Page 28 of A Monsoon Rising

“It’s all right.” In the name of all the gods and the ancestors, why did she sound sofaint? “The bed’s big enough.”

Both their gazes snapped to the object in question. The canopied mattress could easily accommodate five people, and it was furnished with a mountain of plump eiderdown pillows, wine-colored silk sheets, and damask hangings trimmed in gold. Talasyn tried to suppress her blush—how many nights had she lain there all by herself, wide awake, her mind wandering to the kisses that she and Alaric had shared and the way his large hands had fumbled over her body?

“I’m not to sleep on the floor, then?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.

Her embarrassment faded, replaced by guilt. Given what she now knew of his past, it had been the height of cruelty to make him spend the night in such discomfort when she herself had not been blameless.This is your home,she wanted to tellhim.This is safe harbor from your father. No one will harm you here.But what came out instead was the first sentence that she could string together in her flustered headspace: “You’re always welcome in this bed.”

It was only when Alaric drew a sharp inhale that Talasyn was struck by the double meaning of her statement. She had to get out of here before she made an even bigger fool out of herself. She—

She stayed where she was as Alaric closed the distance between them. He carefully tucked stray strands of windswept hair behind her ear, his expression losing a bit of its usual guarded edge.

“I didn’t get to finish my question earlier,” he mumbled. “How have you been?”

“You didn’t write me back,” Talasyn blurted out.

She could have kicked herself. Of all the issues to bring up.

He frowned. “Did you not receive—”

“I got the letter your aide wrote for you,” she said, dying a thousand deaths. It had bothered her on and off in the past month, certainly, but it was a juvenile concern in the grand scheme of things.

It was his fault. He was too close. She couldn’t think.

Alaric’s fingers cradled the side of her face. His thumb brushed across her cheek, similar to how he’d run it along the back of her hand that morning in his bedroom. “I’ll respond personally. Next time.”

“Who says there’ll be a next time?” she challenged with a huff. “I hate writing letters, I never had to until I was proclaimed the Lachis’ka, so they always come out all awkward—”

He chucked her under the chin. The way he had at the Belian shrine. Everything about this moment carried echoes ofbefore, painted in a new light.

“I thought Queen Urduja might have told you what to write,”he admitted. “I assumed you told her about—about what my father—”

“I didn’t,” she said quickly.

But shehadtold Vela.

Guilt again, rolling through her in waves.

Talasyn tried to step back. Tried to step away from Alaric and this jumble of emotions, this labyrinth. But she found herself frozen in place as relief softened his features, taking away the years. The corner of his mouth, mere inches from hers, lifted in what was almost a smile.

“Write to me again, Tala.” There was a teasing lilt to his tone. “I’ll write back. I promise. We’ll endure your awkwardness together.”

Her spark of annoyance was eclipsed by how close he was, close enough to kiss. And maybe sheshouldkiss him, to erase some of that smugness …

Talons scrabbled against glass, and they sprang apart.

A messenger eagle was hovering over the balcony, attempting to gain entrance. Talasyn slid open the panels, and the smell of the ocean wafted into the room as the raptor perched on her arm.

She noted the dragon-embossed seal on the scroll tied to its leg. “Thisletter is from my grandmother.”

Alaric had retreated as far away from the eagle as the room would allow. “One of these almost made a meal of Kesath’s next generation of messenger skuas.”

“That was my personal bird, and you should have fed him as soon as he arrived,” Talasyn informed him, loosening the knots that held the scroll fast to Urduja’s eagle. “Pakwan flew overnight to get my letter to you. He must have been famished.”

“Pakwan.” Alaric sounded out the unfamiliar Nenavarene syllables with the same Continental accent that Talasyn was practicing so earnestly to rid herself of, and she nearly grinned.

“It means ‘watermelon.’” She began to unroll the missive,wondering what Urduja wanted.

“You named a deadly bird of prey ‘Watermelon,’” Alaric deadpanned.

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