But he got it. He survived.
So I cling to this málmr and the hope it serves, pouring my love into it even when we’re not tangled in the sheets of our pallet or within our special place. I cling to it, and I beg the Creators to let us have this love with every beat of my heart. Most of all, I beg for them to keep Kaan safe.
Living.
Breathing.
I’ve lost so much already. The thought of losing him, too …
It’s buckling.
Acrackling sound nudges me from a sleep that slicks to my mind like oil. A sleep so deep and silent my body feels like stone.
I pry my way toward awareness, lulled by the patter of rain upon the glass stoppering the skyhole. Groaning, I nuzzle deeper into the calloused scoop of warmth cupping the side of my face, a dense weight draped over my waist that’s comfortable.
Familiar.
Another crackling boom clefts the air, a flash of light igniting the backs of my lids. The weight moves, a hand sliding across my ribs, tucking me closer to a solid wall of breathing, pulse-pumping heat …
He’s still here.
My eyes pop open, breath catching. I take in the domed room I’ve grown so fond of, the dragons carved all over the rounded walls barely visible in the dull, stormy light.
A rumbled breath blows upon my ear, a shiver crawling from the base of my spine all the way to the tips of my toes as I settle into the conclusion that this is not a dream. Nor is it a chest-squeezing memory.
The immense presence pressed against my curved spine … The muscular legs tangled with mine … The hot breath upon my flesh …
My heart labors.
Real. All real.
I draw my lungs full of air laced with the scent of cream and molten stone. Releasing a slow exhale, I think back through my drink-sodden memories, recalling our pillar-top kiss. A dusky scramble of moonlit dips and twirls. Chest-aching laughter. The tangy taste of Moonplume’s Breath smacked upon my lips.
I remember the rain hammering down, me gripping Kaan’s hand and tugging him along the esplanade. The shore.
Through the jungle and up a twirl of stairs.
I remember him giving me privacy I didn’t want as I dressed into my sleep shift. Remember climbing amongst the sheets, then ardently wishing for him to crawl in beside me and hug me until I fell asleep like he used to do with Elluin—feeling my well-won Skripi leverage yank from my chest like a flower ripped from its pot. Because drinks and laughter and love obviously turn me into a fucking idiot.
It’s an effort not to groan at the realization that I tossed my contingency wish out the window just like I tossed that iron cuff into the Loff after Kaan picked it free.
Hindsight and all that. Though it’s hard for me to find a true flare of regret beneath my ribs. Not with the memory of me drifting off while he ran his fingers through my hair—humming my calming tune.
Although …
My mind latches onto the vaguest wisp of memory. Of his voice upon my ear as unconsciousness clawed at me. Something about … a painful truth I need to know?
Creators.
Don’t want that.
Another flash of lightning floods the room full of static energy, raising the hairs on the backs of my arms.
Kaan groans, shifting, and I use the opportunity to churn in his hold until I’m facing him, breath stilling when I see his sleeping face. Instantly regretting it, realizing I should’ve just crawled out and left without looking back.
His black hair is skewed, bun loose, tendrils strewn across his brow that I want to trail a line of kisses upon.
I lift my hand, dancing my fingers over his shapely lips, pretending to touch them. Pretending to thread my fingers through his beard, then brush his long black lashes.
Sucker for punishment, my gaze travels farther down.
He’s shirtless, his body so bold in the flashing light, etching his rounded muscles into a work of art slashed in too many pale scars to count. Harshly chiseled.
Raw.
Beautiful.
I think back to some of the memories I’ve been struck with since I almost died from that head injury at the crater, frowning …
In not one of them was he so covered in scars.
It’s hard to imagine him surviving some of the wounds he’s obviously endured in the time we’ve been apart, that stony organ in my chest squeezing at the thought of him curled on a seater with a puncture in his gut—stiff and lifeless.
Pale.
At the thought of waking beside him, holding him close to keep him warm—only to find that he’s not. That he’s just as cold as our little snow cave, and that his eyes aren’t closed at all. They’re wide open, and they won’t blink, no matter how hard I shake him.