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He was a masterpiece sculpted from strength and grace.
Black hair hung around his face, tousled and sweat-stained, framing his chiseled features. His bronze-kissed skin shone with the day's exertion. With practiced ease, he let the pauldron slip from his shoulders. Next came the cuirass, then the close-fitting doublet, worn underneath.
I held my breath as I glimpsed his chest. It was covered with dried blood and bruises.
“You were injured today,” I said sharply, taking in the wounds.
He shrugged, as if too tired to care. “A little. Most of these–” He gestured to his torso. “Have closed up already. I heal fast. You know this.”
“A Siabra power?”
He nodded.
I knew. I also knew his rapid healing abilities weren’t always enough. Back in Eskira, when Arthur’s man had poisoned him with bloodwraith, Draven had become very ill indeed. Even now, he had no idea I was to thank for his rapid recovery.
“Very convenient,” I mused as I watched him. “Claws, horns, cat-like reflexes, rapid healing. What else do you have that I don't know about?”
He grinned wickedly and I blushed.
“That'snotwhat I meant.”
He shrugged. “I suppose it depends on who you ask. If you spoke to a cleric–there are a few left, though the Siabra seem to have lost their devotion for the most part–and you might be told we have the gods to thank for these traits.”
“And if I asked someone who wasn't a cleric?”
“They might say one of my ancestors had fucked a cat.”
“Very funny.” I threw my hairbrush. It landed at his feet with a thunk. I hadn't really been trying to hit him.
“No, but really, I have no idea.”
“Cats don't have horns,” I said primly.
“Excellent observation, milady.” He smirked. “Perhaps more than one animal was involved in the... um, process.”
I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “Oh, for fuck's sake, you've evidently given this a great deal of thought. What a dirty mind you have, my prince.”
He laughed, then lifted the discarded armor up and hung it on a wooden stand near the wardrobe that held his everyday clothes.
I watched him run a hand over his face as he turned back to me, his handsome face in profile as he brushed his fingers over the shadow of dark stubble that clung to his rugged jaw. He shrugged his shoulders, loosening the muscles in his back, and I could see the weariness there. Every line and every sinew spoke to his commitment to defending his people with an unwavering resolve.
And his commitment to defending me.
No wonder the Siabra held an entire continent within their grasp. This man could conquer worlds if he had to.
But every battle he fought was a sacrifice, too. He fought with unyielding strength because he believed he had no other choice. Not because he wanted to. Beneath it all, I saw his weariness, his vulnerability.
He had called me a force of destiny. Which was funny, because these days I frequently felt as if I were simply being relentlessly swept along in Draven’s destiny.
I wondered if he longed for solace and respite as much as I did.
He turned to face me, his bare chest rising and falling with each breath. I swallowed hard as our eyes locked.
“I'm going for a bath,” I said hurriedly.
He nodded. “I think I’ll turn in. Long day training tomorrow.”
My jaw hung open for a split second before I managed to close it.
