Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Thyra
Icatch Stellen’s hand before he can retreat.
He stiffens, but I don’t let him go.
My breathing is tight, my throat more so. When Stellan talked of screams, my survival instincts warned me of physical pain, but his rapid retreat convinces me that wasn’t his intention.
Whatever fear I felt, it’s fleeting, drowned by the heat building within my core and a need to understand the power of sound and how it can help me control the threads covering my body.
“Teach me,” I say, ensuring I speak as a command, not a request.
He withdraws a little, but still, I won’t let go.
“Teach me how to control my armor,” I say, determined to persist. “I can’t keep activating these beautiful threads by accident. You may not be able to sing the blade out of my body, but you can teach me how to communicate with this dress.”
While my hold on him tightens, his return grip softens, his fingers closing around my palm, his thumb stroking the base of my wrist where my long sleeve reaches.
Now, I’m fighting not only my need to get through to him, but also the heat building in my core, the memory of sultry songs so consuming that I could lose my mind to them.
Stellen’s focus glides to my lips and his head tilts. Just a little. His listening gesture.
But he gives a firm shake of his head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because teaching you involves using my Voice and I can’t do that. Not outside the Alak-Teah. You know this.”
I give a quick nod. “I understand your position and respect it. Your people fear your Voice and their fear will only make me more of a target if I’m seen singing to this armor.”
He leans back as if that were the end of it, but my grip remains tight.
“Simply wearing this dress in Frost puts me in danger.”
Oh, so different to the Iron Kingdom, where this garment was a symbol of power and strength.
“When I thought I couldn’t control the threads, that was a risk I was forced to accept,” I continue. “But if you’re right, and I can command them, that changes everything.”
His lips press together, forming the same stern line they displayed when he pressed himself against the wall.
Maybe he’s regretting insisting I could change the shape of this gorgeous dress. Maybe he wishes he could swallow his own words and retreat into silence again.
I won’t let him.
“This armor has protected me, helped me, and kept me safe. But now its existence is a danger to me. If I have to spend every waking moment trying to conceal it from view…” I shake my head.
“Impossible. At some point, I’ll do something that triggers it and that could be far more dangerous than not wearing it.
” I take a deep, quick breath. “I need it off.”
The hard press of his mouth eases.
Slowly, he lifts my hand to his cheek, feathering the pulse at the base of my wrist with his lips. “Have you thought this through, Thyra?”
I breathe through the tingling sensations he’s evoking. “You’re evading.”
“Maybe.” The corners of his mouth lift. “Or maybe I’m trying to warn you.”
I scoff. “You give me a new warning with every other breath you take.”
So many warnings, but I haven’t dismissed any of them. He only speaks when it’s important.
His lips grow hungrier as they travel to the cuff of my sleeve. “Are you sure you want to grant me the power to undress you?”
Warmth rushes to my cheeks, but before I can respond, he continues. “Because if you give me permission to change your armor’s shape…and assuming the threads honor your wish to give me that power…that’s exactly what you’d be doing.”
With his free hand, he reaches toward my neck, but this time, his fingertips brush the silver strands extending into my hair, a touch I can’t feel.
He may not be using his Voice right now, but by the Goddess, his quiet exhalation fills my head with need.
I’m drowning in the seductive push and pull of his presence.
He told me that every sound I make matters.
Well, every sound he makes matters too.
I take a breath, fight the rush of heat between my legs, force myself to focus past the shivery pleasure of his lips as they return to my wrist, the swirl of his thumb across my palm, the darkness of his eyes…
“This armor is a weapon,” I say. “Learning how to control it is as important to me as learning how to fight. If I want to stay alive, then I need to do both. And, yes, if that means being vulnerable with you, then—”
“No.” His rebuke is so sudden, so severe, it nearly knocks me backward. “Never be vulnerable.”
My eyes are wide as he searches my face.
“Know what you want, Thyra. But do not make yourself vulnerable to get it.”
Words choke in my throat.
I’ve been vulnerable ever since my father died.
“Sometimes that’s what it takes.”
At my declaration, Stellen’s pale eyes narrow, becoming hard and glinting, even though his hand remains gentle around mine.
“Even if that were true,” he says, “we return to the original problem: you must not sing to these threads in front of my people.”
His argument is illogical, and his fleeting grimace tells me he knows it. The only way I’ll accidentally sing to these threads is if I’m still wearing them.
“All the more reason for me to take my armor off.”
Take it off while it’s safe to do so and then leave it off. Even if the idea of separating from the threads physically hurts me. The silver material hasn’t left my body since a single thread attached itself to my hand and wouldn’t let go.
But right now, my concern is beyond that of my own feelings. The fact that Stellen has started arguing in circles gives me pause. He’s proven himself to be strategic. Calculated. Overly logical.
Never emotional.
“We’re alone here,” I say. “There are only six fae within the palace walls. Who will hear me?”
“I will.”
Of course he’ll hear me. He hears me now. “And…?”
“Have you not listened to anything I’ve said?” He is suddenly furious, even though his hands remain gentle on me, his thumb now brushing the underside of my chin, working back to my earlobe, a reminder of the pleasure he can give me.
His jaw clenches and the corners of his mouth turn down, his voice near breaking as he repeats his earlier caution. “The sounds you make matter. They matter to me.”
Every breath. Every exhalation. Every soft sigh. Every deep moan…
Slowly, he releases me, his arms slipping away from me, but once again, I won’t let him go, snatching his hand, daring to say, “Your silences matter to me.”
His lips part. A quickly indrawn breath. Another pull.
Damn, it’s difficult to fight the way he draws me to him, my body swaying nearer.
The gap between us becomes painfully narrow as a new quiet falls over him.
Then he breaks it. “If I teach you, are you prepared for the consequences?”