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This time I laugh, more out of disbelief than any real amusement.
“I don’t know, Einar. You spend half your life in that study of yours. Maybe you could have taken an hour to do some basic research on the culture of the woman you were going to spend the rest of your life with.”
I dart past him, but not quickly enough. Strong arms grab hold of my waist and he squeezes me against him. Khijha lets out a warning growl but doesn’t make a move toward us. Yet.
“Well, the rest of my life was likely to be fairly short if you had anything to say about it,” he mutters into my ear.
We both know I was never going to kill him, though I am rethinking that sentiment right about now. He lets me go, and I collapse onto my hands and knees.
“That’s not an excuse. You didn’t know who I was before I got here,” I spit back at him, and he arches an eyebrow.
“I didn’t know after you got here, either.” He is being pettier than usual.
I stand and infuse my next kick with a little more power, but he catches my ankle neatly in his massive hand.
“You may have lived a life full ofchoices,” I use his favorite word. “But try to step down off your high horse long enough to remember that I hadnone.”
I kick off the ground with my other leg, gaining enough momentum to flip over and wrench myself away from him.
“There are always choices,” he asserts again, but he says the words with less conviction this time than he had before.
“Really, Einar? And tell me, what were mine?”
“You could have chosen to trust me.” His voice is firmer now, and I actually let out a snort.
“How could I trust someone I didn’t even know? Did you ever stop to think that if you had taken the time to even pretend we were going to have an actual marriage, maybe I might have?” I aim another blow at the back of his knee.
He stumbles, and I fling myself on top of him, pinning him to the ground.
“I suppose I’m not as good at pretending as you are,” he bites back, but doesn’t try to move away.
And that does me in. I have raised my voice a handful of times in the last decade, and I am sure that every single one of them has been to this infuriating man.
“I’m not good at it, either!” I rage. “Why do you think I was willing to give up everything,everythingfor you. Why do you think I carefully orchestrated and willingly walked to my own very painful demise? You insufferable, impossiblechutiya.”
I want to take the words back as soon as they leave my lips. Not the insults. Those can stay. But the admission that I nearly died for a man who can’t get past his own self-righteous pride long enough to believe there might be good in someone, even when they are forced to do questionable things.
We are both panting now, my forearm on his neck while I straddle his waist. I don’t bother asking if he yields because he never will. Neither of us will, and that’s the problem.
I remember seeing a circus as a child, in my real childhood before Madame stole it. I was fascinated by the tightrope walkers, the way that for each subtle movement in one direction, they compensated from the other side to maintain their perfect, tenuous balance. I had barely been able to breathe for the entire performance, wondering if they would miscalculate by a fraction of a motion and lose everything with that single mistake.
That’s what my entire relationship with Einar feels like. A series of actions and reactions where neither of us can afford to give an inch for fear of upsetting the fragile balance of our existence.
But we can’t live our lives on a tightrope. And for us, falling might not mean the end. It might just be our salvation.
I watch him for any hint of a reaction to my words. His features are like granite, cold and unmoving, but his eyes...his eyes blaze like they’re lighting the pyre of every last one of our sins.
I feel his body soften under mine, and I react instinctively, easing up on my hold. His hands snake around my waist, and he flips me over so effortlessly, I briefly wonder if he actually let me pin him before.
Then, his mouth is on mine and I lose the ability to wonder anything at all.
Whether he was holding back in our sparring, he was certainly holding back in this. He kisses me without restraint, like he is a drowning man and I am the only source of oxygen in the entire known world.
And even though I know I will regret it, I feel myself responding in the same vein, feel my legs wrap around his solid waist and my hands run through his white-blonde hair. Only then do I allow myself to acknowledge how desperately every part of me has been craving his touch.
He props himself up on a muscled forearm, his other hand skimming the length of my side and leaving a trail of heat in its wake. It’s easy to forget how endlessly warm he is until his body is hovering over mine, chasing away all of the ice that never seems to thaw.
I deepen our kiss, giving in to the temptation to run my hands under his shirt, along the hard planes of his chest, then around to his back to pull him more tightly against me.
