Page 79 of The Enemy's Daughter

My skin lights on fire. I become aware of my softness pressed into his strength, and it’s too good to keep to myself. I send him the ripples of pleasure he’s causing me and watch with glee as his eyes go unfocused, then close.

He recovers quickly and threads his fingers into my hair. My breath hitches, and I send the spine-tingling sensation to him. He grins and attempts to kiss my jaw, but I kiss his neck instead. It’s exactly like the first time he kissed me, and I don’t need his thoughts to know what he thinks about that. He sends them to me anyway. Soon we’re basking in each other’s sensations, silently using them to guide our exploration. It becomes a competition of sorts,and the prize is something we both share.

Our lips find each other again until we both run out of air, and I sit up. I could do this forever.

He presses a snapshot of me from seconds ago into my mind. My blond hair is mussed and lying over my shoulder in waves. My lips are parted in bliss. His thoughts ring out, captioning it.You’re so beautiful.

Slowly, I reach for the hem of his shirt and lift it up. He sits up and rips it off. His arms reach for me, wanting me closer, but I push him back down, needing to look.He’sbeautiful. Flawless, except for the barely healed star-shaped scars we both share. I kiss them, first his elbow, then his shoulder.

“Thank you,” I whisper. These marks represent sacrifice. And life. More than the words and promises we’ve made to each other, it’s proof that I matter to him. That I’m a person of value. I’m not a means—a marriage—to an end.

Lifting a hand, he finds the matching pink mark on me, just under my sleeve. He kisses it. “You saved me too.”

I did, and now as much as I’m his, he is equally mine. I lean into him and he goes still, knowing exactly what I’m asking of him.

I say it out loud anyway. “Tristan.” I create a memory of my own—a shot of my own beautiful view. Him. Love pours from my heart as I petition him with a word.

“More.”

26

I stare at the enormous house before me. Do I dare go inside the hospital without Enola?

“No. Don’t. Probably best to wait for her out here,” Tristan says, jumping down off his mount. He grabs the reins of both our horses and guides them to the hitching post. Other horses graze at the far end.

“Did you just read my thoughts?”

Tristan smirks at me, looking way too handsome in the morning sun. “You thought it, then you sent it as a memory.”

“I—I did not.”

“You may not have meant to, but you did. Everything the connection offers us will come easier now—so I’ve been told.” His eyes flash at the reminder of what we did to create that change.

A flush warms my body.

Well, this is a significant upgrade, I say through a memory, then laugh at how effortless that was. We may never have to speak out loud again. Or wonder about how the other is doing. At even the thought of it, I know his every ache and discomfort—whichis mostly a lingering tiredness from our lack of sleep and a half portion of my more stubborn symptoms left over from the poison. It’s there, ready for me to take. Share. There’s no searching inside him to locate anything, including what he’s feeling. His happiness, peace, and contentedness flow through me as strongly as if they were my own.

He reaches for my waist and practically lifts me down from the saddle. Our bodies brush as my feet touch the ground. He doesn’t release me.

“Good morning,” Enola says, riding up.

Tristan and I break apart, me a little quicker than him. “Morning,” I say, as my cheeks burn.

What were we thinking? We should keep our hands to ourselves in public,I send to him.

Tristan shrugs, looking entirely too smug. “We’re newlyweds. I’m sure Enola remembers what that’s like.”

It’s not possible for me to see if that’s true because I can’t meet Enola’s eyes right now. My face must be close to the shade of a spring rhuberry.

With a tug, Tristan pulls me into him for a quick kiss, not the least bit concerned that Enola is a witness. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“No,” Caro says after one look at me. “Not today. Dr. Henshaw doesn’t have time to be tripping over you again.”

Caro’s short-sleeved shirt is trimmed with large pockets, and the tip of a temperature gauge—a fancier one than any I’ve seen before—sticks out of one. It astonishes me that she chose this job of taking care of people and wasn’t forced to do it at knifepoint.

And that someone thought she should be in charge.

“Actually, Caro, I’m not asking,” Enola says, her voice calm but firm.

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