Darkling (18 page)

I laugh because he’s watching my feet at
first, worried he’ll step on me. Maybe he has but I can’t feel it. We repeat the steps, gaining speed like we used to do at the harvest festival. We’d spin faster and faster until there were only a few couples left. My blood is rushing through my veins, warming me against the night. Tristan’s hand is growing damp. We dance until I have to catch my breath.

He slings his arms around my waist and I hook mine over his shoulders.

“Your dances are much more fun than mine,” he says with a laugh. “Do you feel that?” He takes one of my hands and rests it on his heart. It’s racing. So beautifully alive. He laughs again as he looks above my eyes. “You have moonlight in your hair.”

I slip my hands under his vest and link them behind his back. My arms are warmed by his heat. I rest my head on his chest. His heart is slowing. He bends over me and I feel a gentle, pleasant pain on the side of my neck.

My bruises. He’s kissing my bruises. One by one. I tilt my head back as he makes his way from one side to the other. I know it’s not possible but I swear they feel better. At least, the sensation his lips are leaving behind feels better.

I know it was him who gave me the bruises in the first place. I’m trying to continue that thought. To somehow equate what he’s doing to healing it.
Making up for it. But that’s not quite it. And I can’t hold onto any thoughts anymore. They’re leaving as soon as they enter. Enter what? Head. My head. I have a head. No, I don’t. I only have a body and his lips are on it. Warmed by the tip of his tongue. By my ear. So hot when I’m so cold.

My eyes are shut. When did I close them? I don’t care. My body is stiffening and softening at the same time. I’m getting warm again.
A different sort of warm. A hungry sort. Only the hunger isn’t in my belly. And heat is pooling in places I didn’t think it could. My neck feels freezing when he pulls away. I open my eyes. I can’t see his face because his temple is against mine. I’ve never been so aware of the curve of his body against me. Of his heat. Of my heat. I want to do something about it. I want him.

I press my fingertips into his back as I kiss him. My lips have never felt like this before.
Such teasing pleasure. I need more of it. And so does he. His hands are in my hair, on my backside, on my thighs. I try to keep track of them. They feel like there’s more than two. But his lips are intoxicating, so warm like his tongue.

This
is why we have bodies. To make love.

His vest is gone. I’m unbuttoning his shirt. Who has this many buttons, anyway? I try not to tear them but my hands are shaking, because his are on my backside, pressing me to him. His lips and tongue are on the side of my neck. I fumble with the last button and can’t undo it. He’s distracting me. I think my skin is stretching, reaching for him. I slide my fingers up his back. Smooth skin and taut muscle.
Warmth. I tangle my other in his hair. His scalp is sticky, moist with sweat.

I catch his lips with mine. He lets go of me to cup my face. We’re both panting so much that we shouldn’t be kissing but we are. I can’t stop. My hand is yanking on his trousers before I know it. Anticipation blooms inside when my knuckles brush his firm abdomen. His breath hitches as my hand slides to the clasp. Then the heat is gone. It fades so quickly that I blink and stagger.

He has yanked away from me. His back is turned. His shoulders slumped. My skin is hungry for his. I try to calm it down but I can’t. And then it’s as if I can think again for the first time. Being unable to quiet my physical senses has never happened before. I could always still them enough to listen if I tried. Unless I was in danger.

This is no danger. This is different. My eyes are on his backside. I want it. This is lust.

I want to go to him but I don’t trust myself. I’ll try to kindle the fire all over again. My blood is hungry to make his race once more. So instead I force myself to stand there. To let the cold seep in. My lips are throbbing with my pulse. It takes more willpower than I ever thought, but I stay where I am. I can feel the sweat on my body as it starts to cool.

Tristan remains where he stopped several paces away, unmoving. As my skin cools and I can think again, I think too much. Have I upset him? Does he not want me like I want him? Of course he doesn’t. I’m too skinny. I’m not all that pretty. But I pleased him. Didn’t I please him? I have no experience. I’ve done something wrong.

I blush. The heat in my face only increases when I retrace my steps. I’ve never wanted someone to touch me like that before. I’ve never wanted to touch someone like that before.

He shifts his weight then looks at me over his shoulder, biting his lower lip. I force myself not to take notice of how seductively innocent the expression on his face is. How he’s drawing attention to his lips. How the moonlight is pooling in his eyes, making them appear larger than they are. I fail.

“You’re very beautiful,” he says quietly. “Inside and out.”

He steps back over to me and I feel myself stiffen. My heart starts to flutter in advance and I tell it to calm down to soothe my blood. He pauses before me. There’s no use trying to avoid the nakedness of his chest. Slender muscles kissed by the moon.
A thin scar from the bounty hunter. He rests his palm against my cheek, his fingers slipping into the hair on my temple. Our foreheads touch. I close my eyes when he speaks because his voice has become so dear to me.

“But we are more than just bodies.”

“This is why we have them,” I say. I’m surprised by the pouty tone in my voice.

Tristan combs his fingers through the drying sweat in my hair then kisses me. His lips are cool and dry. The fire is gone. “I want to see the sunrise,” he whispers.

I nod. Disappointment is quickly slithering through me. I don’t understand why being more than bodies means we shouldn’t use them. Shouldn’t enjoy them. I’ve been distracted by my thoughts. He has stepped away from me and buttoned his shirt back up.

“Let’s go inside where it’s warm.”

I take a deep breath then slowly let it out. I shouldn’t be embarrassed. I shouldn’t be disappointed. He doesn’t seem to think any less of me. He’s holding his hand out for mine. As I take it, I feel something solidify in my chest again.
Trust
. I have always trusted him. Maybe he was worried that our desire would break that trust. Would result in something we’d regret. I can’t see myself regretting it, but maybe he knows something that I don’t.

