Inside the tent there was darkness, then the sound of a match being struck. The smallest of flames lit up Torwin’s hands as he cupped the match and ignited the lantern hanging above. It swung, scattering light across the tent and illuminating a bedroll, a pile of folded clothes, and the lute she’d bought in the marketplace.
They stood face-to-face, Asha chattering and trembling and dripping. Torwin, waiting and silent and still.
Asha had been dressed and undressed by slaves before. But they’d always been female slaves. Torwin was not. And the dress in question was her binding dress, meant to be taken off by her husband.
She needed to turn around so he could undo the buttons. She didn’t, though. In case a better option presented itself. Maybe she could call Kozu, fly back to camp, and get Safire to help her instead. But the thought of flying wet, in the freezing wind, made her shiver all the harder.
Torwin touched the knot in her sash. When she didn’t resist, he stepped in close. His fingers trembled as they untied the knot. The wet silk slid across her waist when he pulled and the dress loosened, letting her breathe.
The sash fell to the floor.
Torwin pushed the gossamer overlayer off her shoulders. With the slightest of tugs, it joined the sash at their feet.
When Asha still didn’t turn, he touched her wrist. His fingers trailed slowly up to her elbow, turning her gently until she faced the rough canvas wall of the tent. With her blood humming, she gathered up her wet hair and pulled it over her shoulder.
His fingers started at the top of her underlayer, sliding the tiny pebble-like buttons out of their corresponding loops.
The silence grew like a storm rolling in.
Soon, Asha couldn’t bear it.
“Thank you,” she said, breaking the silence.
Her voice startled him. He fumbled, his knuckles brushing across her bare skin. Asha’s heart raced like a desert wind.
“Thisis no imposition,” he whispered.
As the dress loosened and air rushed against her, Asha felt his gaze trail over her. The bumps of her spine. The wings of her shoulder blades. The curve of her lower back.
“There.” He swallowed softly, undoing the last button. “You’re free.”
Asha turned her back to the tent walls. She kept her arms crossed against her chest, holding the loosened dress up as she looked at him. The light cast by the hanging lamp made hisskin glow. The shadows sharpened his cheekbones. Her gaze slid to his mouth, where the line of his lower lip dipped like the mantle of the Rift.
What would it feel like to press her mouth against his? To close the space between them? To claim him right here in his tent?
As if sensing her thoughts, Torwin raised his eyes to her face. Asha turned her scarred cheek away.
“Why do you keep doing that?” His voice hardened around the words.
When she didn’t answer, he slid off his shirt.
A feeling rushed through Asha, like plunging through the air with Kozu. Dropping the shirt at their feet, Torwin turned so his lacerated back—scabbed and finally healing—was on full display.
“Do you hate the sight of them?”
Asha sucked in a breath. “What?No.”
He turned back to her, his eyes cold. “Then why would I hate the sight of yours?”
But Torwin had never been proud of his scars, while Asha had loved her scar—because her father loved it. She’d used it to justify killing dragons. Her father lied to her over and over again while she brought him their heads. That’s what Asha saw now when she looked at her scar.
Tears stung her eyes and blurred her vision. Asha pressed her hands to her face, trying to hide them.
“Asha... ?”
When she wouldn’t look at him, Torwin’s arms came aroundher, crushing her into his warmth. With his cheek pressed against her hair, he didn’t say a word. Just held her as she cried. His warm palm moved in slow circles against her back, trying to soothe her.
“I almost killed Kozu,” she whispered into her hands when her hiccups fell silent. “I nearly destroyed the old stories.”
