Page 56 of Ashborne Forged

“Grace, I can feel your unease. And I hate that I’m the one who put it there,” he murmured, his expression dark.

And then I felt it. A wave of self-loathing roiling through the bond from him. Shame. Anger and disappointment in himself. That flailing sense of being wrong. And my heart surged with compassion. It was instinct to reach for him, to lace my fingers into his hair and pull him down, shaking my head.

“I want what you want. I want to enjoy these hours as well,” I whispered. “You are not a shame for me either, Voski.”

“And yet, I’ve made you afraid.”

I nodded. “I’m afraid that when we go back, you’ll return to the wall you had placed between us before. That I’ll find you angry at my presence. Or, that I’ll touch you and you’ll flinch. How am I supposed to stand next to you and not touch you?” I asked, and the question was deeply sincere. It had become such instinct to reach for him, to lay hands on him whenever I chose, I feared that without thought, I might touch him in ways that revealed us to others. And that when I did, he’d recoil.

But he shook his head. “No. That’s not going to happen,” he insisted. “I’m done resisting you, Grace. We’ll have to be careful—both of us. I know I hurt you, and it makes me ache. I am sick at the ways I spoke to you before. The fear I caused. Even before I accepted the bond, I knew I was wrong. And now? God, with everything in me, Grace, I’m telling you: I will not do that to you again.”

I believed him. Believed that he didn’t intend to hurt me, and that he didn’t want to do it again. But he’d said himself, he feared losing control. Might he lash out at me as instinctively as he feared he would with the others?

The lines in his brows pinched deeper, and he took my face in both hands pulling me up and making me hold his gaze. “Grace, I know words can’t make this true. I’ll prove it to you. Just give me time to show you. Please. We’ll go back. It will be hard, but I will not waver. You have my word as a Furyknight. As a leader. As your mate. There is no one I want to hurt less in this world, than you.”

His words were fervent and heavy, and they made my heart sing.

I nodded, and he kissed me, wrapping me in his arms, so all the uncertainty and unease were washed away by the delight and need.

But a tiny thread of that chill remained. A fine hair of cold wrapped around the heated glow of the cord that tied our hearts together.

And all I could do was pray that we’d find our way through.

Because I wanted nothing on earth more than I wanted him.

So, I resolved to dream of the day he’d touch me before the eyes of other men. And beg the Creator to bring it quickly.

19. Precious

SOUNDTRACK: Hush by Stevie Howie

~ GRACE ~

I couldn’t find the joy. Couldn’t find the balance. And it was killing me.

From the moment we’d had that conversation, even though we’d agreed, even though I believed he meant what he said about not rejecting me again, I couldn’t shake it. And neither, it seemed, could Voski.

He was tense. Jittery. His eyes remained dark, and he grew very still and quiet. And even though I couldn’t feel any anger through the bond, his stilted movements and tight, expressionless face reminded me of when he’d been holding himself in check, but wishing I was gone.

It weighed on me.

Then, after dinner, when we returned to the hut and would usually fall into each other’s arms, the reality that this was our last night hit me. Instead of attempting to flirt with him, kiss him, or touch him, I began to collect the few things we’d brought, packing them, laying out the leathers I’d washed the day before so that I could return in something clean. Then I started nervously circling the hut, ensuring there was nothing left that had been pressed into a dark corner, or rolled under a chair.

Through it all, my quiet, tense mate sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, those strands of hair scattered over his midnight eyes. Yet, I felt his gaze like a light shining on me in the dark. Revealing. Shocking. Dazzling. It made my heart race, and my nerves flutter. But I didn’t know how to cross this bridge—to put myself in his hands and beg him to distract me from the reality that these were our last hours alone.

Then, the third time I walked to the bed, to lean over it and examine the blankets, checking for any items that might have been slipped under a pillow, or lost between quilts, he watched me, silently, waiting for the moment I straightened and turned. When I stepped back from the bed, his hand shot out and caught my wrist. And I froze, my heart hammering.

Even seated on the bed he was almost as tall as me.

I stared at him, my chest rising and falling with the force of my breath, that had ratcheted up when he caught me.

“What—”

“Stop,” he said firmly.

I blew out a breath and nodded, pushing my hair back with my free hand. I needed to braid it again. I’d washed it that afternoon and left it to dry. But it was tickling my neck, and if I slept with it loose it would tangle.

“You’re right,” I breathed, still nodding, and turning away, toward the bag I’d packed on the floor near the door. “Of course. There will be time in the morning. I just need to find a tie to braid my hair and—”