Chapter 9 The Water’s Edge
The Water’s Edge
Auryn returned to the tent with Kailorien’s hand cupping her elbow. The night was thick with the hush of river mist, and the scent of charred meat clung to her skin. Her limbs were weak with exhaustion, yet beneath pulsed something else.
Hunger. Want. That terrifying, sacred ache that had begun at the feast fire and hadn’t let go.
Kailorien guided her behind the tent’s thin partition with a gentleness that made her chest ache.
“Go on,” he murmured. “Warm water’s ready. Take your time.”
He gave her a bowl of hot broth, a bundle of folded cloth, and his quiet presence as she bathed. Her fingers slipped more than once—the soap too slick, the steam clouding her thoughts. Still, she managed.
She emerged and dressed with heavy thoughts.
Tonight, I want to come to him as I am. As myself. What purpose is there in denying what my body wants? What my heart, too, longs for?
Yet she hesitated. Before the mirror, she wrung her hands, unsteady as a leaf in the wind. Being near him set her nerves alight. Worse, the tether that had always hummed between them—silent, invisible—pulled now with sharp insistence, leaving her no choice but to face her desire head-on.
It is not for me to want. To keep.
But if Ennea did not intend for me to feel desire, why grant me the capacity for it?
She drew a breath. Lifted her chin. And turned, prepared to meet him.
Past the partition, Resh exhaled and sat at the edge of the cot. He needed something to do. Anything to keep from crossing that thin veil of fabric and falling to his knees.
The Resh’Agar was the Arm of War. But he was also a creature of flesh. He’d been bred to recognize desire. To wield it. To sense it. And what he’d felt today when he touched Auryn’s shoulders—when he caught the flush on her cheeks at the feast—had been raw. Honest. Unmistakable.
I nearly stole her away from them all. Nearly let my hands wander.
Frustration drove his focus to his armor.
One of the lower plates bore a dent from the skirmish—not deep, but enough to command his focus.
He unbuckled his shirt and belt, letting cool air bite his sweat-marked skin.
Leather straps peeled free one by one. His chest rose and fell, scarred, inked with the black lattice of his Runesgram.
He set the plates aside, fingers grazing the damaged edge.
Water trickled behind the partition.
Then silence.
A shift in the air.
The flap pulled aside.
He looked up—and forgot how to breathe.
She stood barefoot, hair loose in a silver cascade, wearing the gown he’d found her in when the ice still remembered her name.
It clung in places, floated in others, thin fabric catching with every move.
The neckline slipped low, baring the curve of her collarbone and the soft swell of her breasts.
The skirt shimmered like starlight poured through water.
For a moment, silence.
Then—she stepped forward.
Her feet whispered against the rugs, the gown brushing her ankles. Just as she had all those days ago, tying that ribbon in his hair, she came to stand between his knees.
He met her gaze this time. And didn’t look away.
His eyes traced her bare shoulders, the rise of her breath, the way damp strands clung like silk against her skin.
Those ethereal freckles dusted the tops of her shoulders, too—not just her cheeks.
Like twinkling stars, they spread outward in a trail of misty light, kissing the swell of her chest and winding beneath the shimmering cloth.
She glowed, though whether it was his longing or some truth of her nature, he couldn’t tell.
Leaning forward, he rested one elbow on his thigh, as his free hand reached for a fold of her gown. He caught it between his fingers, stroked the fabric, then lifted it to his lips.
“Do you realize,” he said, voice rough, “what you look like right now?”
She met his gaze. “I wanted you to see me.”
His tone sank lower. “I do. Clearly.”
Her throat bobbed.
He caught every quiver, every breath, every flicker of shyness in her limbs—and the fire behind her eyes.
“Starlight,” he murmured. His hands rose to rest on her hips, palms broad enough to span her belly. His touch was measured, controlled. Thumbs brushed her waist. Circling.
“If you stand between my knees like this again, in that gown no less…” his jaw tightened, “…I might forget every vow I’ve made not to touch you.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Instead, she reached up, sliding a strand of onyx hair behind his ear. “Perhaps I want you to forget,” she whispered. “It seems a foolish vow, when you haven’t asked what I want.”
Her scent—fresh from the bath—twined around him like incense. Droplets clung to the ends of her hair, a fine shimmer tracing her collarbone. His mouth went dry.
He lifted his gaze. Past the curve of her neck. Past the temptation of her lips. Until it locked with the silver depths of her eyes.
Auryn’s heart fluttered when their gazes met.
