Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Ashara
The Promise
It was akin to penance, the torment of knowing what we’d denied ourselves until the very last of our turns.
Burning with the heat of him, my lips swelled beneath his assault.
At first, we were clumsy, having forgotten the rhythm of each other—tongues tangling, teeth knocking—but he held my face with his usual grounding touch, and soon, it became as natural as breathing.
That familiar taste, all fruit wine and pomegranates, flooded my mouth, and I lapped at it.
It was he who moaned first.
I swallowed it down like medicine, hoping it might cure the growing ache in my chest.
“Ashara,” he pleaded, or warned, against the press of our mouths.
Deft fingers untangled from the roots of my hair to traverse the lines of my neck, his feather-light touch trailing until they ghosted my clavicle.
Dipping further still, his thumbs brushed over the swell of my breasts, catching their peaks.
I swallowed another moan, this one my own.
Breaking the kiss, chest heaving, his warm eyes blazed in the glow of the dwindling hearthfire.
Outside, save for the torches and occasional glint of a tavern window, Dendra had surrendered to darkness.
But it was not Dendra’s prying eyes that had my chest flushing and cheeks scorching, for the templum was too high for anyone to spot us.
One arm still banded around me, Demetri used the other to swipe at his hair, brushing the riddle of curls away from his brow. My mouth wobbled, a smile growing. I’d never seen him so dishevelled, sheepish even, especially as his gaze darted to our side.
I followed his glance, towards the prying eyes that were my concern.
A poor choice, to devour each other, framed by the central window.
Other than perhaps the dais of the First, we couldn’t have chosen a more audacious stage.
But there was no need for worry, not when neither paxiam nor laurel paid us any mind.
Many had paired off themselves, clinging to the walls where the sconce light was dimmest or nesting in cushions, half-hidden under clumsy piles.
My blush deepened, for beneath the small sobs and murmurs, heady moans and charged whispers mingled, a melody borne of a feral kind of desperation to feel something good.
Over the bodies, the light too sparse to distinguish most faces, I landed upon a laurel illuminated by the sconce overhead, having chosen to stand in the spill of its light rather than keep to the shadows.
Her eyes were fixed on me, lips thin, a familiar hue of acorn hair braided to one side.
“Come.” Hand nudging the small of my back, Demetri led me away, steering us towards a vacant patch on the floor where the last of the windows gave way to the Ovidian rock walls.
Setting ourselves down, I brushed at my skirts whilst he set himself the task of building a fortress, compiling the cushions around us like pebble cairns until they formed a crude wall.
“Are you sure you trained as a crusiax, not a mason?” I enquired, testing its integrity with an investigative finger.
“Stop that.” He grabbed my waist and I yelped, both of us landing upon the woolen throw he’d repurposed as a carpet.
We lay as we once did in the smith yard, my head on his chest, legs entwined like serpents, shielded from the snooping eyes of acorn-haired laurels.
There’d be no crunching of gravel this night; no shorn head of an acolyte breaching the pillows.
No whip, nor cell. Here, at the edge of everything, imprisoned within the templum, was where we could taste freedom for the first and last time.
“I toiled hard to build this homestead for us, and I won’t have your needling fingers making a mess of it,” he scolded, voice rumbling under my ear, his pinch softened by my skirts.
I bit my lip, allowing a hand to settle on the ridge of his hip. After a steadying breath, I dragged it over the smooth leather of his belt, veering for the buckle.
“So, how is this to work?” My traitorous fingers shook as they glided over the metal, but I made no attempt to calm them.
Despite it all, I didn’t have to pretend with Demetri, even now.
To quake with fear and tremble with expectancy were two different beasts entirely, and I was ready to make good on our promise, nerves be damned.
He overlaid my hand with his, redirecting them to bring the soft bump of my palm to his lips. “By the pits, Ashara. Let a man woo you first.”
I laughed, the sound laced with an unspeakable sort of grief we hadn’t the turns to explore. “We’re on a rather tight schedule.” I rotated, hair fanning over his chest to look upon him. His eyes were closed, as if basking in the midsummer sun. “There’s no time for pleasantries.”
Eyes opening, two dimples bloomed on each cheek, his swollen lips curving into a smile. “Oh darling, there’s always time for pleasantries.”
