She loved muttering to herself, venting under her breath as she dusted the corners of rooms no one else would bother to notice.
But now, as she blinked her eyes open fully, that familiar, comforting ritual was replaced by her god.
Erevos was lying beside her.
It was the first time she had ever seen him in a truly resting position, his long body still and strangely peaceful against the dark of the bedding, and something about the sight filled her with a gentle warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets.
It felt . . . nice.
It felt domestic, and Lyssena loved domesticity.
“You’re awake,” Erevos said, his voice deep and manly, and Lyssena turned on her side to face him, her hair falling in a soft wave over her face.
He was watching her with those dark, unblinking eyes—hard to read, as always, like purple glass reflecting a world she couldn’t see—and for some reason, Erevos looked . . . larger than usual.
Maybe it was the angle. Maybe it was the strangeness of seeing him reclined. The bed was enormous, but Erevos, lying still and massive in its side, seemed almost larger than the space allowed.
“We say good morning,” she said with a sleepy smile, then added, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Erevos repeated, his wide mouth stretching into a grin that revealed far too many teeth once again, and though she was getting better at seeing them, she still wasn’t entirely used to the way they gleamed in the low light.
She cleared her throat, her smile faltering just a little. “Lots of impressive teeth.”
“I know,” he replied, and his grin only widened, as if he took pride in her observation.
He lay propped on one muscular arm, his dark body coiled like a great feline at rest, and when Lyssena let her gaze drift lower, she noticed—quite suddenly—that one of his legs was crossed over the other, his knee slightly raised, and his foot hanging loose in the most casual, peculiar way.
She blinked.
And then she laughed.
Where on Earth had he picked up that pose? She would never have imagined Erevos lounging like that, like a bored aristocrat or an over-posed statue.
Erevos followed her gaze with curiosity and asked, “What amuses you, songbird?”
But Lyssena was already rolling onto her back, clutching her sides as she laughed even harder, breathless with delight.
“You,” she gasped between fits of laughter, “You’re lying like . . . like a painter’s model! From the big cities!”
It was true. She’d seen those kinds of paintings sold in the market stalls of her village, smuggled from the cities and kept in leather-bound folios, whispered about behind hands.
Women painted in provocative poses, lounging in elegant beds or on chaise lounges, their bodies draped in silk or bare entirely. It was unheard of, scandalous, utterly bizarre in her little village, and now here was Erevos, her terrifying godlike companion, doing the very same thing without even realizing it.
After a good minute of laughter, Lyssena finally began to calm, her chest rising and falling with the soft aftershocks of joy, her smile lingering as she wiped away the tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes.
She turned her gaze back to her god that was still reclined, still utterly motionless, still in that same absurd pose.
“It is very comfortable,” Erevos said at last, voice low and matter-of-fact, and Lyssena mimicked him, leaning on one arm, bending her knee, and letting her foot dangle just as he had.
It was, she admitted to herself, indeed very comfortable. But when she adopted the pose, Erevos did not laugh.
He stared.
And though she couldn’t fully explain the difference betweenlookingandstaringwhen it came to eyes like his, she had come to understand it all the same.
It was in the stillness, in the sharpness of his focus, in the way the air itself seemed to tighten around her when he observed her like this.
Erevos was not a man—nor a god—of many words, but he expressed so much with his eyes.
