THIRTY-SEVEN #2
Thankfully, Thane didn’t need me at today’s meeting. He insisted my training with Valen was more important.
A slow smile tugs at my lips. He has no idea what’s coming.
He probably doesn’t have his shields up. After all, we’re the only two people capable of speaking mind to mind. I stretch out lazily on the bed we share, settling in comfortably, eyes closed. Then I reach for the bond.
“Hi, Thane,” I croon.
His entire body goes rigid. I feel it. The way his muscles lock, the sharp flicker of confusion before he masks it.
“Amara.” His voice in my head is low and cautious. “What are you doing?”
I smile.
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’re always poking into my head at the most inopportune times. I thought I’d return the favor.”
I feel his irritation.
Then his suspicion.
Then, despite himself, his amusement.
“I’m in a strategy meeting. It’s not a good time.”
“I know.”
I pause, letting him wonder where this is going.
“By the way, you should stop thinking about me. You need to focus.”
I deliberately mimic the tone he uses whenever he catches me distracted.
“You know,” I muse, “for someone who spent an entire week tormenting me, you’re handling this remarkably poorly.”
He doesn’t respond, but I can feel his frustration spike as he struggles to maintain his concentration.
And then I let my thoughts drift to last night. To the way his hands felt on me. The way his mouth devoured me last night. The way his voice sounds when he loses control.
And I let him feel it.
All of it.
“Amara—”
There’s a sharp inhale. Across the bond, I catch the faintest glimpse of him sitting at the council table, jaw tight, fighting a smile while everyone around him discusses military strategy.
“Something wrong, Warlord?”
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Oh?” I tease. “And what are you going to do about it?”
I let another memory slip through the bond. The way my legs wrapped around his waist. The way his voice broke when he whispered my name. I let him relive it.
Every. Single. Detail.
The reaction is immediate—a sharp flare of heat and irritation. The way his restraint tightens, then frays. I swear I hear his teeth grind.
Across the bond, silence stretches. Someone must be speaking to him. His attention flickers away, but not completely. The bond hums with heated silence, tension coiling between us like a wire pulled too tight. He doesn’t respond to me.
Oh, this is good!
A smile spreads across my lips.
“Is this becoming a problem for you, Warlord?” I taunt, my voice honeyed with amusement. “Can the council tell something has your attention?”
The silence stretches.
I feel another pulse of irritation through the bond, followed immediately by reluctant amusement.
He’s struggling. And I am absolutely victorious.
I could stop. I could let him recover. But after the week he’s put me through, why would I?
“Poor Warlord,” I purr. “Always so composed. So controlled. But right now?”
And then, because I can, I push further. I send him the image—the exact moment from last night.
The way my body arched beneath him, helpless and writhing. The way his name ripped from my lips, raw and wrecked. The way I clenched around him as he thrust deeply, claiming every inch of me.
I don’t just let him see it. I let him feel it. The heat. The desperation. The way I had come undone beneath him. The way every ounce of his legendary self-control disappeared the moment we were alone together.
“You’re unraveling for me.”
The bond flares with searing heat. Across the connection, I feel his entire body tense. Like a bowstring pulled too tight. His patience finally snaps. And then his response slams into my mind like a firestorm.
“Run.”
Shit.
I scramble upright, nearly tangling myself in the blankets as I shove off the bed, laughing the entire time. I definitely pushed him too far.
“Thane—”
“Run, Amara.”
His shields slam into place like a wall of fire between us, leaving me with no doubt that I am in a spectacular amount of trouble.
A grin spreads across my face anyway.
Worth it.
I glance toward the bathing chamber.
The day’s training is over. There are no council meetings waiting for me, no lessons with Valen, no weapons to clean, no reports to study. A bath suddenly sounds perfect. By the time Thane decides to collect his revenge, I intend to be warm, relaxed, and entirely unrepentant.
Still smiling to myself, I slip into the bathing chamber.
The bathing quarters are grand yet purposeful, much like everything else in Thane’s domain. The walls are carved from dark stone, their surfaces smooth from age and time. Flickering sconces cast pools of golden light across the chamber, chasing shadows into the corners.
At its center sits a massive bath, more small pool than tub, sunken into the floor with wide stone steps leading into the water. Steam curls toward the vaulted ceiling, carrying the scent of heated minerals and faint traces of lavender from the oil Lyra slipped into my satchel.
The water is deep, warm, lapping at my skin as I sink lower, letting the heat pull the soreness from my limbs. I close my eyes.
Gods, I needed this.
Only now, as my body finally begins to relax, do I realize just how thoroughly Jarek dismantled me this morning.
The ache in my shoulders. The bruises blooming along my ribs. The stiffness in my legs. Every sore muscle is a reminder of the hours we spent in the training yard.
Jarek’s relentless combat training. His blade swinging in a vicious, unyielding rhythm, forcing me to react faster, move cleaner, think quicker.
“Again.”
The word still echoes in my head.
“You’re tired.”
“No.”
I gritted my teeth and adjusted my stance. I dodged left, barely managing to catch his next strike.
“You’re lying.”
And I had been. Every parry. Every dodge. Every impact. My arms still ache and my thighs still burn.