CHAPTER FIFTY #2
Deckard gave a slow blink, knowing he didn’t need to confirm it.
Her expression grew concerned. “You can’t keep this up,” she said. “Not only do you have to learn to control it, but you can’t stay away from me forever. I need you.”
He dropped his head. “I know,” he said, aching to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her. “I need you too.”
“Then have me.”
“I can’t,” he insisted. “Every time we touch with that thing around your neck, I feel it—the magic, its power. It whispers in my ear.” He wet his lips in agitation.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to touch you and not give in to it? Every moment, I’m fighting so hard, and I fear it will soon be too much.
That we’ll arrive at the Terrae Keep, and I’ll lose myself to magic again.
That I’ll get us killed because I can’t control it. ”
Evylin watched him, a worried and uncertain expression crossing her face.
Deckard longed to pull her into his arms, to assure her of his love. But he fisted his hands at his sides, determined not to lose himself. “I fear that if I touch you—with or without the Relic—my magic will implode,” he confessed. “Because I can’t control it.”
“Training hasn’t made it better?” she asked gently.
He shook his head. “I keep letting it consume me.”
Evylin frowned in consideration. “Do you . . . feel better after it consumes you?”
“What do you mean?”
“When the power is released and you’ve ‘imploded,’ as you say,” she cocked her head, “do you feel better? Is the urge quite as strong?”
Deckard hardly needed to think about it. After several days of experiencing the same sensation over and over, he knew the answer. “No. It’s not.”
Evylin nodded. “So use me.”
Deckard’s brow furrowed. “What?”
She grinned flirtatiously. “It isn’t unheard of,” she teased. “A man taking comfort in his wife’s embrace.”
As Deckard struggled to comprehend the illicit suggestion of her words, she shifted on the bed.
Evylin knelt before him, moving to straddle his lap and looping her arms around his neck.
The magic coiled violently through his body from each place she touched him, its demanding whisper filling his head.
“Use me,” she repeated. “Touch me, love me. Learn to control it by letting yourself go with me.”
Deckard stared at her, baffled. It couldn’t be right, could it? Using one’s spouse in such a manner was selfish.
“You need to stop being afraid of yourself,” Ilain reminded him.
Deckard ground his teeth, not caring to remember the Fire Mage’s voice at such a time.
Yet, her advice kept ringing through his head.
“Stop trying to control it and start relating to it . . . Let it live in the world around you unimpeded by your control . . . Stop trying to bend it to your will and start getting to know it as it is rather than as you want it to be.”
But to do that in the context of making love to his wife. . . .
It felt practically sacrilegious.
Another spike of power spiraled through Deckard as Evylin wove her fingers in his hair. “Jonn,” she whispered, inching closer to him, “let me help you.”
His heart lurched. The very idea thrilled and horrified him.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
“Why not?” she asked, their lips a breath apart.
His hands trembled at his sides. “It isn’t right.”
Her dark eyes met his, determined and serious. “I am your wife,” she charged. “It is my job to love you, to help you. And if you need me—if I can help you learn to control this magic, then by Allore’s might, I want to.” Her fingers tightened around his neck. “I want you.”
Deckard swallowed, his thoughts growing traitorous. She was right. If anything was to teach him control, it should be her, even if it meant losing himself to his carnal urges in the process. After all, she was his wife. Who better to lose himself to?
Without fully committing to the decision internally, Deckard found himself kissing her.
The past days without her had finally taken their toll, and he couldn’t withhold his desires any longer.
Infinity wove past her lips and into him.
His mind became a void of all but the woman in his arms. She consumed him, and the boundless energy twisted through his veins.
A dull hum waved through his body, blocking all sounds outside the two of them.
The calm of everything and nothing took over.
His body warmed; his vision turned black.
Soon, they were twisted in the blankets of her childhood bed, bare skin allowing the magic to flow readily between them.
Only the gold and onyx Relic remained, resting against her tanned flesh.
His veins pounded with power, flooding him with the ecstasy of its vastness.
It threatened to come undone under his skin, demanding its release.
Yet, as Deckard lost himself to his wife, his magic never surfaced. It remained within, whispering to him and tingling under his skin. But inexplicably, the urge remained placid and docile, seeming to be satisfied as he gave himself to Evylin.
And for the first time, Deckard realized the full influence of their Bond. Evylin granted him control over Space. It wasn’t him who needed to take charge; it was her. When he let go, he allowed her to be his strength, and the rest was easy.
Finally, collapsing in each other’s embrace, their physical and emotional love satiated, Deckard relaxed into his wife. “You were right,” he whispered against her neck.
She chuckled softly, her chest expanding against him. “Of course I was,” she murmured and wrapped her arms tighter around him. “I’m always right when it comes to matters of marital bliss.”
Deckard smiled in amusement. The Relic pressed against him in their embrace, and for the first time, he didn’t feel a tug on his magic. He kissed her jaw and said, “I will never doubt you again.”
He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that all was resolved. He knew the magic would still call to him again; he would still struggle with allowing it to consume him. But he had hope now. If he began to falter, he wouldn’t try to control it on his own—he would reach out and let Evylin help him.
And as she’d promised, he knew she wouldn’t let him fail.
23RD OF RADIA, 1574
“One day ahead of Blount,” Thom said as they entered Olbury at last.
Deckard took a steadying breath, scanning the cobbled streets, optimistically confident that the Night Mage wasn’t lurking nearby, waiting to ambush them. “We’d better make the most of it,” he replied.
The port town bustled with merchants, fishermen, and residents.
Lawmen patrolled, monitoring the comings and goings with casual interest. Estshire was a reasonably safe province.
The greatest criminals were thieves and con men, like Rafferty, or gamblers and pit fighters, like Ethenn.
However, as Olbury was the largest town in all the Shires, nearing the status of a city, it was known for a few more nefarious crimes, making the clear presence of the law necessary.