CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Shock and disbelief clouded Deckard’s mind.
Evylin lay tucked into his side on the cloud-like bed, their breaths heavy and hearts reeling.
The heat of his magic receded into dormancy.
Though he hadn’t actually grabbed hold of the power that sweltered underneath his skin, he’d felt it awaken with each intimate touch and kiss.
Now, the cool air of the room washed over him, steadying his head.
“Well,” Deckard muttered around a shaky exhale. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”
With a playful huff, Evylin slapped his chest.
He caught her wrist, grinning down at her as he leaned back against the pillows. “What? It’s true, I have.”
“If you’re hoping for an apology,” she said, nestling against him, “I’m afraid I don’t have one.”
He raised his brow. “And after that, I don’t need one.”
Though she rolled her eyes, he leaned forward to kiss her. He kept it short and sweet, unsure if his heart could manage anything more.
When he pulled back, Evylin lingered. “It’s what you expected then?” she whispered, eyes downcast as though uncertain if she should ask.
Deckard let his fingers trace her spine. “More or less. Mostly more.” At her soft smile, he asked, “Was it what you expected?”
Tucking her chin, she betrayed her timidity despite her flirtatious bravado. “No,” she said hesitantly. “But I didn’t have many expectations.”
“No?” he asked, keenly aware of the way her fingers traced circles on his collarbone.
Her shoulder lifted with a small shrug. “It isn’t a topic women discuss in polite society.
Aunt Serene always enjoyed alluding to ‘wifely duties,’ and my mother gave me a short sermon before our wedding, but there was little explicit conversation in my life.
I knew the general science of it, I knew that it might take a while to get used to, and I knew that if the man loved you, then somehow, he’d be able to make it more enjoyable.
All in all, my speculations were rather vague. ”
“Then tell me . . .” Deckard took her hand and threaded their fingers together. “Did I make it clear that I love you?”
Evylin’s cheeks flushed, her dimples appearing with her bashful smile. “More or less,” she mimicked. “Mostly more.”
They shared a contented chuckle, and he pulled her closer for a succession of soft kisses. She drew back abruptly, a question in her amber eyes. “It was over rather quickly, though, wasn’t it?”
Unable to contain himself, Deckard laughed. “Yes, that would fall under the category of things taking a while to get used to.”
“It would?”
He teased his fingers along hers. “I’m no expert, but soldiers talk far more explicitly than polite society. I’ve heard all I need to know that time will take care of that.”
Curiosity lit in her gaze. “How does that work?”
With another laugh, Deckard stared at the ceiling, taking a restorative breath. “While I would love to discuss this in painstaking detail with you—” He set his hand on her hip and, with a gentle shove, rolled her over onto her back. “I’m afraid we really ought to get going.”
“Jonn, we’re prisoners,” she said, her fingers curling to the back of his neck to pull him closer. “Where are we going to go?”
“I told you,” he kissed her quickly before tearing himself away, “I’m not going to let us die here. Especially not after that.”
Evylin’s demure giggle tempted him back to the bed, but he remained resolute. “Fighting is going to be a bit difficult in that dress,” she said, watching as he hurried to gather their discarded clothing.
“I’d offer to trade,” he teased, “but I’m not sure it’ll fit me.”
“Mm, no,” she said, catching the dress when he tossed it to her. “Purple wouldn’t suit you anyway.”
“A true pity.”
She slipped off the bed, and he struggled not to stare at her as he reached under the pillow to retrieve the Night Relic.
He’d stashed it, not wanting its pull on his magic to affect his ability to focus on the task at hand.
“They didn’t leave you with anything else?
” he asked, slipping the Relic’s chain back around his neck. The cold metal stung against his chest.
“It isn’t exactly like they wanted me fighting.”
Deckard meant to tell her she made a good point but got distracted watching her dress. When she caught him, he grinned abashedly and pulled his shirt over his head.
“Is this going to be a problem for you?” she asked, fastening her buttons. “Staring at me?”
“Yes, probably,” he admitted, tucking the shirt. Her eyes darted down to watch the process, and he raised his brow. “Is it going to be a problem for you?”
Evylin smirked dryly. “No problem. Only a pleasure.”
Charmed by her suggestive quip, Deckard stepped forward to pull her back into his arms and kiss her.
A sudden thump rattled the bedroom door, stopping him in his tracks.
They turned, staring at the door in the entry hall. “What was that?” Evylin whispered.
He stepped up to her side just as the lock was disengaged.
