Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4)(54)

We just stood there, damp and cold, our arms wrapped around each other as I waited for Ilyan to point out what I needed to work on. The scolding never came, however, which only worried me more.

I wanted to master this—I needed to—we were running out of time, but it wasn’t working. Every time he moved to pull away, my anxiety moved in. The horrors that haunted my subconscious ran rampant through me, the sounds Ilyan’s magic produced only heightening my fears.

I shuddered as the last of my tortures ran through my mind, unsure if the chill came more from the horrifying memories, or from the cold water that dripped down my spine. Ilyan’s grip increased as his magic surged, drying and warming me.

“I have an idea, Joclyn, although I am not sure if it is going to work,” Ilyan whispered, his apprehension a steady thrum through the air.

“Nothing has worked so far, Ilyan. At this point, I’ll try tight rope walking if you think it will help.”

Ilyan chuckled, the sound rich in my ear as it vibrated through his chest.

“This will work,” he said as he pulled me away from him, his hand steady when he unwrapped the soaking wet blanket from around me.

I bit my lip as the chilled morning air hit the skin on my arms, the breeze tugging at the thin fabric of the pajama pants I still wore. Ilyan didn’t seem to notice, however. He only stripped off his shirt, revealing the dozens of criss-crossed scars on his chest. I held my breath as I attempted to focus on his eyes, fighting the need to run my fingers over the scars.

“Ilyan?” I asked, still waiting for him to provide me with the insights into this idea, yet none came. He only smiled and pulled me back into him, his arms wrapping around me like I was as fragile as glass, the heat from his chest and hands shooting into me. I could feel the raised skin of his scars against my face, my soul seeming to move closer to him, to connect to the places where the Black Water had burned him. My magic moved into him on instinct, his doing the same, as if the increased skin connection gave them permission to mingle where they hadn’t been allowed to before.

“Focus on me, Joclyn,” he instructed, his voice tense, making me wonder what I was missing.

Aren’t you going to tell me this mysterious plan? I asked into his mind as I pulled away to look at him, my eyebrow raising. He didn’t seem too interested in filling in the gaps of whatever crazy idea had sprouted in his mind; he just smiled in that coy way of his before leaning down and kissing my forehead, sending a little jolt of pleasure through my spine.

“Focus on me, Joclyn.”

I heard the thrum of his heart as I leaned against his bare chest, my own a pulse that moved in perfect time with his. I focused on the steady beat, the sound filling me as his hands moved over my skin, leaving a trail of ice and fire behind it. The touch mingled with his magic, warming me, comforting me. It wasn’t like before. It wasn’t distracting; it was perfect.

I exhaled in bliss as I floated away in Ilyan’s arms, the sounds of my haunted nightmares coming again without warning. I expected the anxiety that would come with them. I cringed in expectation of the fear. Both wound around my spine, threatening to break through the calm I had so recently found

“Do not be afraid,” he whispered to me, his voice as soft as the breeze in my ears.

I closed my eyes as Ilyan’s emotions began to flood me, the need replaced by dedication; the love and passion only increasing. I felt them flow through me as my own emotions matched in time, his thoughts following close behind.

It wasn’t like before, when I saw snippets of his memories and portions of his thoughts. Everything was clear as it played inside of my mind. I saw the new memory as he did, heard every word as he thought it.

Except it wasn’t a memory.

It was a dream.

The dream that Ilyan had imagined from that very first day he held me in his arms eight hundred years ago. A day of bonding.

Our bonding.

The whispers of pipes and screams faded into nothing as I focused on the image Ilyan lent me, the vision so strong it was all I could focus on.

We sat together in a darkened room. His hands were soft as he held me in front of him, the touch of his lips soft against mine. I wore a long dress of gold, he in one of those medieval outfits I had seen in his closet so long ago. My breath felt caught between reality and fantasy as I watched him braid long ribbons into my hair, his touch gentle as he worked tirelessly on the intricate weaving. He was so focused as he worked.

He spoke in rapid Czech before I returned the phrase, the unknown Czech words sounding odd in my voice, the vow spoken before he wrapped me in his arms and fused his magic to mine. I could almost feel the way that would feel, the power of it rocking through me, taking my breath away.

I gasped as the emotion filled me, the clarity of the dream departing as I was left in the swirling winter air. I could feel the snow I had brought dance on the breeze, the flakes soft against my skin as they made their way to the ground. I lifted my fingers to my lips as the dream faded, my calm overtaking me, even though he had gone.

Ilyan had gone.

My fear spiked at the loss of his warmth, the loud moan of a pipe that wasn’t really there cutting through my calm. I cringed as I heard it, my magic wavering as the fear threatened to move into me.

“Focus, my love,” Ilyan whispered from somewhere behind me, his voice barely louder than the haunted whimpering that came from somewhere before me.

I cringed at the sound—at the fear it held—before Ilyan’s thoughts repeated the future he had shared with me and I could move beyond it.