Page 29 of Crown of Storm and Silence
"Dreams have a way of being more real than we'd like to believe," I say, then gesture toward the river path. "Walk with me. Unless you're planning to make this conversation even more awkward by having it in front of an audience of curious villagers who are definitely eavesdropping."
We walk in silence toward the river, following a path lined with ancient stones from some long-forgotten structure. The crumbling wall provides convenient shadows and privacy—perfect for the conversation we need to have. Every step is exquisite torture. She's close enough that I could reach out and touch her—close enough that her scent wraps around me—lavender and that unique sweetness that belongs only to her, the scent that used to drive me wild when it clung to my sheets after our nights together. Five months. Five months of waking hard and aching from dreams where I had her beneath me again, where I could taste the salt on her skin and feel her nails scoring down my back. My hands ache with the need to fist in her hair, to drag her mouth to mine, and remind her exactly how she used to fall apart when I touched her. I want to pin her against this wall and make her remember the sounds she used to make when I?—
But I can't. One wrong move and she'll flee again, and this time, I might not survive losing her.
"The magic," she says suddenly. "How did you do that? Create light, I mean. You're obviously a creature of shadow."
Creature. The word should sting, but coming from her lips, it sounds almost…fond.
"I didn't create the light," I tell her, stopping deliberately close—close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, close enough that I can smell the lavender in her hair and the particular sweetness that belongs only to her. But underneath it all is something else—something that makes my blood sing with recognition. The scent of her arousal, faint but unmistakable, punched through me.
My body responds instantly, five months of starvation making me achingly hard just from her proximity. Every instinct screams at me to claim, to take, to remind her exactly who she belongs to. But I force myself to remain still, hands braced against nothing. I know I need to be careful—one wrong move and she'll bolt.
"You did," I continue, watching her face. "The light came from you."
She takes a step back, and the loss of her nearness cuts through me. "I'd know if I was using my light magic. I always feel it when?—"
"Your power responds to mine," I interrupt, moving toward her again because I'm apparently a glutton for punishment. "Even with the bond severed, even with your memories gone, your magic recognizes mine. Your body knows what your mind has forgotten." My voice drops. "The way you used to come apart beneath my hands. The way you'd whisper my name when I?—"
"Stop." The word comes out breathless, and I can see her pulse racing at the base of her throat. "I don't understand what you want from me."
"I want," I say slowly, "for you to ask me something. Anything. Something personal, something that might help you understand who I am."
She blinks, clearly not expecting that particular request. "Why?"
"Because," I say, darkness rippling beneath my skin, "if you're going to be afraid of me, I'd prefer it be for the right reasons rather than your imagination filling in the gaps."
For a moment, I think she'll refuse. Then she tilts her head, studying me with those sunlit eyes that used to see straight through to my soul.
"All right," she says finally. "Tell me about the children. Why were you so gentle with them? Why did your magic become something beautiful instead of terrifying?"
The question reaches something vulnerable inside me, something I'd forgotten existed. "Because," I admit, the words dragging themselves from some deep, hidden place, "I remember what it was like to be small and afraid of the dark. I remember what it felt like when someone made the shadows dance instead of threatening."
"Someone did that for you?"
"My mother," I say. "Before she died. Before I learned that shadows were meant to be weapons instead of comfort."
The softness that enters her expression is almost my undoing. For just a moment, she looks at me the way she used to—not with fear or wariness, but with something approaching compassion.
"That must have been difficult," she says quietly.
"It was a long time ago," I reply, though the memory still aches. "I've had centuries to make peace with it."
"Have you?" she asks, and the gentle perception in her voice makes something crack inside my chest. "Made peace with it, I mean?"
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Hatun, I haven't made peace with anything in my entire existence. I am a creature of unresolved trauma and questionable life choices held together by sheer bloody-minded stubbornness and an impressive collection of scars."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it, and I see her flinch at the intimacy. But she doesn't correct me this time.
"Hatun," she repeats softly, testing the sound. "What does that mean?"
"Wife," I tell her, my voice rough. "It means wife."
Something flickers across her features—recognition, perhaps, or simply the echo of emotions she can't remember feeling. Her hand moves unconsciously to her belly, where our child grows.
"The baby," she says suddenly. "Is it really yours?"
The question lands between my ribs. "Mine," I say, the word coming out rougher than intended. "Conceived during a marriage you despised, with a husband you wanted to murder in his sleep—at least until you stopped trying to poison my wine and started moaning my name instead." My shadows coil possessively around my feet. "So yes,hatun, that child is mine. Half shadow, half light, and according to every magical law in existence, completely impossible. Light and shadow aren'tsupposed to create life together—we're supposed to destroy each other. Yet here you are, carrying living proof that the universe has a twisted sense of humor and apparently enjoys making exceptions for thoroughly dysfunctional marriages."
