Page 69 of The Storm
“I love you.” It still thrilled her every time she said it. She pressed her cheek to his temple and let him lean on her, borrowing her strength.
They’d made love silently the night before. Quiet tenderness as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pressed her lips to his neck. They had eased each other into release, falling asleep with arms and legs entwined, holding on to each other even as they slept.
Max was so brash. So confident. But not in Dunte. Not in the shadow of his uncle and grandfather, who lived with the ghosts of their people.
“Artis is fading,” Renata said. “Kyra said it will be a week at most.”
“And when he dies,” Max said, “Leo will be the last of my family.”
“Peter?”
“Is not my blood,” he said. “Has never been my blood. He barely tolerated me when I was a child. I don’t know why. Then again, he’s not much friendlier to Leo.”
“Your father’s people?”
“I don’t know who they are. My father’s name was Ivo and he was from Normandy, but that’s all I know.”
“Have you looked?”
“Yes. There are very few records. It doesn’t matter. Even if I found them, they aren’t my family. Only Leo is.”
“And me.”
He hooked his arms around her knees and pulled her closer. Renata leaned into his back and rested her head on his shoulder.
“You are my heart and soul,” he said. “But no one will ever know me like Leo. No one else knows what it was like to grow up as we did, strangers in our own house, a shadow hanging over us. Why did we survive when our mothers and the rest of the village didn’t? Who saved us? We’ll probably never know.”
“Kareshta?”
“I told you, I remember a boy.”
“But,” she reminded him gently, “you were a baby—truly an infant—when the Rending happened. Perhaps your memory—”
“It’s real,” Max said. “He was real. And the wolves. Wolves have a scent, and it’s different from dogs. I recognized it as soon as I smelled it as an adult. I was in the woods in Russia and I smelled wolves, and I knew. I knew because he kept them in the house.”
Renata said nothing more. Max was as stubborn as she was. It was ridiculous to argue with him about something that had happened over two hundred years ago. It didn’t matter. He’d lost his mother and father before he could remember them. He was losing his grandfather now.
“You’re sad,” she said.
“Yes. And… angry.”
“Why?”
He ran his hands up and down her arms, stroking from her wrists to the tender skin at the curve of her elbow. “Why did he only send for us now? I sent him a letter when we mated. Leo sent his father a letter when he mated with Kyra. He’s sent Artis a letter every time we’ve moved posts. There was never a response. But now he calls us back for this? To watch him die?”
“There are songs,” Renata said. “Songs for the dying. For those who are ready to return to our fathers. Think about how many scribes have lived without those songs at the end of their lives. For thousands of years they have been part of our passage, but so many missed them. Perhaps Artis overcame his fear of the past so he could leave the earth as his ancestors did.”
“Artis isn’t afraid of anything.” Max’s voice hardened. “But I do think you’re right. He didn’t send for me and Leo. He sent for you. For Kyra.”
“Max, that’s not what I meant.”
“No? It makes sense.” He closed his eyes and lay back, settling into the curve of her body. “If I were him, I’d call for you too. You’re a much prettier view.”
“Max—”
“Can we not talk about it?” He closed his eyes and turned them toward the sun. “For a while, can we just be?”
She took a deep breath and hugged him tighter. “Yes.”
