Page 57 of A Monsoon Rising

There was a trace of desperation in the way he reached for her. And there was no small amount of mischief in the way she leaned back, out of his grasp.

His gaze darkened. “You know what I want, Talasyn.”

“Haven’t the slightest notion,” she chirped, putting on her best Lachis’ka airs.

He flipped her onto her back, and as her head hit the pillows she let out a sound that was almost a giggle, and he swallowed it with his mouth, curved into what was nearly a smile. He covered her with his body and proceeded to demonstrateexactlywhat he wanted as rain beat against the windows in a drowsy lullaby.

Reluctantly opening her eyes the next morning, Talasyn found herself in Alaric’s embrace—crushedin it. The man didn’t know his own strength: his arms were wrapped around her waist, keeping her back snugly tucked against his bare chest, and he was holding her as a child would a soft toy, so tightly that it was difficult to breathe. She wriggled around as best as she could in an attempt to loosen his grasp, but he was having none of it, muttering a faint, unintelligible protest into her hair.

Talasyn froze as her ineffectual movements brought her into contact with something hard that grazed the curve of her backside. Alaric might still be asleep, but there appeared to be at leastonepart of him that was ready to face the day. She nearly snickered, but cold realization crept up on her, bringingwith it a twinge of pain that gathered in the bottom of her heart.

She forced Alaric’s arms away from her, panic giving her a surge of strength. She sat up, her legs dangling off the edge of the bed as she frantically scanned the room for her undergarments. Where had she tossed them last night—

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal, Talasyn.”

She looked over her shoulder. Alaric had also sat up and was regarding her with somber eyes, the blankets pooled at his waist. There were streaks of red across his defined chest, the marks left by her teeth and her nails. Whatever he saw on her face made something flicker across his—in the morning light, it was almost bitterness, almost resignation, but it was gone in a blink, before she could tell for certain. Replaced by his usual hauteur.

“This,” Alaric continued, “doesn’t have to be anything more than it is. There is obviously an attraction between us. While thatdoesmove our marriage beyond the merely political, I don’t believe there would be much harm in acting on it from time to time. Until the attraction runs its course.”

He held it out to her the way he’d held out the promise of a future where they worked together to build a better world.

But he’d meanthisbetter world, not hers. Never hers. There could be no better world until the Night Empire fell—and when that day came, he was going to hate her.

So why not?came that inner voice, dark and treacherous.If he’s going to hate you anyway, why not take your pleasures while you can?

Talasyn’s head ached. She didn’t want to think anymore.

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “You might end up falling in love with me.”

It was a quip to distract him from waiting for an actual answer from her. It worked a little too well; herecoiled.

“That’s not going to happen,” Alaric said flatly. “Love is for poets and dreamers, not leaders of state. You and I have no such luxury.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t agree with him, but his remark still hurt a bit. As though she had a splinter in her lungs. She breathed it out slowly, frowning to herself. Where wasthatcoming from?

“Well, as long as we’re clear,” she said.

“You need to see a healer,” he said at the same time.

They stared at each other.

“Your, ah …” He raked a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. “A preventive. Because I—” He swallowed. “You need to see a healer for a preventive.”

Talasyn almost screamed. It had completely slipped her mind.

She stood up—only to wince, then plop back down on the mattress. She turned to Alaric again, this time with a venomous glare that was pure accusation. “I’msore.”

He blinked. The ghost of a smile spread across his lips and his gray eyes went glassy, faraway. “Really,” he hummed.

Talasyn grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at her husband’s head.

The storm’s final burst of vindictiveness before it dissipated had left the first level of the castle flooded overnight. Alaric and Talasyn both spent the morning dealing with it, helping the staff move what supplies and priceless artifacts could be salvaged to the upper levels. Once the water had finished receding, his wife had thrust a mop into his hands, saying that it was all hands on deck.

Alaric had never held a mop in his life, but he liked to think that he’d done a capable enough job. He then spent the afternoon in his study, attending to the pile of messages that hadaccumulated during his sojourn to Chal—a pile that, now that the weather was clear, only grew as skua after skua glided in through the window. Through it all, he could think only of Talasyn, of how tight and soft she’d been, of the pretty sounds she’d made for him.

The woman was a blight on his peace. Alaric held out for as long as he could—which wasn’t very long at all, only a few hours—and then left his study at dusk, in search of her. The servants directed him to the northern wing of the castle, to the library at its topmost level.

Iantas’s library was a treasure trove of ancient tomes, beautifully bound and inscribed, arranged with precision on the towering shelves that lined the walls. As Alaric stepped through the arched doorway, he abruptly stumbled and almost lost his footing; the inside of his head reeled with a summons from Gaheris. Cold, dark fingers reached for him, pulling him into the In-Between.

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