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Nic glared athim in frank incredulity—and more than a little irritation. “Yousaidback at the inn in Ophiel that you didn’t want to consider doing the bonding there because you wanted to do it in the House Phel arcanium!”
“No,” he corrected, feeling pedantic even as he said it, “I said I liked the idea of a traditional ceremony in the House Phel arcanium.” He essayed a smile, though it faltered in the face of her outrage. “And I do like that idea.”
She made a low sound that might be a growl. “You are impossible. Fine. We’ll do it here.”
“No.” If this didn’t go as he hoped—if Nic came out the other side of the bonding ceremony like puppyish Daniel—then he didn’t want that memory to taint these rooms. She would still be his wife and mother of their child, and they could—would—build a life together, regardless of their eventual power dynamic, as she so coldly put it. It had become glaringly obvious that he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off of her much longer.
“Why not?” She fisted her hands on her hips. “We’re private. Between us, we have the power. You’re just dragging your feet. Honestly, Gabriel, this delay is worse torture for me than getting it over with.”
She’d been like that their first night together, too—insistent on getting the bedding over with while he wanted time to get to know each other. Her fire to his water. They would make a good team if they could be true partners. A big if.
“I’m not delaying,” he promised, “it’s just that… We’re trying something new, yes? And you say the arcanium will help focus power, so I’m all for every bit of help we can get.”
She eyed him. “Ifthe arcanium even exists.”
“It does.” He held up hands to fend off her argument. “I’m sure it exists, because books on the house reference it, just not specifics of its location.”
“Well, no, they wouldn’t,” she mused. “As I told you, wizards are cagey about their arcaniums. It would be in a mostly inaccessible location, all the better to keep it secret and private. The Elal arcanium is at the top of a tower. I feel I should note at this point that House Phel has no towers.”
“Not anymore, anyway,” he conceded.
“Exactly. The arcanium could’ve fallen into the swamp ages ago.”
He raised a brow at her. She really did love to needle him about the Meresin landscape.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued hastily, observing his expression. “The parts of the house that you’ve restored look remarkably good.” She swept her hands at the graceful rooms. “And I appreciate that you’ve installed me in the best section of it, but don’t think I haven’t noticed how much of this place—especially the wings farther from this core section—looks like it was sunk in a swamp until just recently.”
“That’s uncomfortably accurate,” he conceded.
“I’ll bet you haven’t even been through all of it,” she speculated with a canny expression.
“Well, submerged in swamps and all,” he pointed out sardonically. “Though, really, this area is a marsh. See, the difference—”
“The point is that I’m not swimming to some underwater arcanium, Gabriel,” she interrupted, giving him an arch look. “Full stop. Swamp, marsh, bog, lake, I will not—”
“Lake.” The thrill of the answer filled him with excitement. “I know where it is. Where it must be.”
“Please don’t tell me it’s in the lake.” She looked so aghast that he couldn’t help laughing.
“Underit.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the doors.
“What?No!”
“I promise you won’t have to swim.”
She was dragging her heels, so he paused at the doors. “Trust me?”
Searching his face, she sighed. “I do trust you, Gabriel.”
She meant it, he realized, and that trust, more than any of her other assurances, settled his mind. Maybe she couldn’t love him of her own free will—but trust was something else, something he’d earned, and he’d value that accordingly. If they could build on that trust, maybe she’d stop being afraid of him. Brushing his fingers over her cheek, he bent to kiss her, savoring the taste and feel of her, red wine and roses, redolent and dizzying, as he hadn’t let himself before.
“Or,” she whispered against his lips, “we could go to bed. Lots of sex.”
“We don’t have the luxury of time, remember?”
“I meant days, not hours,” she argued.
“And you don’t want to live in dread.”
