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“Good idea. She likes him. Maybe he can draw her out.” I sink into his chest, inhaling his scent. “And then Gesine can teach me how to fly so I can come to you.”
He chuckles, folding his arms around me, cocooning me in his warmth. “I do not know if casters can actually fly, but if anyone can figure it out, it will be you.”
I revel in the silence and privacy, even as panic surges inside.
Somewhere above us, two hundred and fifty-four Ybarisans, now dressed in armor with two intersecting crescent moons on their chests, prepare to hold the rift beside us.
You hope, that little voice inside my head reminds me.
They strap extra weapons and shields and helms to their horses, enough for three hundred saplings to wear as they prepare to go to battle with us.
You hope.
They will all ride alongside a thousand Islorians, who will accept this alliance and Zander as the true king of Islor.
You hope.
And what if all that happens, and yet it still doesn’t matter?
Hudem is in three days. On that night, what we’ve done—what I’ve done—will be obvious to all, for better or worse.
What if this is the last time we hold each other like this?
“Come back to me,” I whisper, a tear slipping free. “I can’t live in this world without you.”
He releases me, only to lean in, pressing his forehead against mine. “I know the feeling.” His voice has turned hoarse.
I stare through the sheen, into his light hazel irises, struggling to pick out the flecks of gold, afraid I’m about to crumble. Once, not that long ago, those same eyes were full of hatred when they landed on me. It seems impossible now. “Remember when you wanted me dead?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “No.” The faintest touch of humor laces that single word.
“Oh, come on, remember? In the tower that night, when you had me up against the wall—”
Zander moves so quickly, the next thing I know, there’s stone against my back and his hard body is pressed against my front. His hand cradles my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His lips catch mine, coaxing them open, his tongue slipping in to bait with expert strokes. It’s the kind of kiss that always leads to more.
I break free long enough to whisper, “Really? You tried to take away my ring—”
He cuts me off with a deeper kiss, and I abandon my teasing, tipping my head to give him better access.
If this is the last time …
No. I won’t think like that.
His fingers curl around a fistful of my hair, his affection turning urgent. I respond in kind, seizing his bottom lip between my teeth, sucking on it, earning his guttural groan.
His hands grip my hips, pulling them against his, allowing me to feel the hard length of him against my belly.
“Now.” The single word is all I can manage, as I claw at his tunic, yanking it out from its safety within his breeches, uncovering the hard expanse of muscle over his torso. We break free long enough for him to help me pull it over his head and toss it to the floor, and then his mouth is crashing into mine again, both our fingers fumbling with buttons and buckles, unable to unfasten things fast enough. Sword belts tumble and boots are kicked off, and then he’s lying me down on the pile of clothes. The stone beneath us is jagged and hard, but all I feel is Zander’s breath skating along my skin as his lips find my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. I arch my back into his mouth as his teeth scrape against a nipple.
“I promise you, we will see each other again,” he whispers, settling his delicious weight onto my waiting body. The ache building inside me is too much, and I cry out as he sinks into me, my fingernails dragging across the expanse of muscle over his back, pulling him closer to me.
“There is no queen …” His hand slips beneath my head to cradle it, protecting it from the stone. “Or fate …” His hips begin to thrust. “Or army who can keep me from you.” Raw desire burns in his eyes as they lock with mine, holding them. Our bodies move in sync, the only sound within this vault of riches beneath the castle the tangle of our breaths, and for a few last moments, all my fear and worries about what comes next fade away.
The two lines move parallel to one another across the arid soil toward the valley, but the gap between them yawns.
“Have we made a mistake?” We’ve dressed the Ybarisans in Ulysede’s armor, the polished golden metal gleaming in the waning sun. But they are still Ybarisans. I know it, they know it, and Telor’s men certainly know it.
