Burning Glass (Burning Glass, #1)(101)
“I’m sorry about your friend.” He smoothed back my hair. “I know she meant a great deal to you.” I sobbed into his chest. “I’m sorry you lost Yuliya, and your parents. I’m sorry for the tragedy at the convent, and that you never had a home, that you had to come here.”
He didn’t bolster me up with more talk of my ability—of seeing my duty through to the end and my commitment to the cause of freedom. He just let me be sad. And for that I felt overwhelming gratitude.
His hand steadily rubbed my back. “Shhh, shhh,” he murmured, and in his voice I didn’t hear an admonishment to be silent, but instead the rushing of mountain water, the ebb and flow of the ocean tide. He spoke comfort like a language I’d once learned as a child but had long since forgotten.
Gently scooting us across the floor, he guided me to the corner where his bed met the wall and opened his arms again. I crawled right back inside them. Pulling my hair over one shoulder, he coaxed me to turn around and lean against him. As he combed his fingers through my hair, he hummed a lullaby in a low and soothing voice. My sobs came softer as I listened to the haunting and peaceful melody. I rested my head on Anton’s shoulder and laced my fingers through his.
I cried for what seemed like hours, and when I realized I had stopped altogether, I felt ashamed and tried to muster up more tears. But it was useless. I was spent like a wrung rag. Despite the tragedy of the day, I didn’t wish for this moment between us to break. Anton was my solace, our auras knitted so intricately together I couldn’t tell where mine began and his ended.
I tilted my head up to see his face. The shadowy rings were back beneath his eyes. This was the second night I’d deprived him of much-needed sleep.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He stopped humming, and a grin touched his lips. He kissed the top of my head. With his voice thick and drowsy, he replied, “You’re welcome.”
I shifted around to take in all of him. His hands moved to settle on my waist. The candles burned low, but I still noticed the smoothness of his chin. My hands cupped his face, and my thumbs skimmed his jawline. “Let me guess, you heard the beard law is no longer in effect. So, naturally, you shaved.”
His eyes were half-lidded as he smiled. “You’ve found me out.”
“You’re an unabashed rebel, Prince Anton.”
“Truer words were never spoken.”
His haggard drowsiness and humored expression made him appear all the more devastatingly handsome to me. His aura never felt so relaxed and open and welcoming. I gently kissed him.
I kissed him.
I drew back and searched his face for his reaction. He looked as stunned as I was. “Sonya.” His voice was a soft warning. I heard what he meant: I want this. I don’t want this.
His face still rested in my cupped hands. Heart pounding, I leaned closer. He smelled of pine and juniper and spring water. I breathed in all of him and savored every wondrous feeling in my aura. Very deliberately, very carefully, and with exceeding tenderness, I kissed him again.
His hands on my waist turned to stone, but as my mouth slowly explored his, his grip yielded and slid down to the curve of my hip. His mouth found rhythm with mine, and soon we matched cadence, two birds soaring on the same current of air.
He exhaled and pulled me closer. His hands traveled up the sides of my bodice and back around to weave through my hair. My heart opened. The stitches that bound my grief tore free. I’d wanted this for so long. Within him, I felt the same sweet sense of release. Our auras entwined in a beautiful dance and affirmed the rightness of our union. I parted my lips and tasted him deeper. He was the mist in an evergreen forest, the reeds sighing into a river. My fingers curled around the nape of his neck. His warmth radiated sunlight through my body.
That effortless feeling, like floating on water, heated to something just as wonderful, but more turbulent. Our kisses pressed harder. Our hands roamed faster. My chest tightened as my breath became difficult to find. Even when I drew back to inhale, the feeling didn’t abate. It intensified until I recognized it as a seizing of panic. Anton grabbed my arms and pushed me away.
“I can’t . . .” His face was flushed with a light sheen of perspiration. “We can’t do this.”
My head spun. Every nerve under my skin longed to stay connected to him. It took me a moment to understand the panic was his. “Why?”
He worked to steady his breathing. “It’s late . . . and you’ve had a horrible night. Now isn’t the time to . . .” He sighed, and his eyes drooped at the corners. “You’re broken right now, Sonya. I don’t want to press my advantage.”
“You’re not,” I said. He slid up straighter against the wall and put a small measure of distance between us. It felt like an insurmountable gash in the earth. “This isn’t you, Anton. You’re not forcing me to feel this way. I need you—especially now. I want us to be together.” Why couldn’t he feel what was inside me, what was my own? “I want you,” I said, and reached for his hand.
He pulled back and raked his fingers through his hair. “Please.” His voice was pained. My gaze drifted to his sleeve, fallen back to his elbow to reveal his lynx-shaped birthmark. I wished I could blot it out, retract the words of the Romska fortune-teller, find the little boy in the prince and tell him his mother still loved him, even though she had to let him go. I’d felt the dowager empress’s devotion in her very blood. Why couldn’t it erase all his heartache? Why couldn’t I?