Page 14 of A Crown So Cursed
So did Gwendolyn’s, her nerves frayed.
“Come,” he said, crooking a finger at her, and without another word to the courtier, Gwendolyn bolted past her, hurrying toward the dais.
“Mother! Father! Stop her!”
At Gwendolyn’s back, the cacophony swelled, a tempest of shock and indignation; and still she hurried toward Málik, her eyes never leaving his.
“Come,” he said again once she’d ascended the stairs, and he waited patiently until she joined him, then another moment to be sure no one would follow. And without another word, he pushed Gwendolyn through a billowing partition, away from prying eyes.
The moment they were alone, he turned to face her, drawing Gwendolyn into his arms, holding her close, his body trembling even as did hers—so achingly familiar.
“Málik,” she breathed.
“You’ve come!”
Overwhelmed by emotion, Gwendolyn could only nod, words failing her entirely. How long she had prayed for this moment—how fervently she had longed to be in his arms.
And here she was.
“How? The portals?—”
“I know,” she said.
“The last time?—”
“I know,” Gwendolyn interrupted again, guessing at what he would say before he could say it, and her heart swelled with a bittersweet ache, remembering every occasion he’d begged her to go away with him…the first time on the promontory on the return from Chysauster, then again on the ramparts in Trevena, and one last time on the fields before Lundinium.
To every occasion, she had replied: “No.”
“Mo ghrá,” he whispered—my love.
And the sound of those two beauteous words filled Gwendolyn’s eyes with tears.
Unable to resist, she clung to him, inhaling his scent—that all-too familiar blend of male spice that was uniquely his. It filled her senses, spurred memories of stolen moments and whispered promises—promises broken only by circumstance, but never forgotten.
“Without you, the years have been an endless winter,” he said hoarsely.
“I...” She drew back, searching his face. “I was afraid?—”
“Never,” he swore, and his eyes glinted with tears.
Even after all these years, the bond was strong enough for them to know each other’s sentiments, and his voice softened as he reasoned with her.
“Have I not said, Gwendolyn…you’ve been my weakness for a hundred thousand years? What are twenty-two measly years against the eternity of my love for you?”
His hands framed her face, the touch feather-light, his fingers tracing the lines that time had etched into her skin. “Stop,” she protested. “I’ve…grown…old.”
“No,” he breathed. “Art perfect,” he said, and his gentle words reassured her, even as the cacophony outside slid through the veil concealing them.
She dared to lean into his touch.
How many nights had she lain awake, aching for this?
The feel of his body against hers?
And now, here she was, precisely where she most wished to be, and she would not allow vanity to steal her moment. “I’ve missed you,” she confessed, her hands lifting to trace the contours of his still-perfect face. “Not one day passed that I did not think of you.”
His hand seized hers, dragging it down, pressing it against the beat of his heart. “Nor I you,” he said, whispering her name again—an invocation, a prayer. He pulled her closer as though he could merge their bodies into one, and Gwendolyn reveled in the strength of him, and in the seclusion of this alcove, their embrace was fierce. Years of longing poured into every moment.
