’d think of it tomorrow.