Chapter 25
I clung to Gemma and Farrin until everything downstairs fell quiet. The light outside had dimmed, and so had the fire; soft shadows painted the room.
I listened to my sisters breathing in the dark. Both of them were still awake. Other than Farrin singing her song, neither of them had said a word. I was glad; I wouldn’t have been able to respond.
“Why are you all here?” I said at last. My voice was hoarse, as if I’d not used it for days.
“Philippa summoned us,” Farrin replied quietly. “She hasn’t yet told us why. She said she wouldn’t until you arrived.”
“Summoned? How did she summon you?”
“Do you remember when we first found Wardwell? We heard that voice in the forest calling to us through the snow, but we didn’t yet know that the voice was hers, and none of the others could hear it.”
The others. Talan, Ryder.
Gareth.
I swallowed hard. “I remember.”
“It was like that,” Gemma said, “except an image instead of a sound. One moment, I was kissing Talan. The next, I opened my eyes and saw Mother shimmering just beyond him.” Her voice turned wry.
“I nearly jumped out of my skin, which made her laugh. For a moment, until he realized what was happening, I think Talan was terrified I’d lost my mind.
To him, it was like I was talking to the air.
But I could see her as clearly as I see you now. ”
I pulled back from her in alarm. “Where were you when this happened? Was anyone else nearby?”
She shook her head. “We’d just returned to Gallinor after two weeks in Vauzanne and were in our room at Ramble House, that inn near Brightbell Vale?”
“And I was in my office at the Citadel,” Farrin added. “Not even Ryder was with me.”
“She said she needed to speak with all of us urgently, and then she was gone.”
I cursed under my breath. “And then she went looking for me at Rosewarren. If anyone besides us could somehow manage to see her, it would be the Warden. We’ll have to hope Mother’s visit was as covert as she claims.” I sat up and pushed gently past Gemma to climb out of bed. “I’ve got to go see Gareth.”
“You need rest,” Farrin protested. “Your feet—”
“Have already begun to heal, thanks to your excellent care.” It was true. Even though they were tender to walk on, I could feel all of my toes.
I gripped the banisters hard with both hands as I hobbled downstairs in my socked feet, but when I reached the kitchen, Gareth wasn’t there.
Only my parents sat at the table, talking quietly.
A plate of sandwiches sat between them. Once I would have marveled at the sight of them together like this, looking just like any other husband and wife.
But now a fist of panic grabbed my throat. I strode toward them unsteadily, forcing my wobbly legs to move faster. “Where is he?”
Mother looked up at me. “He’s in the back room next to mine, resting and recovering.” She raised an eyebrow. “As you should be.”
“He’ll live?” I clutched the back of an empty chair. The wood creaked in my grip. “He’ll be all right?”
“Indeed he will be. He’s stronger than he looks, that one.”
Before she’d even finished speaking, I was hurrying down the hallway toward the back of the house. It was obvious which bedroom was my mother’s—ivy vines framed the door—and just past it was another smaller room with a bed, a fireplace, a curtained window, a thick rug. And in the bed was Gareth.
He was sleeping, so I sank quietly into the chair at his bedside, drinking in the sight of his mussed blond hair, the slight flush of color in his cheeks, the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was in fresh clothes, his face held no pain, and his throat was smooth.
Only a faint silver scar marked where Errik had slashed him.
I longed to bury my face in that precious curve of his neck and breathe him in, feel the pulse of his heartbeat against my cheek. But something rooted me to my chair, and I sat there stiffly, my muscles aching with tension, until at last Gareth’s eyelids fluttered open and he looked at me.
Tears sprang to my eyes. There was so much to say to him—how good it was to see the bright green of his eyes instead of that glassy film of death; how sorry I was for how I’d behaved after our night together.
How awful it had felt to hold him in my arms as he bled and wonder if I’d ever again hear him say my name.
“Hello,” I whispered instead. It was the only word I could manage.
He smiled and reached for me. “You look like you’re about to burst. Come here, darling.”
The sound of his voice unraveled me. I climbed into the bed and burrowed against him, and when his arms came around me and I felt his hand in my hair, the sob I’d been holding in my throat finally spilled out. I cried into his neck, pressed a kiss to his scar.
“I’m so sorry, Gareth.” I could barely speak, but it was important that he knew that I knew how foolish I’d been. “I’m sorry for all the cruel things I said to you.”
“Mara, there’s no need—”
“Of course suffering is not a competition. I’m sorry your mother was awful to you. And loving you is worth it to me. I do love you.” My breath hitched on the words. “I love you, I love you.”
I had his quilt’s hem in a death grip. Gently he uncurled my scarred hand and brought it to his lips.
“I’d go through all of this again,” he murmured against my skin, “if it meant I could wake up and hear you say that.”
“Don’t make jokes. You’ll never have to go through something like this again, not as long as I have breath in my body. I’ll destroy anyone who tries to hurt you. I’ll tear them apart. I’ll shatter them.”
He hummed deep in his chest. “Again, it’s not that I have a death wish, particularly, but the image of you coming to my defense in a vengeful battle fever is a truly glorious one.”
I pulled back to look at him. He touched my face, his expression crumpling.
“Please don’t cry,” he said. “It breaks my heart to see you cry.”
“I was awful to you.”
“No, you were afraid, and I don’t blame you. I shouldn’t have been so…”
“Annoying? Insistent? Blithe?”
Grinning, he wiped away my tears with his thumb.