His thumbs kept circling, wider and wider, claiming more and more territory with each pass.
“Your runes,” she breathed. “You promised to tell me about them.”
His hands stilled.
A slow smile touched his mouth.
“I did. But you’ll need a closer look to understand.”
One arm slid to her lower back, drawing her forward until her hips pressed against his thighs. His body radiated more warmth than the fluxhearth, and she couldn’t help but lean in.
“Careful. Some of them still burn from the fight,” he warned.
Then he went still, letting her explore, his breath shallow but steady. Beneath her palms, muscles shifted—solid, alive—yet he didn’t guide her, surrendering himself into her hands.
She traced his left shoulder first. Branded into the skin was a rune she hadn’t seen.
“Hjarta,” he murmured. “It keeps the cold from me.”
“That’s why you burn at night,” she whispered with a small smile.
Her thumb lingered, brushing raised skin. The mark glowed beneath her touch. She moved to his right arm, where dark runes braided from elbow to shoulder.
“Minor,” he said. “Strength. Weapon control. Mana containment. Nothing like those on my spine.”
She wanted to see those too but kept silent. Instead, her gaze caught the faint etching above the bridge of his nose—dark blue, like the shadow of his irises.
“This one—”
“Kenaz,” he supplied. “Night vision. Lets me see what others can’t.”
She touched it, smoothing the furrow in his brow. Her fingers wandered lower. Across his chest. He hitched a breath when she brushed his sternum. Just left of center, near his heart—an intricate sigil in the shape of a circle with barbs pointing outward like rays of the sun.
“Ansuz,” he breathed. “Pain suppression. Enough to keep me standing when I should fall.”
You keep him strong—she thought, pressing her lips to it. Thank you.
He inhaled sharply but didn’t move.
“Does it still hurt?” she whispered.
His eyes caught hers. “Sometimes. The rune dulls it. But pain is part of what I am.”
The words sank into her; stones dropped in still water. Her touch drifted lower, along his ribs. He tensed.
“Perthro,” he said. “It shows me what I can’t see. Shifts in combat. Unseen threats.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“I know,” she murmured. “But still—it’s beautiful.”
He shifted, and for a heartbeat she glimpsed the vast rune scrawled across his shoulder blade, curling down his back like a beast at rest.
“Krathar,” he named it. “Strength enough to tear walls down.”
She swallowed, tracing the edge she could reach. Heat pulsed beneath her hands.
“You were made for war,” she whispered.
“I was made to rule it. To survive it,” he corrected, voice low, his hand firm at her back as he drew her nearer. His lips brushed her temple, breath warm against her skin.
“And to protect what I was given.”
Another kiss, this one softer.
“You.”
A shiver rippled through her—not from the cold. From the gravity of being seen like this. Held like this. Revered like something sacred. Like something his. And still, she wanted more.
Resh sensed the shift. The pulse of need in her body sparked in his own chest, sharp and undeniable. Her hands moved, and when her fingertips slid down his side and curved inward toward his hip, he stilled.
Her touch settled there.
And then she found it.
Drengr.
The rune for virility.
He tensed, muscle flexing beneath her hand as her thumb traced the sharp-edged strokes cut into his flesh. Darker than the others. Alive now, pulsing beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.
“Auryn…” His voice thickened, roughened, restraint buckling at the edges.
Her cheeks flushed, her words a fragile confession. “I can’t stop thinking of you. About your hands. About your touch. About what you would do to me if I asked.”
His fingers curved at her waist, chest rising hard and heavy.
“Would you?” she whispered, silver eyes wide. “If I asked you to touch me—would you?”
Every sinew in his arms strained. He drew breath like a drowning man. And then—so soft it nearly broke—“I’d give you anything.”
A beat. A heartbeat.
“Please,” she said.
That one word undid him.
Her gaze flicked lower, to where his desire stood stark and evident. Color flushed from her collarbones to the delicate points of her ears.
“Is this…meant to meld with a woman’s body?” she asked.
The sight of her looking—of her knowing she’d done this to him—lit fire through his veins. He caught her palm. Enveloped it. Pressed it to his lips.
“It is,” he murmured, “but only when she yearns. When her body opens, swollen, ready, aching for me. When it fits not by force…” He turned her trembling fingers, kissed them one by one. “…but by reverence.”
Guiding her hand lower again, he let her cup him fully. His eyes locked with hers, a vow and a shackle in one.
“Yours,” he breathed, voice shaking with the weight of it. “Every part. At your mercy.”