Chapter 34 #2
"Just—give me a moment. You're not going to leave, are you?"
She shook her head. "No."
He finally released her, and when she blinked and her vision came into focus, she was looking at a shirtless man in a mask.
His eyes were steady, and they held hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.
He rose from the tub, water streaming from his skin. He was magnificent—hard muscle and old scars, the proof of his conquest written in pale lines across his skin. Water still beaded on his shoulders, his chest, and his arms. She took a few steps back, allowing him some space.
Perhaps he could be called handsome, if she had to pick a word.
“I missed you,” he said.
Azul found her throat dry. Didn’t he call her here? Why did he act like he was caught unawares?
“You sent for me,” she said.
“Nyraxa sent for you.” He reached past her for the discarded robe on the table, shrugging it over his shoulders without tying it. He looked at her, taking in all of her. “Are you well?”
The question was so simple and so genuine that it caught her completely off guard.
“I am unharmed,” she said.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Azul looked away. Outside, distantly, she could hear the camp — the movement of men, the horses, and the low murmur of an army preparing. Inside, only the sound of his pounding heart.
“I’m well enough,” she said finally.
His eyes moved from her face to her hands to the hem of her robe, as though checking each piece of her for damage she wouldn’t admit to. It was unbearable and she refused to find it touching.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“Hmm.”
“It’s rude.”
“Come here.” He didn’t stop.
The command was quiet. No particular force behind it. And yet her feet moved before her mind had finished forming the objection.
She stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough to see the water still caught in his lashes and the faint flush across his neck. She frowned slightly.
His hand rose. His fingers found her jaw, his thumb tracing the line of her cheek with a gentleness entirely at odds with the size of his hands.
“I thought about you,” he said. “Every day.”
“Gullible,” she said. “My charms must be irresistible.”
His mouth curved. “Is it?”
“Your heart is not hard to act on, my Lord.”
“And you," he said, “are the least honest person I have ever met.”
Her chin lifted. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re doing it now.” His thumb stilled on her cheek. “Looking at me like I’m something dangerous. Like if you stand still enough, the feeling will pass.”
Her heart did something deeply inconvenient.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Azul.”
“My Lord.”
“Look at me.”
She was already looking at him. She had been looking at him since she walked in and found him in a bath like some sort of—it was irrelevant. She was looking at him and her face was perfectly composed and there was absolutely nothing to discuss.
“I am looking at you,” she said.
“No,” he said. “You’re watching me. Liar.”
His other hand found her waist. She was acutely aware of the robe hanging open at his chest.
She hated that she’d memorised his scent.
“You’re feverish,” she said.
His brow rose. “What?”
“Your colour is high. Your skin is warmer than it should be.” She reached up and pressed the back of her hand to his neck before he could object. The heat radiating off him was unmistakable. Too hot to be the bath water. “How long?”
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“A few days.” He caught her wrist as she pulled it back, not releasing it. “It’s nothing. Campaign fevers. I’ve had worse.”
“You should rest.”
“Azul.” His thumb pressed against her pulse point. She was nearly certain he could feel it jumping. “I haven’t seen you in nearly a month."
“Which is why you should tell me how long you’ve been feverish.”
“Three days.” He finally admitted it. “It comes and goes. Thane has been insufferable about it.”
“Thane is right.”
“I know.” He drew her wrist toward him; slowly he lifted his mask and pressed his lips to the inside of it. “But you’re here now.”
Her composure did not crack. It simply became significantly more expensive to maintain.
“My Lord,” she said, and her voice came out steadier than she deserved credit for. “You are unwell.”
“I’m aware.” He pressed another kiss to her wrist. “And I find I don’t particularly care.”
“That’s the fever talking.”
“No.” He looked up at her from beneath his lashes. “I’m talking. You tortured me for a month; don’t you think I deserve your praise?”
Azul made the tactical error of not immediately stepping back.
