Chapter 3 Ignore the Ominous Portents #3
Since then, Griffin had been poring over ancient texts, running resonance tests, filling notebooks with calculations about ley line harmonics.
He’d been muttering about “sympathetic frequencies” and “blood-key calibration” for days.
It was why he’d come with us instead of staying at Skyspire.
Kaz wanted him close in case he had a breakthrough.
In the meantime, we had benefited from the Heirloom’s power—we just couldn’t bend reality with it yet.
“What about one of your personal portals directly into Sunspire Palace?” I mused. “Kill Auremar, claim the throne, and we could be back at Skyspire in time for dinner.”
“I’ve considered it, but it wouldn’t stop the war.” He shook his head. “No, the conflict has to be fought and won decisively for this to work.”
I nodded. That made sense—Auremar’s death would create a power vacuum, but not peace. “So we do this the hard way.”
He was silent a moment before he said, “And there’s you to consider.”
I stiffened. “I’m not fragile.”
“No, but you’re also inexperienced. Your power is immense, Arabella, but you’ve had it fully unleashed for less than six months. The Heirloom amplifies everything—including mistakes.”
He was right, and I hated it. My magic came to me instinctively, but I was still learning control. Just last week, I’d accidentally summoned a flock of shadow ravens that had terrorized the gardeners.
I sighed. “So we’re stuck with conventional warfare.”
“Well, it won’t be too conventional.” He smirked and pulled me closer. “We’ll master the Heirloom, but not in the middle of a campaign where one wrong move could obliterate our own army.”
I turned to face him.
“Feeling better?” he asked quietly, his eyes on my face.
I nodded, the anger and confusion of the day finally receding, replaced by the sharp, clear reality of the here and now. Of him.
His thumb traced the line of my jaw, sending shivers down my spine. “Good.”
His mouth crashed against mine, searing in the cold night air.
The sweep of his tongue past my lips drew me open for him, and I tasted that particular darkness that was uniquely Kazimir.
When his hand fisted in my hair, the sharp pull dragged a gasp from my throat.
He swallowed the sound, his other arm locking around my waist to haul me flush against him.
I sank my teeth into his lower lip—hard—and the growl that vibrated through his chest reverberated through mine where we were pressed together.
His fingers dug into my hip, anchoring me in place as he reclaimed control of the kiss.
My pulse hammered. Heat pooled low in my belly despite the freezing wind that whipped around us.
Rough stone scraped through my shirt as he pinned me against it.
The press of his thigh between mine wrenched a sound from me that I couldn’t contain.
He kissed me until my lips went numb, then sensitive, then almost painful.
My lungs burned for air, but the need for oxygen paled against the need for this—for him.
My hands twisted in his cloak as my legs trembled beneath me.
Only his weight kept me upright, kept me tethered to the earth when every nerve in my body was threatening to ignite.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing like we’d run up the entire ridge.
“I would very much like to get you back to our tent,” I murmured, my voice husky.
A wicked glint appeared in his eyes. “Why wait?” His lips and tongue traced a fiery path down my neck. “We could have some fun right here.”
He was always pushing, always testing the boundaries, a recurring, delicious theme in our strange life together. He brought one hand to the base of my throat, his touch light, and asked the question that had become a game between us. “Tell me a fantasy.”
I opened my mouth to reply, a suitably scandalous suggestion already forming on my tongue, but he suddenly went still. His head snapped up, his gaze fixed on the distant, northern horizon.
“What is it?” I asked, following his line of sight.
The sky was clear, a vast, dark canvas pricked with diamond-bright stars. I squinted, searching for whatever had caught his attention, but saw nothing unusual. No movement, no shadows, no threat that I could discern.
“Kaz?” I pressed, unease creeping up my spine.
He blinked, and the intensity in his expression shuttered. “It’s nothing.” His voice was too casual, too controlled.
“You’re lying.”
He turned back to me, his hands settling on my waist with deliberate gentleness. “It’s late.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Let’s get back.”
The abrupt shift from heated passion to this careful distance set every instinct screaming. Whatever he’d seen had rattled him badly enough that he was retreating behind his walls again. I let him guide me back down the ridge, but my gaze kept drifting to the northern sky.
Stars. Mountains. Nothing more.
So why did his shoulders remain tense the entire journey back? And why did his grip on my hand feel less like affection and more like he was afraid I might disappear?