"You could have said something."
"I wanted to see if you'd manage it."
He comes next to me, and studies the map.
"These aren't territorial markers," I point to them.
"No."
"There are older records." He pulls a leather-bound folio from a lower shelf and opens it across the table between us. The diagrams are a geometric lattice. Angles collapsing inward toward a shared center point. I think immediately of the fungus from the forest.
"This is the structure behind it." I break the silence.
"The grevhault carried the same lattice," he mentions while turning the page. It shows three recorded disturbances, each marked with the same geometry. Not natural surges. Containment failures. Someone tried this before, years ago, then buried the records where only Mournhold could find them.
"Not a weapon," I murmur, studying it. "A conduit."
I reach for the folio, and my hand brushes his. His body stills, and his eyes meet mine.
"We should bring this to Nyssara," I suggest.
"Yes. We should."
I attempt to open the door, but it's stuck. The storm had worsened while we are reading, rattling the old wards in their frames. Draekir tests it. "The storm sealed it. I can't magic us out of here with that going on."
I turn back, to find it suddenly feels smaller. We may be here until morning. I sigh and lean back against the shelving. The jaw incident lands at the front of mind, and I try to keep in what I'm thinking.
"You've been avoiding it," I eventually say. "Since that night in the kitchen. Whatever was in that room with us that you decided not to say."
Nothing.
"You gripped my face, said what you said and left." I make my voice level. "And you've done it every time since — found something that needs handling the moment the distancebetween us becomes inconvenient. A door to check. A hunter to brief. A report that apparently cannot wait." I hold his profile in my peripheral vision. "I'm not subtle enough to keep pretending I don't notice."
"Elowen." My name in his voice sounds like a warning.
"Say what you wanted to say," I demand. He shifts a little. Not away — closer.
The muscle in his throat moves. His hands come up above either side of me, and I feel the weight of his engrossment settle over me making my breathing go careful. This close, his chest moves with each breath he is trying to keep controlled. He glances at my mouth, and returns to my eyes.
"I have not had a single quiet thought since you arrived here."
The words are stripped of every layer he keeps between himself and the world, and they land in my heart. I didn't expect honesty. Not this kind. Not without the armor.
"I have spent over a hundred years knowing exactly what I am and what I am not." His jaw is tight. "I have not known how to make sense of you since the first morning you tried to leave with no shoes and a leg that didn't work. I have become aware of your presence before I cross thresholds. Every time you argue with me I find myself looking forward to the next argument. I still don't know how to deal with it. And that is not something I am accustomed to."
A long roll of thunder moves through the stone beneath our feet. His rough hand reaches to my cheek and he closes the distance. Our lips connect. The kiss is not careful or exploratory.
He keeps one hand above me, and I pull him even closer, letting the shelves dig into my spine. The kiss feels like something has been waiting weeks to happen. He groans and it moves through me like the thunder through the stone.
I wrap both hands around his neck and he slants forward. His body pushes against my hip through the layers between us, the thick press of his cock already straining at the lacing. Neither of us is breathing at a rate Nyssara would approve of.
I retreat only enough to speak. "The staff?—"
"Can manage the night." His forehead drops to mine, and he resumes kissing me. His hands slide down to my waist, settling at my hips with intention — that slowness — that is more undoing than any urgency would have been. He's not rushing.
He stops to look at me, and asks, "can I?"
"Yes," I confirm.
