I have faced worse odds. Probably. I would have to think about it.
Peeble and I spend the day exploring the Verdance. I never saw much of Iteration Nine in the Void. I always assumed it was because it was an early collapse. Now I wonder if it has been shielding itself in more ways than one.
That afternoon, I leave Peeble in the kitchens discussing local politics with the staff over wine. I decide I don't want to be present for the antics sure to follow.
I go in search of Kaelren, finding him in the war office.
Thalia gave him the room this morning after the meeting. A Root-carved chamber on the second level of the Heartwood,originally built for strategy meetings. Heavy desk. Maps pinned to every wall. Battle markers scattered across a table like someone spilled a war game and never cleaned it up. Low amber light from the bioluminescent moss, and a single arched window with a vine curtain that lets in the last of the evening glow.
And Kaelren, sitting in a carved chair behind the desk, looking like he was specifically designed to ruin my life.
He's sprawled. That's the only word for it. One leg extended, his boot propped on a low ottoman, the other bent at the knee. His shirt is open, not removed, just unbuttoned to the waist, the dark fabric pushed back to expose the plane of his chest and stomach. The corruption marks trace down his torso in branching lines, dark against the hard ridges of muscle, and the locket sits against the center of his chest, glinting in the amber light. His dark hair falls loose around his jaw. One hand rests on the armrest. The other props his chin, fingers curled against his cheek, and he's looking at a map on the desk with the half-lidded focus of a man who's been thinking too hard for too long.
He looks dangerous, gorgeous, completely at ease. I want to climb into his lap and bite him.
He glances up when I close the door. Silver eyes track from my face down my body, then back up, slow and deliberate. The corner of his mouth lifts.
"You're staring," he says.
"You're sitting there with your shirt open looking like that, and you're going to comment on my staring?"
"Like what?"
"Like you should be illegal in at least three realms."
The half-smile widens. He doesn't move. Doesn't sit up or button his shirt, or do anything remotely considerate. He just stays there, sprawled and open, watching me from the chair with the patient, heavy-lidded attention of someone who knows exactly what he looks like and is waiting to see what I do about it.
The room darkens.
I didn't ask it to. But the Verdance reads intent, and apparently my intent is loud, because the moss dims from amber to a deep, warm gold, the vine curtain over the window draws shut, and the temperature rises by several degrees. The city knows what I want before I do. Or maybe it knows exactly when I do.
"Come here," Kaelren says, low. Not a request.
I don't go to him. Not yet.
Instead, I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. I drop it on the floor. His eyes follow it, then come back up to my bare skin, and the lazy ease in his expression burns away like fog in direct sunlight. What's underneath is focused. Predatory.
I unclasp my bra and let it fall. His fingers dig into the armrest. The living wood flexes under his grip.
I unlace my pants. Push them down. Step out of them, and then out of everything else. I stand in front of him naked, ten feet away, in the low light of a room that is very much paying attention.
His jaw tightens. His chest rises and falls harder than it did thirty seconds ago. His eyes move over every inch of me with the thorough, unhurried hunger of a man memorizing something he plans to devour.
"Gorgeous," he says. The word comes out rough, almost involuntary. "Every time I look at you, you're more beautiful. I don't know how that's possible, but you are."
I walk toward him. Slowly. The root floor is warm under my bare feet. His eyes never leave me. When I stop in front of the chair, close enough to touch, he doesn't reach for me. He sits there, hands on the armrests, waiting, and the restraint it takes is visible in every tense line of his body.
I sink to my knees between his legs.
His breath catches. A sharp, involuntary inhale. His hands white-knuckled on the armrests.
I run my fingers up his thighs, slowly, watching his face. I reach his belt and start working the buckle.
He lets me get it open. Lets me slide my hand inside, lets my fingers close around the hot, hard length of him. His head tips back against the chair and the sound he makes is low and guttural and deeply satisfying.
"Elle." My name comes out like a prayer and a warning at the same time.
I stroke him once. Twice. Lean forward and press my mouth to the head of him, and his whole body jerks like he's been electrocuted. His hand flies to my hair, gripping hard, not pushing me down but holding on.
