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And there was so much of him to see. But her eyes were drawn first below the water—to a rune on his hip glowing a steady gold. In the prison, the ragged wrap he’d tied around his waist had concealed the mark, yet she was unsurprised to see it.
She’d heard of such runes before. Those who were born in the Dead Lands, fearing a repeat of the Reckoning that had nearly destroyed the realm, voluntarily and permanently contained their innate magic within their skin. Those who were marked with the rune could not cast spells. Only a few witches born to the various clans retained that ability, and they only used spells for critical needs such as healing fatal wounds. But the mark also acted as a ward, making Warrick impervious to spells—so long as his innate magic was stronger than the sorcerer who cast the spell.
Which would serve him well in Aleron. His magic only needed to be stronger than her uncle’s.
“May I touch you?” she whispered, her fingers poised inches from his skin. He could not understand her words but could probably interpret her tone and the hovering of her hand.
A single nod was his response. Even as she watched, his every muscle seemed to flex and harden, as if to steel himself against her touch.
Did he fear losing control? Did he want her so much?
She laid her palm over his heart. His pounding heart. Happiness bubbled through her veins at the evidence that her nearness affected him in equal measure to her own racing heart. Oh, and he was so warm. And smooth. In the cell, dirt and matted hair had covered his pectorals. Yet he’d shaved his torso. Even the dark trail arrowing down to his groin was gone. There was only bare skin beneath the water. And a thick—
Oh.
It was not as she expected. Elina had thought his appendage was supposed to stiffen when she came near. Yet hadn’t she also overheard jests from the knights about how frigid water could shrivel a prick?
The pool must be too cold for it to harden—though to Elina, the water seemed only wonderfully refreshing. Certainly it had not cooled her own ardor. Or her blush. The heat in her cheeks would finish melting the queen’s face if she looked any longer.
Averting her eyes from that fascinating hang of flesh, she let her palm slide across his chest, down his side. Her fingers dipped underwater. The glowing rune seemed hotter than the surrounding skin, though not burningly so.
She looked up. No tangled hair concealed his face from her now. His features were constructed of sharp edges, from the hardness of his jaw to the angles of his cheekbones. His eyes were dark, a brown so deep it was almost black, with a gaze that seemed to pierce straight through her.
“I am so very glad you came,” she said softly. “Especially if it means that your heart is already mine.”
His eyebrows drew in slightly, as if in confusion. Wondering what she was saying, perhaps. Elina was glad he didn’t understand her. Never would she speak so freely if he could.
“I think I shall like having you in my bed.”
His muscles went rigid. Had he heard the husky note in her voice? Was he stopping himself from ravishing her now? It was a lovely thought. Though perhaps not so lovely in practice. Not with every attendant watching.
Her gaze slid from his face. A tuft of hair stuck out above his ear. “You have missed there. May I?”
She gestured to the knife in his hand and was surprised by how tightly he gripped the handle. As if preparing to use the blade.
After a long moment, he seemed to understand her request and relinquished the knife. But he must not have understood her purpose—or that he was far too tall.
Elina crooked her finger. Stiffly, he bent his head. Carefully she scraped away the tuft but saw that her task was not yet done. “There is more behind…”
Realizing the uselessness of explaining, she slipped around him. A few more tufts needed shaving—and he’d cut his scalp. A thin rivulet of blood flowed down the back of his neck, into the valley of his spine. Her gaze followed that crimson path, entranced by the two hollows dimpling the small of his back, just above the muscular swell of each buttock.
But all of this could be explored later. She returned her attention to the cut.
“My nurse can—”
Something seized her leg. Her gasp became a desperate gulping breath just before it pulled her under.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.
Every lesson the serjeant had ever taught Elina about how to respond to an attack threatened to flee her brain, yet she hauled them back.
Fear might save her life. Panic would kill her.
Figure out what is happening. Are you hurt?
