Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4)(19)

Love. I sent the word into his mind, my breath catching as his emotion swelled.

“Not quite…” He chuckled, my nerves heightening again. “It is more than love; it is astounding, all-encompassing love.” He sighed into me, the last of my stress leaving as he pulled me away from his chest, his hands warm on my shoulders as he looked at me.

The chilled air swirled around us as I gazed into his eyes, and the deep pulse of his passion moved through me. I had no desire to look anywhere else.

What is going to happen to us, Ilyan? I asked as I placed my hand over his heart, thunder rumbling at the contact as if the earth were reacting to the feel of my skin against his.

Ilyan placed his hand over my heart as I had his, the warmth spreading over my collarbone. He didn’t look at me, he only looked at his hand against me before closing his eyes.

I focused on the pulse of his heart against my hand, our breathing the only sound in my ears as I waited for an answer. Ilyan finally looked up at me, his hand lifting to glide over the side of my face before he moved to sit behind me. My heartbeat surged at feeling him there, at feeling his chest against my back while he held me from behind. Even when he had braided my hair in the hotel near Isola Santa he had never sat this close, close enough I could feel the beat of his heart. A ripple of calm moved up my spine before he leaned away, his hands moving up to weave through the damp strands of my hair once more.

Ilyan ran his fingers over the crown of my head and through the long waves in a gentle rhythm that sent goosebumps down my spine. The pressure of his hands was soft as he moved my hair away from my face and into a low ponytail, the soft tips of his fingers fluttering across the back of my neck before grazing the mark behind my ear, and I gasped, my magic jumpstarting at the contact.

I sighed as the sensation left, Ilyan’s joy and misplaced worry mixing together as heavy Czech words I didn’t understand drifted over to me. His fingers continued to move through my hair, deftly separating it before he began to twist and pull it into a braid.

“I was ten when my father first taught me how to braid.”

“Your father taught you how to braid? Isn’t that kind of girly?” I asked, unable to hide the smile from my voice, or picture Edmund himself knowing how to braid for that matter. I had always assumed Ilyan had taught himself, a necessity of having long hair.

“To you, perhaps, but to my kind, braiding is the way to care for and to show your affection to the people you love.” His words were a revered softness that ignited my soul, the real meaning as to what he was doing not lost on me. “As a Sk?ítek, it is the man’s responsibility to braid his hair as well as his wife’s and his children’s.”

“I love it when you braid my hair,” I said without thinking, my heart rate pounding in sudden embarrassment. “I mean… I have never really done much with it,” I continued in a quick attempt to cover up my blunder.

“I know,” he whispered, the side of his hand pressing against my face before he went back to his gentle movements.

“For thousands of years before my birth, and centuries after, braiding was one of the most cherished traditions of the Sk?íteks. It was the way to convey moments in your life to others, to show stature and accomplishments in battle. Each braid was infused with magic of good blessings, of strength, of love. It was revered, and in many ways it still is.”

I had thought his father teaching him how to braid was silly. However, now I almost felt bad for having mocked it. I had poked fun at more than just a boy braiding hair; it was his culture, a tradition, just as it had been with my father. My eyes pinched together at the unwanted connection and I pushed it away. I could tell by the tone in Ilyan’s voice that the braiding meant more to him than he was putting on. I felt terrible for having laughed at him, yet the emotion vanished at the sensation of his fingers in my hair, relaxing me. He was braiding my hair, but I knew at once that he wasn’t just braiding it.

He was weaving the hair of someone he loved.

“Is that what you are doing now?” I asked, my voice shaking in nerves as I trembled under his touch, my eyes trained on a bolt of lightning that lit up the sky.

“He began first with the child’s braid.” Ilyan ignored my question as he continued his story. “The simple three-strand crown the girls wore, the long plait the boys wore. He made me braid the hair of every child in Prague. Parents even brought their children to line up for a chance to have the little prince braid their hair.”

They lined up? I asked into his mind, my voice probably too loud in my surprise.

“Yes,” Ilyan chuckled as his fingers gently pulled and prodded, my head still under his ministrations. “I sat in the square before the main cathedral as the Sk?íteks brought their children out. I am sure the mortals looked at us like we were conducting some sort of exercise. I even had a few come up and ask me what I was giving away.”

He chuckled again and I couldn’t help smiling right along with him. The images from his thoughts flowed into me, painting a picture of what had happened. I could almost see the small, redheaded boy approach Ilyan. I could see the golden sleeve of Ilyan’s clothing as his tiny hands moved.

“I bet you were a pro after that,” I probed, careful to keep my head still as he worked.

“My knuckles were sore for weeks afterwards, but I mastered it.” I could feel his pride at the success he felt, even after all these years.