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“Convenient or not, you need to feed before we go.” His desire and desperation slammed into her, a question he wasn’t asking practically screaming between them anyway.
Sweet baby Sisters.
“Brand”—she shifted around to face him, a flush creeping over her—“nothing is going to happen. Not this time. We aren’t the same creatures we were before. I’ve got Illamiata now. I healed a dreadbeast! We’ll be alright.”
“Hmm. You nearly died healing a dreadbeast. And would have if I hadn’t felt it happening with Araxis right there to deliver me to your side.” He cupped her face. “I’ll not be assuming anything, Luna. Which is why there’s something I need to do before we face tomorrow’s trials, regardless of whether they happen in one hour or six.”
Through the bond, Brand was playing her body without even touching it, her stark yearning rising up to mirror his.
“The others, are they nearby?”
One side of his mouth quirked up, even as he looked down at hers. “Half the Weeping City watched us fuck on Argoph’s balcony, little moon.” He slipped his thumb between her lips and pressed it to one fang, pricking it and smearing his blood across her tongue. “The ones that didn’t certainly heard and felt it. And every creature nearby was there that night. What could we possibly do to shock them?”
He makes very good points, doesn’t he?
Probably. It was hard to think with the haze seeping into her vision, her core contracting as copper and iron settled into her tastebuds alongside his power. He wasn’t wrong though—life could change in an instant. There was no guarantee of a happily ever after.
You’d be a fool to deny him.
Lunara was beyond that, anyway, too thirsty for a taste of him. Too hungry for his touch.
“Does my mate have a gift for me, then?” she asked, her fingers trailing down the hard plane of his chest, his abdomen. Only a lifetime’s worth of Nachthellian restraint held her in check, body straining to hear the words of offering from his mouth.
Brand’s gaze darkened and he reached beneath his pillow to produce a jeweled knife. He held it up, examining the tip before locking eyes with her again. “I’d like to give you much more than that.”
He pulled her from the bed and into the center of their tent. Dragging the small table closer, he went to his knees and dipped the blade into the silver bowl, which she now saw was filled with ceremonial oil.
Wait. No. He can’t mean to—
“Forgive me. It never should’ve taken me so long to learn that this was something I could do for you.”
Her breaths went shallow as Brand slashed himself across one palm, and crimson welled along with her tears.
“By the light of the twin moons above us…”
Into the oil, and across the other hand.
“By the power of the Sisters who made them…”
Another dip and he lifted it to the sprinting pulse on one side of his neck, not wincing when the point sank in.
“My blessed mate need never ask me, Brandir aht Bordoroth, again.”
Again, on the opposite side.
“Lunara the Moonweaver never need wait for permission.”
At last, he pressed it right between her permanent fang marks in his chest, over his heart, and cut a line to connect them.
“The gift of my blood is forever and freely given unto her, most precious.”
Nothing outward happened, but a small and ancient knot within her unraveled as he gave something she was forbidden from ever asking for. From even suggesting.
The Divine Rite of Mates.
Perhaps the most sacred ceremony to the Sorcerit—more, even, than a mating ritual, because mates were not required to offer it. The knowledge was passed down through witnessing, if one was lucky. Or hushed bedtime stories from parent to child. No one spoke of it in public, and no one asked for it. To do so would violate the free will of the giver, a trespass of the highest order if ever there was one in Nachthelliae.
“How did you know about this?” Her voice was almost nonexistent, limbs buzzing with the need to pounce. She couldn’t though. Not yet.
