You think because you are bigger than I am that you can force yourself on me?
“I don’t have to force myself. You know it, and I know it.”
I am your wife, but I will do as I please, I raged, and the spell rose in my head without effort.
Belt that holds my husband’s pants,
Loosen now and make him dance.
Tiras’s belt flew from his breeches like a sea serpent, slithering through the air only to strike at him with its tail. He stepped back from me, his eyes growing wide as he gripped the gyrating length of leather, holding it at arm’s length with one hand as he held up his pants with the other. But I wasn’t finished.
Boots upon my husband’s feet,
Kick him so he’ll take a seat.
Tiras fell flat on his behind as his boots shimmied and wriggled free, throwing him off balance. His boots then proceeded to kick him on his back and his thighs as he yowled in stunned outrage. “Lark!”
Shirt upon my husband’s chest,
Wrap yourself around his head.
His tunic promptly rose like Tiras was shrugging it off, only it wrapped itself around him, obscuring his angry face. I started to laugh then. I couldn’t help it. He looked so ridiculous sitting on the floor of the library, his socks hanging from his feet, his breeches falling around his hips, his shirt over his head, and his boots and belt attacking him.
Tiras lashed out and grabbed my skirts, yanking me down beside him. “Call off the hounds, Lark!” he bellowed, and I laughed even harder, shaking with mirth even as he rolled himself on top of me and valiantly fought the tunic that kept wrapping itself around his face. The tunic was slightly dangerous, the boots weren’t very accurate, and the tail end of the belt had made a welt across my cheek. I decided enough was enough.
I performed a sloppy rhyme, and Tiras let out a stream of profanities as the shirt ceased its murderous attempts and the belt and boots fell to the floor, inanimate once again.
Tiras’s breathing was harsh and fast, his hair mussed and falling over his eyes as he braced his forearms on either side of my head. His big body pressed me into the floor, making it hard to draw breath. I was well and truly trapped, but I felt like the victor regardless.
Are you injured, husband?
He was glaring and angry for all of three seconds. Then the lines around his eyes deepened and a smile broke out across his face. He laughed with me, but he kept me pinned beneath him, his face inches from mine.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
Immensely.
“Tell me this, wife. Is there a spell to quickly remove your dress?” he whispered, still smiling, his breath tickling my mouth.
I felt my face grow hot, and I closed my eyes, trying to retreat, even as I immediately considered a spell to render us both naked.
“I will put a baby in your belly,” he promised, and the mirth was mixed with determination.
My eyes snapped open as he brushed his lips across mine, back and forth, like he was painting with his mouth. The sensation made the roof of my mouth tingle, the palms of my hands tickle, and the bottom of my stomach turn over. He didn’t increase his tempo or his pressure, and he spoke even as his lips caressed mine.
“You have all this power—you heal, you convince, you persuade, you destroy—but you want me to believe you feel nothing,” he murmured. “I know differently.”
I have all the power, but you will destroy me.
“Only your walls, Lark.” He deepened the kiss, licking into my mouth as if he knew he’d find me there hiding from him. My toes curled against the rug, and my body softened beneath his, wanting to accommodate him, even as I turned my head, denying him to prove I could. He moved his mouth to my neck, whispering as he kissed my throat.
“I said once that you are like ice. And you are. Silver and perfect . . . glistening. And hard. You’re so hard, Lark. I want you to be soft sometimes. I need you to let me in.” He was sweet and cajoling, but I knew he wasn’t referring to lovemaking so much as he was referring to the walls I was constantly disappearing behind.
I shook my head.
If I let you in, I will have nothing left. If I am like ice it is because ice is impenetrable. Strong.
He opened his mouth against my breast and shifted his weight to the side, so one of the hands that bracketed my head was free to move down my body. I clenched my hands at my sides and tamped down the growing fire beneath my skin.
“Touch me, Lark,” he commanded, picking up one clenched fist to bite playfully at my fingers.
When I touch you, I cease to be.
He groaned as if the confession only stoked his ardor, but he rolled off me suddenly, as if he were weary of the effort it took to get past my defenses. He reached for his shirt and his belt and sat forward to pull on his boots. “For God’s sake, woman. You don’t cease to be. You simply change.”
I sat up too, missing him already and unable to figure out how to give him what he asked for without giving in. I touched tentative fingers to his cheek and he froze, as if my apologetic touch was the last thing he expected.
Why must I change, Tiras? Why do you want so badly to break me? I asked, the voice in my head small and scared.
“Because there is fire beneath the ice, Lark,” he shot back. “And I like your fire.” His intensity radiated from him in the form of heat. He burned so hot all the time, I could feel him reshaping me, drip by drip.
I shook my head, suddenly close to tears, but refusing to let them rise.
No. Beneath the ice are all the words.
He looked at me, dumbfounded, one boot on, one boot off.
Have you ever thought that maybe it is better this way? That I can’t speak? If I can wield words without making a sound, what could I do if they were set free? I scare myself, Tiras.
It was such a huge confession, such a monumental crack in my defenses, that I dropped my eyes and raised my hands to my face, needing a moment to regroup. Tiras wrapped his fingers around my wrists and pulled my hands from my eyes, making me look at him.
“You don’t scare me,” he whispered. “You frustrate me. You infuriate me. But you do not scare me.”
Not now.
“Not ever. You are good to your core, Lady Degn. Maddening. But good.” He released my wrists and rose to his feet, his shirt still hanging open, his belt in his hands. I wanted to scream in frustration, to pull him back down beside me. I was a terrible wife, a terrible queen. He wanted to give me a child, and I made it into an epic battle, when in truth, I would have liked nothing more than to make a child with him.
Tiras?
“Yes?” he sighed, his back to me, tucking his shirt into his breeches.
Will you kiss me again?
He looked down at me, and a smile that was almost tender lifted the corners of his mouth, and heat rose again in his eyes.
“You told me once you would never ask for a kiss.”
I grimaced.
“Do you like it when I kiss you?”
Yes.
His smile deepened, but he waited, making me squirm, making me ask. I stared at him then bowed my head, surrendering.
If you kiss me slowly, for a long time, it is easier for me to . . .