So, amid the smothered moans and sobbing laurels, the low clatter of paxiam armour, and the wind’s muted howl, make pleasant we did.
***
Around a turn later, the paxiams handed out carafes of cherry wine alongside platters of cured meat and fruit.
“Who knew the Dendralis liked their sacrificial lambs fatted and drunk?” Demetri observed, draining his chalice.
“It’s the butcher’s secret,” I replied, doing the same. “The unsuspecting throat makes for sweeter blood.”
He refilled our glasses, wiping at my chin, where some rogue droplets had dribbled from my mouth. Reclining on the cushions, I sipped at this one instead, knowing it would be my last.
“So, you never left Dendra?” he asked, eyes fixed on where my lips welcomed the cup’s rim. We’d been doing this for the better part of a turn, exchanging menial details about our lives since we parted. All for nought; all important.
“Never,” I affirmed, setting down the wine, lest I gulp it too quickly. “Although, I had hoped to travel to the Sorren Isles with…” The sweet cherry turned sour. “…with Mother, but it never came to pass.”
“Why not?”
I swiped the chalice, emptying its contents in one thick gulp. “She was offered before we’d saved the drachmae to go.” The metal clanked as I let it fall to the floor, face pinched as the alcohol slipped down my throat.
“Fuck.” He ran a hand over his face. “She was a good woman, Ashara.” As if sensing my unease, Demetri scooted closer, grip fastening around the nape of my neck. His fingers pressed into those soft spots where one’s pulse thunders the hardest.
“Her and Adelaide both,” I agreed, tipping my head back and closing my eyes, surrendering to the delicious, dangerous pressure until the world began to tilt.
“Gods, your mouth looks so incredibly soft,” he whispered into the side of my face, grip roving upwards to clasp at my jaw.
“And the things that come out of yours are so incredibly forward.” I peeked open one eye, his hickories intent on my lips.
“We’re tight for time, remember?” His crusiax’s fingers were not soft as they dug into my face, not after so many turns stringing bows, gripping swords, and holding shields. I didn’t want them to be.
“How could I forget?” I turned to face him, cupping his cheek, my thumbs, scarred from needling, brushing small circles over its handsome peak.
“It wouldn’t have happened this way if we had been born cypresses, you know,” he said, mouth so close to mine I could almost taste the cherry wine on his lips. “If Capriche’d ordained a date beyond our thirtieth winter.”
Heavy-lidded, I gazed up to where his dark brow had furrowed. “No?”
He shook his head, my hand moving with his. “I would have courted you properly. I would have plucked you a flower each morning and left them on your windowsill by night.”
I slid my fingers down to flick his nose. “Yet you used to leave me buttons like a magpie.”
“Buttons are not as beautiful as flowers,” he tutted, recapturing my hand and pressing it back to his face.
“Some buttons are.”
“The shiny ones?” I could feel his laughter under my palm.
“The ones on Adelaide’s face.” His smile dropped. “Or ones made from pearls.” Withdrawing my hand, I presented both wrists to reveal mismatched buttons: one crinkled and small, the other larger and rounded.
His hold left my jaw to cradle my wrists, fingers tracing the buttons’ ridges as he stared down at them, mouth agape. “You kept them?”
“I kept them all,” I confessed, mourning the overflowing box I’d left by my cot, unable to bring it with me.
I’d told Favia she could repurpose them for the guild.
Perhaps they would adorn the shirt of a crusiax or the sleeve of a trader—a button in every continent.
I would have liked to have met a stranger one day, in the deserts of Saile, or the forests of Devern, and say, “Oh! That’s my brass button!
The one with the engraved waterlily. It looks rather fine, don’t you think?
” But where we were headed, there would be no need for buttons.
Demetri lifted them and kissed each button, one after the other. Though his lips never touched my flesh, I shivered all the same.
“So, other than bringing me flowers,” I continued, more breathless than before, “though I much prefer buttons, what else would have been different?”
Eyes lingering on my sleeves, his fingers skirted upwards, knitting with mine.
We turned, rising to a kneel, knee to knee, chest to chest, our hands trapped between us.
“I would have asked you to marry me,” he said, lowering his forehead to rest against mine.
“In the meadow, surrounded by daisies…or bloody buttons.”
I laughed, the sound a little too wet.