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“Thanks to you.”
“I think mostly thanks to Wendeline.” And Romeria.
“Do not trivialize what you give.” He reaches for me.
I slip under his arm, and he sandwiches me between his muscular body and the terrace stone wall.
“Warmer?”
“Yes. Thank you. Are you not cold?”
“No. But I’ll gladly take some of your heat.” He steps closer.
My breath hitches at the feel of his hard length against the small of my back, but he only cocoons me within his arms. “What are you doing out here?”
“Thinking.” He pauses. “If you had the chance to live for centuries beyond your mortal years, would you wish to, Gracen?”
“I …” His question catches me off guard. “I’ve never considered it.”
“Never? Truly?”
“No. We are not allowed to.”
“But what if you were allowed to?”
I peer up to meet his gaze. “Is this a test?” Why would he ask such a thing?
“There is no wrong answer here. I am curious. What would your answer be?”
“I suppose …” I think of Mika’s big blue eyes and Lilou’s cherub cheeks. “I live for my children. I cannot imagine making a choice like that. One that would keep me here centuries after they are gone.” I shake my head. “No, that doesn’t sound like something I would want to do.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“You did? How?” I look up again, this time to see a sad smile.
“Because I know you better than you think I do.” He tightens his arms around me.
It feels like an embrace between lovers. At least, it’s what I’ve imagined. I’ve never experienced it before. Is this what they mean when they say the tributary-and-keeper relationship can be special? Intimate?
If so … I hope it is years before Atticus tires of me. But he will tire of me. I will grow wrinkled and gray, my body soft, and he will want a younger tributary to meet his needs. And I will become just the baker once more.
If this is how Atticus was with Sabrina, I can see why she is so heartbroken. Perhaps it is better that he moves through them quickly, so they can’t grow too attached.
“I sense your worry.” His voice is gravelly, close to my ear. “What is it?”
The king doesn’t want to hear about my insecurities. “Do you think you will have the strength to lead this battle in the east?” I ask instead.
“I have no choice, but yes, I will have all the strength I need. Why? Are you worried about me?”
“Yes.” I steal a glance over my shoulder at his handsome profile as he looks to the sky, but there is no hint of dawn yet. Still, it can’t be far away.
A sly grin curls his lips. “I do not think you truly appreciate my skills. Though I suppose I can’t fault you. You’ve never seen them firsthand.” His hips press harder against my back, and another wave of heat rushes over me.
I want Atticus to touch me. It’s an acute feeling, an acknowledgment deep inside my core, as I ache for him in a way I never have before. On impulse, I rock backward against him.
His shudder skates across my cheek. “Did you know there are a dozen guards right down there? You can’t see them now. But in two nights, this entire garden will be bathed in a bright Hudem moon. You’ll be able to stand up here and pick each of them out.”
I suck in a breath as his hand slips between the folds of my robe. We won’t be standing here in two nights. Atticus will be in battle, and I’ll be fending for a horde of mortal children downstairs, worrying incessantly until his return.
“Before you came out, I was thinking that it’s twice I’ve taken from you without giving you anything back. That ends now,” he whispers, his mouth finding the tender skin behind my ear.
I revel in the feel of his tongue as his fingers graze over my inner thigh, sliding upward until they reach my center. He strokes me skillfully several times before slipping a finger inside. A moan slips free, my body slick and welcoming.
I must thank the priestess for her healing gift.
My legs tremble as I adjust my stance, granting him better access, my fingers enjoying the muscles that flex in his forearm. Never before have any of the males forced upon me ever bothered with such an intimate touch. I doubt they would be capable, but my needs never mattered.
With Atticus, he works slowly, circling my sensitive flesh with strokes of his thumb.
“Turn around,” he whispers, his mouth pressed against my ear.
I do as ordered, allowing my robe to hang open as I face him.
His mouth crashes into mine, as if he couldn’t wait another second, even as his hand never loses its pace, stroking deep inside me, building tension that begs to erupt. I grope his body aimlessly, absorbing every inch of hard muscle beneath my fingertips as wild desire claws at my inhibitions.
