Chapter Eighteen
Chapter
eighteen
The moment the Kettle comes into view, I understand how it got its nickname. The network of steaming hot springs in which dozens of people lounge does indeed resemble vats of boiling water on a hearth. Unlike the sulfuric pools at Blister Bight, these are free of fymandridae.
The Paexyrian’s group has expanded to include a duo of the new arrivals from Daggerpoint. We walk in pairs along the curving line of the exposed sandbar that leads beyond the city walls—a path that will disappear as soon as the tides wash back in.
It is a popular destination tonight. The main pool is especially crowded.
By the time we come to a stop on the edge, the sun has nearly set; only the feeblest vestiges of orange remain streaking across the sky.
Any minute, stars will begin to stir awake in the aether.
Despite the swelling darkness, I pick out the shape of many piles of clothing peppered across the sand by our feet.
My eyes widen.
Everyone within the cluster of tidal pools is stark naked.
Young and old, male and female. Bodies of all shapes and sizes.
And they do not appear even slightly modest about their nudity.
In fact, as my gaze meanders around the bubbling surface, I see several pairs—and even trios—are taking full advantage of their unclothed state, touching one another in a way no amount of steam can disguise.
Everywhere my eyes land, acts typically confined to the bedchamber are on full display.
Teeth nibble their way down neck columns, hands slide over slick flesh, mouths meet with unabashed hunger.
The sight does nothing to ease the relentless ache stirring deep inside me. If anything, it only exacerbates the feelings I am so desperate to escape.
Oh, hell. This was a mistake.
I swallow down my startled gasp, but not quickly enough. Soren’s low chuckle from my right makes it clear he’s heard.
“I did try to warn you,” he murmurs. “If you want to leave…”
“No. We’re already here.”
I take a thready breath, attempting to steady myself.
I am not the quivering virgin he seems to think I am, nor some cloistered prude with no concept of passion—even if I have never before seen such a blatant exhibition.
So, though my hands shake, when the members of our group begin to disrobe I do not hesitate to reach for the laces at my boots.
Yara hurriedly whips her uniform off, then jumps into the water with a joyful whoop, her compact form creating a mighty splash that earns her more than a few disgruntled looks from the reposed bathers.
Bretiax enters with far more elegance, her shapely legs striding confidently into the shallows.
The wheat-haired soldiers from Daggerpoint follow after them enthusiastically, eyes never drifting far from the feminine forms that soon disappear into the steam.
My heart pounds hard as I unstrap my thigh sheath and push my pants past my hips to puddle around my ankles.
It pounds harder still as I pull the shirt up over my head and drop it beside my discarded boots.
I hear the faint rustle of Soren doing the same behind me, but I ignore him, focused fully on stripping the last remaining scraps of fabric from my body before I lose my nerve.
As my underthings fall away, baring me to the moonlight, I hear a sound that makes my toes curl in the damp sand.
It comes from deep in his throat—not quite a groan, almost a growl.
My breath hitches as an abrupt lash of lust cascades down the bond, strong enough to bowl me over.
My knees wobble under the sheer force of it, then give out entirely.
Before I hit the ground, a hand closes around my bare biceps, steadying me.
I glance over at Soren in shock, eyes wide, breaths choppy.
He immediately tamps down his maegic, muting the bond between us with brute force, but traces of it still swim in his eyes as they hold mine.
He looks less in control than I’ve ever seen him.
“I’m—I’m sorry.” He shakes his head as if to clear a daze. His voice is gravel again. “Are you all right?”
I manage a nod. Though, in truth, I feel anything but. It is unlike him to slip up like that. Lingering effects of the siren song, no doubt. I should be glad it is not only me feeling so off-balance, but I am too preoccupied with other thoughts. Namely: keeping my eyes above chin level.
I try, I truly do. But in the end, I cannot prevent them from flashing down to Soren’s chest. My stolen glance lasts no longer than the length of a heartbeat.
Still, that is plenty long enough to get an eyeful of golden skin and corded muscle.
The dark whorls of his Remnant mark, furling fluidly over his left pectoral.
Soren’s sharp exhale makes my eyes jerk back up.
I expect him to be looking at me in that mocking way of his, perhaps accompanied by a teasing comment about me yet again spying on him in the nude.