Evylin grabbed his hand with a sharp gasp. “It isn’t morning,” she said, a tremble in her voice. “He can’t be—”
The door’s latch clicked open. Deckard reached into his core, summoning the store of magic within. The Night Relic thrummed against his chest with a ready power. Whether Blount had arrived early or Renaul had changed her mind, he would be prepared.
But when two men stepped around the corner, Deckard hesitated. Both men wore dark coats and trousers, ideal for stealth. That’s where the similarities ended. One man stood tall and lean, his pale skin and sharp features distinctly Waulden. The other was the dark-complected Ephrian from the stable.
“Well,” the Waulden man said, his gaze swiftly taking in the room, lingering on the rumpled bed. “Looks like someone had a good time.”
“They are married, Jarrad,” Highlady Freye said, stepping into view.
Evylin’s grip tightened on Deckard as he angled in front of her protectively.
“Doesn’t mean it was a bad time,” the Wauldener, Jarrad, replied.
The Wind Mage muttered something prayerful in a language Deckard had never heard. Then she tossed him a familiar bag—one of the packs they’d purchased in Norhels for their journey through Wauld.
“Ignore him,” the highlady advised as though they shouldn’t be surprised to see her. “He’s a nuisance, but I’m not allowed to get rid of him.”
Scanning the trio warily, Deckard stood his ground. “What do you want?” he demanded.
The Mage sighed. “I had hoped you knew, but I suppose Auden and Ilain didn’t have the opportunity to tell you.
” Her stance relaxed in a manner Deckard assumed was supposed to set them at ease.
“This is Highlord Aterian Jarrad Hoult, Terrae Mage, and that—” she gestured to the Ephrian stableman, “is Emmaas Caarney, our Warrior.”
Evylin sucked in a sharp breath behind Deckard.
“We work for the Alliance.”
Gripping the pack tighter, Deckard couldn’t quite feel the hope underneath the shock radiating through him.
In their stunned silence, Highlady Freye continued, “If Auden and Ilain had known you were coming, they would have prepared you. I’ve been stationed here in Keale as Lady Renaul’s steward for the past three years to infiltrate Blount’s network.
A worthy risk, as I am now in the position to save your lives. ”
“With some help,” Jarrad added.
“Isla,” the Ephrian, Emmaas, said. Surprisingly, his accent matched that of the Schonese woman. “We’re short on time.”
Still hesitant to believe the Mage, Deckard drew Evylin closer. “How do we trust you?” he asked.
“You either do, or you don’t,” Isla Freye said, then gave a pointed nod to the pack in his hands. “However, that might aid your decision.”
After a shared glance, Deckard handed Evylin the pack. She pulled out two daggers, a change of clothes for her, including boots, and a black coat for Deckard.
“It isn’t much,” Isla admitted. “But in the hands of a Warrior, it’s a start.”
Evylin gave Deckard a casual shrug as if to indicate that trusting the three purported Alliance members gave them a better chance than attempting to escape alone.
“All right,” Deckard said, taking the coat. “Go change, Evie.”
“Hurry,” Isla instructed as Evylin darted for the privacy of the bathing chamber.
Eyes briefly locking with Evylin’s before she shut the door, Deckard crossed the room to where his boots waited by the settee. “What’s the plan?” he asked.
Isla and Jarrad turned to the Warrior, Emmaas.
In the firelight, his bald head glowed with a rich mahogany sheen.
“First, we’ll rescue your friends,” he said, his deep voice mellow like the finest Schonese wine.
“They’re on the far side of this floor. Isla will enter the hall first, pretending to be on Renaul’s orders.
With her distraction, we’ll take down the guards. Are your comrades good fighters?”
Deckard’s heel sank into place in his second boot. “We’re all soldiers. Thom and Rafferty are good. Ethenn is . . .” He paused, then decided their success necessitated honesty. “Ethenn is a Warrior too.”
“What?” Isla gasped. “Auden and Ilain didn’t tell us that.”
“We didn’t know until recently.” Deckard hesitated for a moment more, then shrugged. “I assume that means you also aren’t aware that I’m a Mage.”
Isla’s lips parted in shock as a sly grin took over Jarrad’s face. “Well, this makes our lives easier,” he remarked.
The bathing chamber door opened, and Evylin reappeared, dressed in black from head to toe. Jarrad’s chin lifted in her direction. “A Mage and a Warrior already married? What could be more convenient?”
“Not being prisoners?” Evylin suggested as she took up the knives. “Shall we go?”
Deckard buttoned his coat as the trio led them out of the room.
He gave the luxurious space one last glance over his shoulder, finding he held an unexpected fondness for their time in the opulent prison.
Perhaps it wasn’t the precise location and situation he would have chosen for his and Evylin’s first intimate moments together, but it had served quite nicely.