Chapter 11 #2
“Raoul is very knowledgeable about dragon history and territorial politics,” I said. “And the weather archives are extensive. Truly impressive record-keeping.”
“Uh-huh.” Willa’s eyes sparkled. “And I’m sure you’ve spent lots of time discussing historical record-keeping.”
My face heated. “We have, actually. The archives date back three hundred years, and the notation system is remarkably consistent—”
“She’s deflecting,” Quinn leaned close to whisper to Willa, a smile teasing her lips.
“I noticed,” Willa whispered back.
I chopped carrots.
Across the square, Raoul was helping Sebastian and a few men and women set up tables and build the bonfire.
I absolutely was not watching him lift heavy timbers like they weighed nothing.
Or noticing how his muscles moved under his tunic.
Or thinking about how those arms had felt wrapped around me when we kissed.
Professional partnership, I reminded myself.
I looked up to find both women watching me with knowing smiles.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Willa said. “It’s nice to see the newly-mated so clearly devoted to each other.”
“We’re not—It’s not—” I gestured randomly with my knife. “We have a professional partnership based on mutual respect and shared goals.”
“Of course you do, dear,” Quinn said in a tone that suggested she didn’t believe a word.
I gave up and focused on my carrots.
But I couldn’t stop myself from glancing across the square every few minutes, catching glimpses of Raoul laughing with the villagers, his face more relaxed than I’d seen at the palace. Each glimpse made my belly flutter in ways that had nothing to do with hunger.
This was a problem. A very large, very complicated, very inconvenient problem.
By the time the sun began setting, the square had been transformed. Tables were set for dinner. Big pots of stew had been placed at regular intervals for serving. And rolls overflowed the baskets.
The bonfire crackled in the center of the square, sending sparks up into the darkening sky.
I sat between Raoul and Willa, with Quinn and her family across from us. The conversation flowed easily, everyone sharing stories and laughter.
“Tell us about the palace,” Quinn said, bouncing her toddler on her thigh. “Is it as grand as they say?”
“It’s carved into the mountain itself,” I said. “The great hall has columns that look like they grew from the stone rather than being carved. And the view from the launching platform…” I paused, remembering. “It’s breathtaking.”
“I hear Raoul used to spend hours up there as a boy,” Sebastian said. “Drove his poor mother to distraction, always wanting to fly when he should be studying.”
Raoul laughed. “I was a terrible student. Too restless to sit still for lessons about trade agreements and diplomatic protocols.”
“It worked out well, however,” Piper said. “You’re the best king we’ve had in generations, if you ask me.”
I glanced at Raoul and found him looking uncomfortable with the praise, his jaw tight. I took his hand under the table, giving it a squeeze.
His fingers threaded through mine, holding on.
We didn’t let go.
Quinn’s little girl began to fuss, and Quinn sighed, looking down at her half-eaten dinner.
“Here,” I said, rising and going around the table, holding out my arms. “I’ll take her. You eat.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’ve finished.”
Quinn handed over her daughter, and I carried her back to sit beside Raoul. Once settled, the little girl leaned against my chest, her thumb finding her mouth. Within minutes, she was asleep.
I looked up to find Raoul watching me, his expression making my breath catch and my heart race.
The noise of the celebration faded into the background until Willa spoke, breaking the spell, and I looked down, my face heating.
But Raoul didn’t look away.
The music started after dinner. By then, Quinn had finished eating and taken her child back to her cottage to lay her down for the night.
Someone produced a fiddle, another a drum, and a third pulled out a wooden flute. Lively music rang out, the kind that made feet tap and bodies sway. Couples began moving toward the open space near the bonfire, spinning and laughing in the firelight.
I watched from my seat at the table, happy enough to observe.
Raoul stood and extended his hand to me. “Dance?”
I stared at his hand like it might bite me.
“I’m not a good dancer,” I said quickly.
“I don’t care.”
“I’ll step on your feet. Probably multiple times. You’ll regret asking.”
“I won’t.” His amber eyes held mine, and his hand remained extended, waiting.
I took it and rose from my seat.