“Yes, yes, and yes. Blame it on the afterglow, but I know that doesn’t excuse my behavior.
” He softened. “You’ve known such loss, more than anyone should ever have to endure.
And I do understand that. I’m not so madly in love that I’ve lost all my common sense. ”
“I still think this is a terrible idea.”
He smiled softly. “Loving me?”
“And you loving me.”
“Oh, do I love you? Hmm, let me think. Yes, I do seem to recall saying something along those lines.”
I let out a shaky laugh against his chest. “You’re ruining a nice moment.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” He shifted slightly, which helped me settle even more closely against him. Then he put two gentle fingers beneath my chin, brought my mouth to his, and murmured, “Let me make it up to you.”
At first I stiffened, afraid I would hurt him.
I should stop this, I thought. I should insist that he rest. But his kisses were slow, tender, and with each soft brush of his lips—against the corners of my mouth, the curve of my cheekbones, the dip of my chin—I felt the tension throughout my body unspool until all thoughts of caution bled from my mind.
I needed more. I needed to confirm with touch and heat and rhythm that he was alive, that he was mine, that I was his.
I hooked a leg over his thigh and pulled myself as close to him as I could, slid my hands into his hair and held him still so I could kiss him properly.
No more of these light caresses, these whispers of skin to skin.
I deepened my kisses, slid my tongue against his, shivered when he groaned beneath me and grabbed my hips.
The air between us turned urgent and hungry.
He tore his lips from mine, fisted his hand in my hair, and tugged my head back to expose my throat.
He buried his face there and kissed every tender bit of skin, sucking and nibbling until I softly cried out in his arms. Then he ran his hand down my body, slid his fingers beneath my waistband, and found me bare and hot, slick with wanting.
“Gods, Mara,” he groaned into my hair, “you know how to drive a man to his knees.”
“You’re not on your knees,” I pointed out, grinning.
“Not yet, but the night is young.” He slid two fingers inside me, and as I arched against him, my mouth open in a silent cry, he murmured, “Are you comfortable with me ravishing you in the room next to your mother’s?”
“If they have any sense at all, she and Father will plug their ears and stay in the kitchen for the rest of the night,” I replied breathlessly, circling against his hand.
He laughed quietly, a sweet, joyful sound that had me smiling into his kisses. Then his fingers curled just right inside me, and I clamped my thighs around his arm and grabbed his hair, gasping against him. My legs were shaking, my blood roaring.
“Gareth—” I let out a little sob.
“You need me inside you,” he said hoarsely, his breath hot against my ear. “Is that it? You need to feel just how much I want you. You need me to help you come.”
The low rumble of his voice, so rough with desire, painted my skin with goose bumps. I was close to finishing right there against his hand, my body flushed all over and trembling, and neither of us had even bothered to take off our clothes.
“Hurry,” I whispered. I kissed his temple, tasted sweat and skin. “Need you now. Gareth.”
He moved quickly, twisting so that his body was half on top of mine, pinning me to the mattress.
I reached down to draw him out of his pants, and when my fingers closed around him—gods, he was hard, and scorching hot—his hips jerked against me, and he tugged my pants down to my knees, and then he was inside me, and the sensation of him filling me so completely, the shaky heat of his breath twining with mine, was like the feeling of coming home that had always haunted my dreams.
I touched my brow to his and closed my eyes, focusing on his warmth, his scent, the simple goodness of his hands on my body.
“I thought I’d lost you,” I whispered, fresh tears thick in my voice.
“And yet you’re still here,” he said gently. “That threat of loss didn’t scare you away.”
“Not this time.”
“Not ever?”
Not ever. The words were right there on my tongue, but I couldn’t quite say them. “I’ll try,” I whispered. “That’s all I can promise right now.”
He tilted up my chin, prompting me to open my eyes. His smile was so sweet that I could hardly breathe. “I thank you for that promise, Mara Ashbourne,” he said quietly, “and I will do everything I can to honor it.”
Then he bent low and kissed me, and as I held on to him, meeting each of his kisses with one of my own, he began to move, slowly, deeply.
With each delicious thrust, he drew himself completely out of me, then waited for the slightest beat, hovering at my entrance, before sliding back into me, inch by aching inch, until I was full and complete once more.
My body hummed from head to toe. I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight, my fingers digging into the muscles of his back as his thrusts grew faster, driving me closer and closer to the edge with each press of his hips.
A hot wave of pleasure was building inside me, spilling like sunlight down my arms and legs, and when it crested, sharp and sudden, it took my breath away.
I cried out, not caring who heard me, and clung to him, and as my body clenched around him, he moved in me again and again, his breath coming in hard bursts against my neck until suddenly he choked out my name and shuddered against me.
We lay like that for what felt like a lifetime—a long, slow, golden lifetime in a world made only for us.
He nestled against me; I stroked his hair.
His slowing heartbeat drummed against mine, and when we were calm, we finally moved apart and lay among the scattered blankets in drowsy silence.
He lightly dragged his fingers down my arm, watching my goose bumps with wonder.
I traced the shape of his face until I knew every line of it by heart.
“I’m so glad you’re here with me,” I said at last. I couldn’t look at him after that, too embarrassed by the words I hadn’t said.
You’ve come back to me.
I’m so glad you’re alive.
He seemed to understand anyway. He pulled me close and kissed my forehead, and I fell asleep listening to the precious sound of his breathing—steady, sure, and warm.