Thus, I am wholly unprepared to find his eyes are not playful in the slightest. They are half-lidded…
and making their own slow trek down my naked form.
Gods.
His stare locks on the Remnant between my breasts, lingering for what seems an eternity.
In the silvery shades of moonlight, the mark looks especially dark against my skin.
His fingers flex, an involuntary reflex, as his eyes rove over the rosy peaks of my nipples, then shift lower.
A rush of warmth blooms wherever they touch.
My rib cage…The shallow indent of my navel…
The curve of my waist…The slope of my hips… The apex of my thighs…
Thighs that I am pressing together as though I might stave off the sharp craving coiled there, between them. His hold on my arm gradually tightens as his gaze caresses every part of my flesh, the strong lengths of his fingers wrapped in a way that is not painful, but almost.
It is just the siren’s thrall, I tell myself, heart slamming against my rib cage like a blacksmith’s hammer. Ignore it. Pull back.
But I do not, nor does he. His eyes continue their intent exploration until no part of me is left untouched. The longer he looks, the harder it is to keep still. I fight the growing urge to squirm, forcing my breaths into measured inhales. Forcing my mind to form logical conclusions.
Who cares if he looks?
It means nothing.
I have never been one for excessive modesty, and besides, everyone around us is equally bare. Any moment now he will make a lighthearted comment and shatter this newfound tension…
And yet, when his gaze finally returns to mine, my knees nearly buckle again.
His expression mirrors the one I saw at the bar, when he was caught in the throes of siren song.
Dark, driving desire. A whole ocean’s worth, hidden just below that polished surface he so often shows the world.
As the intensity of that look steals through me, I think one would have to be either very brave or very foolish to plumb the depths of such a man.
Surely, you would drown just trying.
“Oi! Rhya!” Yara yells from what seems a very far distance, though she is only a few paces away. “Are you coming in, or what?”
I rip my stare from Soren’s and my arm from his grip. Whirling around, I find Yara peering up at me, her elbows propped up against the edge of the pool, her eyes dancing with humor as they shift from me to the man at my side.
“Did I interrupt something?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scold, stepping down into the water. It is deliciously warm against my heated skin as I sink up to my chin, my hair floating all around me in a pale cloud.
Soren says nothing as he follows me in. But I think I hear the rattle of a resigned sigh before Yara grabs my hand and drags me deeper into the steam.
It’s late.
The night is clear and while the moon is well on its way to being full, it does nothing to diminish the stars. They are out in full force, a tremendous array of constellations overhead. I stare up at them, feeling like the only living soul left in the realm.
Despite the late hour, I am reluctant to leave the warm waters of the Kettle.
Floating in the darkness of one of the more secluded pools on the fringes, my mind is quiet, my body utterly relaxed.
The moment I climb out, I will be forced to face the storm of feelings I’ve been pushing down since the Frostlander battle.
Selfishly, I want to put off that confrontation with my own conscience as long as possible.
That will not be for much longer. The tide is coming in.
Soon, the sandbar will be swallowed up by the waves, eliminating access to the city, crashing in over the rocky edges of the thermal baths.
Most of them have already emptied out, their occupants fleeing home hours ago. Even Yara and Bretiax have vanished.
Not exactly a surprise. After an hour of our group of six joking and laughing together—mostly at Arwen’s expense—in one of the main pools, the two riders had made it clear the rest of their evening would be occupied by other pursuits.
Ones of the purely physical variety. Their new Daggerpoint men were promptly dragged away, assumedly to a more private location in the city proper where they would receive what Yara called, through a fit of unrepentant giggles, a “proper Paexyrian riding lesson.”
Sad as I was to see them go, I was grateful I would not become a firsthand witness to whatever she deemed a hearty Hylian welcome. Gods know, I’d already withstood enough gratuitous carnality this day to last a lifetime.
Alone in the quiet, I listen to the slosh of the incoming tide and let my waterlogged limbs float freely beneath the surface.
I wonder if Soren’s left as well, or is still somewhere in the main pool.
I lost sight of him sometime in the aftermath of the others’ departure.
I feel not a trace of him through the bond. His maegic is fully muted from me.