He moved slowly—giving her every opportunity to refuse—and his free hand came up to find her face again, tilting it toward him.
“One night,” he murmured, swaying. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“You’re about to collapse.”
“Not yet.”
“My Lord—”
“Ragnar,” he said. “Just once. Call me Ragnar.”
The silence stretched between them, warm and close.
“Ragnar,” she said quietly.
He exhaled like she’d taken his soul.
He removed his mask, too close for her to see, and his lips found her cheek. Her temple. The corner of her jaw. She required patience but he was at his wit's end. Her hands found the front of his open robe without her permission, fingers curling into the fabric.
“Your fever,” she said.
“Will still be there in the morning.” His mouth found the curve of her ear, and she felt his breath warm against it. “Let me have this.” His robes dropped to the floor.
She didn’t push him away.
His arms came around her, drawing her gently, and she stood in his arms.
He pressed his lips to her hair.
And then his weight shifted.
His knees buckled and he sagged against her with the full dead weight of a man whose body had finally overruled his intentions.
“Ragnar—”
“I’m fine,” he said into her shoulder, unconvincingly.
“You are not fine.” She hissed, already bracing against him, one hand gripping his arm, the other at his back. He was enormous and warm and increasingly horizontal. “I’m calling for Thane.”
“Don’t.” His voice was muffled in her hair. “Don’t call anyone.”
“You just collapsed on me.”
“…Azul.” He stumbled, manoeuvring them toward his fur-dressed bed, taking her with him, and she found herself caught beneath him as he went down, her back against the bedding, his weight settling across her. “One night,” he murmured. “You said you’d give me one night.”
“I said no such—”
“Stay.” The word was barely audible. His eyes were already closing. “Just stay with me...Please.”
She lay pinned beneath a feverish warlord, his arm across her waist, his breathing already deepened towards sleep.
“This is extremely inconvenient,” she informed him.
He said nothing, already asleep.
Azul stared at the ceiling of the tent, listening to the camp outside, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against her side. His heat soaked through her robes.
She listened to his breathing; it was laboured. She bit her lips; he was shaking.
It took everything in her not to call anyone, to trust that he knew his body more than she knew him. She forced her eyes closed and turned into his body, allowing herself a moment’s peace.
She had spent her nights half awake, scared Somadina would force his way into her room if she slept too deeply.
So she found respite in Ragnar's arms.
For just one night.
In the command tent, Nyraxa refilled her wine cup and smiled at Caius's disapproving expression.
"He'll be fine," she said. "Better than fine. Trust me."
Caius shook his head. "You dragged the Khatun through an Ukhel ritual circle in the middle of a war zone."
"Worth it."
"You have no idea what that kind of magic does to a person."
"She seems fine." Nyraxa shrugged. "A little disoriented, maybe. But fine."
Caius opened his mouth to argue, then stopped and instead reached for the wine.
"If this goes wrong," he said, "I'm blaming you."
Nyraxa raised her cup. "To the Great Khan. May he wake up tomorrow with a clear head and a satisfied smile."
Caius rolled his eyes and drank.
Ragnar was still fast asleep.
His fever had broken sometime in the small hours; she had felt it happen, the damp shift of his skin against her shoulder, the slight loosening of the tension in his body.
He was still holding her.
His arm had not moved from her waist. If anything, it had tightened in sleep, drawing her closer with single-minded possessiveness.
She had turned so her back was pressed against his chest, giving her room to breathe that wasn’t hindered by his pectoralis.
Her head was tucked beneath his chin. She could feel his heartbeat against her spine, it was slow and steady.
Good, no tachycardia.
It didn’t help that his body had apparently decided the fever’s passing warranted a celebration of its own.
He shifted in his sleep.
The movement was unconscious, his hips pressing forward in a steady rhythm. His arm tightened slightly. His breathing didn’t change.
She felt his hand. It had moved—or was moving—fingers tracing up her thigh. He seemed to be exploring; perhaps her skin was that soothing to him.