Page 13 of Death Will Follow

“We’ve hardly any space with all the recent arrivals,” the maid explained, avoiding Nova’s eye. “But there may be a small room without a bathing chamber on the ground level.”

“That will be fine,” Bryn cut in.

The maid nodded and made a quick curtsy before hurrying off in search of a room.

“What did you do to her?” Bryn asked.

“Nothing—I swear it,” Nova insisted, crossing to the low fire to warm her cold-stiffened fingers while they waited.

The female returned moments later, ushering them to the rear of the building where she’d prepared a quaint room with a straw cot and a small grate fireplace. There was no attached bathing chamber, but a large wooden tub sat in one corner. Bryn surveyed the room and turned to Nova with a nod of approval. After encouraging the shifter to rest and tasking the maid with seeing to any of Bryn’s needs, Nova took her leave, eager to find her mate.

Six

Nova took the stairs to the upper level two at a time and jogged along the gallery to the chamber she and Callan had once shared. Her skin tingled, sensitive and stretched too tight, knowing, after so long, he was near. Following a brief knock, she eased the door open to find the room empty, though the rumpled furs confirmed the bed had been slept in.

Tossing her bag and weapons onto the sofa, she took off back toward the stairs, nearly colliding with a male servant. Though he balanced a heavy tray of food in his arms, he still managed to shrink back and avoid touching her. When asked if he knew where she could find Callan, he averted his eyes and directed her to the stables.

The air outside was still and quiet, save for birdsong. Thin wisps of gray smoke curled out of the chimneys crowning the small cabins surrounding the Estate. A gust of frigid wind ripped at Nova’s cloak as she hastened along the laneways toward the barn.

Rushing across the threshold, she stopped short in the entryway. Halfway down the long row of stalls, Callan stood lifting an armful of hay over the rail of Shade’s pen. He laid a gentle hand flat on her horse’s muzzle, murmuring softly to the creature as it nibbled at the golden straw. Callan’s oldest friend, Arik, had brought Shade back to Nivali, offering to train her himself. Swift and strong, the horse had served Nova well on the journey to confront Idrian’s forces several months past, but she remained skittish and unpredictable.

Shade tossed her head and nickered, expelling a puff of steam in the cold air, and Callan spun around.

His long strides ate up the distance between them, as if drawn to Nova by an invisible pull. She twined her arms around his neck, her face buried in his chest as he crushed her against him, stroking her hair. She lifted her face to his, and their mouths joined in a kiss, soft and short-lived, their lips more inclined to smile. Callan broke the kiss but kept his forehead pressed to hers, arms unwilling to release his hold on her.

“Happy as I am to see you, and, believe me, I am very happy, I thought I was to meet you in Silvergard in a few days’ time.”

Nova buried her fingers in the dark hair at the nape of his neck, then ran them down to the end of one of his braids. As was the custom in Nivali, he had let his hair grow, and it fell past his shoulders.

“I had a change of plans.” She grinned like a fool.

“Then the gods have smiled on me.”

Callan released her, lifting his hands to brush his thumbs over her cheeks as if in disbelief that she actually stood before him. He pulled her close once more and kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue joining with hers, the scrape of his beard rough against her skin. She went slack in his arms, wanting nothing more than to be devoured by him, but, after a moment, she broke away.

“Have you missed me?” she asked, her tender heart hammering within her chest. “I thought—” Nova paused, briefly considering keeping her thought to herself. “I thought perhaps you’d tired of me.”

Callan let out a dry laugh. “All these months, I’ve hardly thought of anything but you. Whether in my waking hours or while I slept, you have been on my mind without end. The softness of your skin . . . the sweet taste of you on my tongue.”

His words carried a promise of pleasure, punctuated by kisses trailing from her temple to her lips, and she pressed her body against his. Callan stilled at voices approaching. Taking her by the hand, he opened a nearby door and slipped through it, pulling her into the room behind him.

The space was dim, lit by pale sunlight filtering through thin cracks in the wood-plank walls. A thick bed of straw covered the floor, a stack piled high in the far corner of the small room, dust motes winking like fireflies as they floated through the shafts of light.

Nova leaned back against the wall and gripped Callan’s shirt, pulling him against her once again. The solid weight of him anchored her to the spot, tethering her to the present moment. Her eyes fell shut, and she inhaled the delicious scent of him—crisp like fresh snow—as a rumble of male voices passed directly outside the door. Callan dipped his head and swiped his tongue wickedly along the column of her throat, pulling a moan from her lips before she could clap a hand over her mouth. She swatted him playfully with the other.

“Behave,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t want anyone to know you’re with a Silvergardian, now, would you?”

Though her tone was playful, her words carried weight. She was beloved by her own folk in the Lunar Court, but she would never forget how the folk of Nivali had welcomed her on her first visit to the Winter Court: with startled gasps and steel glinting in the firelight.

“Don’t tempt me,” Callan cautioned, his voice low. Rough. “I’ll have you no matter who is listening.”

A shiver of arousal rippled through her, halting her breath. Callan tilted his head, a faint smile lifting one side of his mouth, eyes trained on the thump of her pulse at her throat.

“Does that excite you?” He lowered his face, turning his head slowly from side to side, barely brushing his lips against hers. “The thought of me taking you while others can hear?”

“Perhaps not the audience,” she breathed. “But you claiming me . . .”

Callan froze. She let the word—and its significance—hang in the air between them.