She groaned.
“So, you are awake?” he murmured, lowering himself to the bed with his face dangerously between her legs.
Another groan. He lifted the barrier of his Magic that he knew aided in her sleep. She never slept through the night at Blackstone.
He pressed his lips to the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. Her knees pulled up instinctively. He pressed them back downwith steady hands. With a content sigh, her pale eyes met his. Her thick black lashes against those icy eyes made her ethereal.
“Hi,” she said, sleep still thick in her voice.
Mal didn’t reply. He smiled at her and pressed another kiss, closer to her center, into her chilled skin. Another. And another.
Her fingers found his hair. “Can it always be this way?”
His eyes found hers, though he did not stop his slow and steady onslaught of kisses. The truth wasn’t an easy admittance.
“So much peace. Just you and me,” she continued, her eyes closing as his lips kissed down just above her hip.
“Peace,” he repeated, crawling over her body until their chests pressed together and his nose nearly brushed hers, “is fleeting.”
She tilted her chin up until they shared one breath. “Are you speaking of us or of war?”
Mal hummed in approval. “So quick to make assumptions that you understand either.”
Maeve frowned. He grazed the tip of his nose over hers. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“I end one war and am already preparing for the next.”
She hesitated beneath him. “Earth?” she questioned at last.
“Sharp as a thorn,” he commended her.
“Earth will fight hard,” she remarked, something like doubt in her voice.
“But I will fight harder,” he said with a small smirk.
“You travel to Hiems often?” she asked.
Mal nodded. “I am their Prince.”
“Hmm,” murmured Maeve.
“Why?” he pressed casually.
“I dream about the realm often. At least, I think it’s Hiems. Truly, I’ve never been.”
“Would you like to see it?”
She pressed back into the pillows, her eyes darting between his. “You’d take me to the ice planet?”
“My planet,” he corrected, his fingers raising to brush hair from her forehead. “What are your dreams about?”
She looked up at the ceiling. “My brother,” she answered softly. “I think. That wolf that trails you, the one from Hiems. He reminds me of him.”
“Mordred is his name,” said Mal. “He tells me your brother was a werewolf.”
Maeve nodded, her eyes still not meeting his.
“Death circles you like a vulture,” said Mal, reaching for her hand and swiftly slipping the Dread Ring off her finger. Her eyes snapped to his, color draining from her cheeks. “Can you feel it? All the destruction you could bring?” His lips moved towards hers. “I am insatiable for it.”