He led me to the dancing area near the bonfire, where we were surrounded by other couples, all moving to the music. Raoul’s hand settled on the back of my waist, warm through my tunic. I placed my hand on his shoulder, savoring the flex of solid muscle there.
We started moving.
I was hyperaware of every point of contact. His heat seeped through my clothes, warming me quickly. His strong arms guided me through the steps, and I kept looking up at him, finding him watching me.
“See?” he said, his voice low. “You’re doing fine.”
I stepped on his foot.
“Completely fine,” he said, his lips twitching.
The music changed, slowing into a gentle tune. The other couples shifted closer together, and Raoul pulled me in until barely any space remained between us.
I should protest. We’d agreed on a professional partnership, with appropriate distance and practical arrangements.
I didn’t say a word.
My weather magic responded to my emotions like it always had. A breeze swirled around us, stirring my hair and his. A few snowflakes drifted down from above, twinkling in the firelight. The temperature fluctuated from warm to cool, then warm again.
If Raoul noticed, he didn’t comment. He just kept moving with me, kept holding me, kept looking at me like I was special.
The song ended, but we didn’t pull apart. Another began, faster this time, and we kept dancing.
Multiple dances blurred together. I lost track of how many songs were played, how many times we circled the fire. All I could focus on was the tension growing between us.
The final dance ended with a flourish from the fiddle.
We stood in place, both breathless, still holding each other. The bonfire had burned low, coals glowing red-orange. Around us, villagers were heading to their homes, calling goodnight.
Our hands remained joined.
“We should…” I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.
“Yes.”
We turned toward our cottage and walked in charged silence. The cottage door loomed ahead.
His arm brushed mine as he reached for the latch, and a jolt went through me. The door swung inward, opening into a square of darkness.
I stepped over the threshold, my boots scuffing on the stone floor. Raoul followed, closing the door behind us with a quiet click that echoed in the tiny space. The room, which had seemed cozy before, felt impossibly small, overflowing with everything we weren’t saying.
Moonlight spilled through the single window, painting a silver rectangle on the floor and illuminating the bed against the far wall. Neither of us moved. We stood in the cool darkness, the sound of our breathing the only noise in the world.
“Adele,” he said, his voice a rough, frayed thing.
I turned to face him. In the gloom, his features were a landscape of shadows, but I didn’t need to see his expression. I could feel it radiating from him like heat from the bonfire, wrapping around me, pulling me in.
“Professional partnership,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“We’re being practical, sharing limited resources. This is a practical arrangement.”
“Very practical.”
Neither of us believed it for a second. The air between us didn’t just crackle; it hummed, alive and dangerous and full of unspoken words I ached to hear.
Maybe he moved first, or maybe I did. Maybe we both did, drawn together by a force more powerful than logic or practicality. It didn’t matter. One moment we were standing apart, and the next his hand was cupping my jaw and his mouth met mine.
This was not the gentle, questioning kiss from our sitting area. This was a starving man finding a feast. It was desperate and hungry, a raw claiming. His lips were firm and demanding, and a groan rumbled in his chest as I kissed him back with all my pent-up tension.
He backed me until the door pressed against my spine, trapping me. His body molded against mine, a wall of heat and muscle and want. My magic, that unruly extension of my soul, erupted.
A gale-force wind whipped through the cottage, snatching at the quilt on the bed and sending loose papers flying like frantic birds.
Snowflakes swirled in the chill, melting against my overheated skin.
A flash of lightning cracked near the ceiling, illuminating his face for a split second—his eyes closed, his expression one of agonizing pleasure.
His hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head back. I latched onto the front of his tunic and pulled him closer. The kiss deepened, from hungry to ravenous. A sound tore from my throat, something between a gasp and a moan. He answered with a ragged groan against my mouth.
Every rational thought fled. There was only this. Only the intoxicating taste of him, the solid strength of his body pinning me to the door, the calloused scrape of hands on my nape, my arms, my sides.
Finally, he lifted his head, studying my face. “I’m going to take you to bed now, Adele.”
“Yes, please.”