We head back inside and up to our room. He stokes the fire again and my skin begins to thaw. I hadn’t realized how cold I was. My feet hurt a little as they warm up. Tristan hugs me from behind as we lie down. He kisses the back of my neck. It stirs an echo of hunger but nothing more. We’re facing the window this time. The moon has shifted and is no longer in sight. Tristan sighs, making my hair tickle my back.

The warmth of the room and his body are making me sleepy. Lying here now, I am so comfortable that I am grateful that nothing was ruined. I am grateful that I still feel safe. That I can still lie beside him and not think of him as just a body. But it’s not his body that I want on its own. I only want it because it’s his. I hope he knows that.

I feel a brush of shame when I think of how eager I was to have him. I wanted him inside of me. And then it hits me.
Inside of me. Victoria. He stopped himself because of Victoria. Did my passion remind him of hers? Did I hurt him like she did? Or maybe it’s how quickly this has all come about that made him want to slow down. How much things have changed. How quickly he has changed. He turned on a dime for Victoria. She was a mistake. I’m not a mistake. Am I?

My thoughts circle. Tristan’s breathing is steady behind me. The moonlight is gone. It’s dark outside. The sun isn’t coming up. It isn’t coming up because we haven’t won after all. He stopped himself tonight for the same reason the darkness hasn’t left. He’s still loyal to his wife. As long as they are bound together, the darkness will remain.

How could he still be loyal to Victoria, after all he has shown me and all we have shared? How could he still need her? He was so happy to be rid of her, to be his own man. Though I suppose such bonds of love and madness are not easily broken. I should’ve known better.

I somehow manage to fall asleep. I wake up from Tristan stirring. He has a smile on his face when I roll over to look at him.

“Hello,” he says.

His simple greeting reminds me of how far he has come. I remember last night and am glad that we didn’t change things. Whatever his lingering feelings
are for Victoria, I also know he’s not ready for complicated yet. And neither am I. “Hello,” I reply with a smile.

Tristan’s face turns grave. “I was hoping for sun.”

I sigh and rub my eyes before sitting up. I try to think of how to tell him that he has to let her go. He’s looking at me like he knows I’m going to say something. His eyes search mine as he waits. But when I part my lips to speak, there’s a noise downstairs.

We both leap off the bed. My ankle twinges. Tristan makes sure the key is in the lock. It is. He sags in relief. We still and hold our breath, listening.

Tapping. Something downstairs is tapping. Against a wall. Like a door that’s been flung open. Tristan and I look at each other. His confusion matches mine. She isn’t as weak as we thought. Then the front door closes. It’s an unmistakable sound. I narrow my eyes. This is a new trick of hers.

Light footsteps echo in the parlor.
Heel toe. Heel toe. Soft tread. Cautious movement. I know that sound. But before I can place it, I’m yanking on the key and opening the door. Tristan grabs my arm to stop me but I brush past him. He’s at my side as I lean over the railing, peering down into the near darkness.

The figure below has heard us and stopped moving. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness downstairs. The embers are only giving off a glow but it’s enough. Standing in the parlor, his crossbow aimed at us, is Draven.

T
ristan sees the weapon at the same time I do. He yanks me behind him.

“Draven,” I shout. Tristan is backing up to our room. He’s trying to protect me but I don’t need protecting.

Draven’s voice sounds shocked. “Willow?”

“Don’t shoot,” I yell, even as I hear his boots on the stairs, running up. Tristan’s gripping my arm, using his body as a shield. One of the lamps on the wall in the hall bursts to life. I’m used to the light in our room, but Draven isn’t. He stumbles at the top of the stairs, squinting and raising a hand to shield his eyes, his crossbow limp at his side.

“It’s all right,” I whisper to Tristan in a rush as I step past him. He lets me go. I grab onto Draven in a hug.

Draven flutters out of my arms. Backing away, he looks me up and down. His eyes are wide. They keep darting all over my body. They settle on the bruises on my neck and he takes a half-step forward then stops.

“You’re hurt,” he mutters. I don’t realize I’ve missed the deepness of his voice until I hear it. Then he meets my gaze. “You’re alive.”

Now I understand his flightiness. I wonder how long I’ve been gone. How long they’ve thought me dead.

Draven cocks his head. “Alive?” he whispers.

I nod and smile. He tentatively holds out a hand, reaching to touch me. Tristan rests a hand on my back and I can feel his tension grow.

Draven’s boots quietly slide forward, his broad shoulders taut, as if ready to leap back if I bite. The orange lamplight is pooling in his eyes. Like hearths. I think he’s reaching for my face but instead he touches a curl framing it and fingers it between his dirty forefinger and thumb. Then we both smile. As if given something we thought lost. He hugs me back this time, and I am engulfed in leather and pine.

“What’re you doing here?” I ask. “How’s my family?”

“Hungry but alive.” He pulls away.

“They think I’m dead?”

He nods, his expression solemn though his eyes are still dancing all over me.

“Hello,” Tristan says from behind me. Though his tone is friendly, he’s watching Draven like a cat watches a bird.

Draven inclines his head. “Draven.”

Tristan doesn’t answer. His lips are growing taut, his eyes boring into Draven’s, his body tense. I’m about to introduce Tristan for him when blood blooms on his right shoulder. Then I remember. Draven shot him once. Tristan looks ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. And though Draven may appear outwardly calm, I know his hand is not idly holding his crossbow as he seems.