Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4)(78)

I touched the delicate carving as the image of the sight came back clearly; the two of us sitting on our bed, the box on the bed beside us, Ilyan wearing the same shirt he was now, sitting behind me as he braided my hair.

I gasped as the realization hit me so strong my head spun, my Drak blood reacting to the closure of a sight, the magic promising me of its fruition.

“He will tear us apart,” I gasped as I replayed the images again.

“If you wish to see the end, give me your heart,” we finished together, my eyes widening in shock as his voice joined mine.

“How did you know that?” I asked, my hand jumping off the box as if I had been shocked. I narrowed my eyes at him in fear, the emotion twisting through me as layers of confusion joined in.

“You have told me before,” he said as his eyes dug into me, the amazement clear on his face as it numbed the fear that was trying to move into me.

Ilyan placed the box on the bed, his eyes never leaving mine before he came to stand before me, his hand moving to lift the sleeve of his shirt. He turned toward me then, his bare forearm staring at me, and the scar I had seen before glistened against his lean muscle.

“When you were trapped, Dramin and I gave you water in hopes to wake you,” he said, his voice tense as I looked at the mark, my fingers rising as my heart called for me to touch it, to heal it. “You spoke those words while you were still trapped after some splashed onto my skin.”

I pressed the tips of my fingers against the raised skin that I was sure was just as sensitive as the scar that lined the palm of his hand.

“Give me your heart,” I whispered as his hand covered mine, pressing it into the scar.

I tore my eyes away from his arm at the words, the burn in my chest growing. He had heard the words before I had even awakened. No wonder they had felt so familiar. They had happened before, and now the sight would be fulfilled.

I cringed at the realization, the joy that had been raging through me wavering uncomfortably. This sight was coming to pass, just as the one tomorrow would, just as they all would. I had so ruthlessly questioned them, attacked my father with them, and now I stood, the pulse of the one I loved on my fingers—the strength of his love flowing through my mind—and I knew.

The sight had been correct.

The magic of a Drak was correct.

And tonight, I couldn’t ask for anything more.

“You already have it.” Ilyan barely got the words out, his throat closing with emotion as the burning behind my eyes grew.

Ilyan said nothing more as he led me over to the bed, his touch gentle as he sat down, placing me before him.

I sat down, too, his chest pressing against my back as our intertwined hands moved me into him. He held me against him, his magic flowing into me before he released me, the loss of contact taking the comforting swell of his magic with it. My hands dropped into my lap as he moved away, my heart clenching in nerves as the clouds rumbled. I felt my heartbeat heighten then heard labored breathing from behind me.

I didn't dare move; I didn't trust myself to do so. So I held still and watched Ilyan pull the ornate box toward us, his fingers gentle as he lifted the lid, revealing strands of faded ribbons, vials of oils, and nestled in the middle, a simple golden hair brush.

I could tell just by looking that the brush was made of gold. Ilyan reached toward the box, his shaking fingers hesitating in the air as if he were afraid to touch it.

His nerves tensed as he paused, his thoughts a rampage of doubt and love and confusion. My breath caught as I felt it, the emotions so human that I would never have expected them from him.

I turned from where I sat, my hand extending to wrap around his from where it hovered above the box. I intertwined my fingers with his as I plunged my magic into him, letting it pulse into him as I warmed him, soothing his heart. He froze at the touch, his eyes still locked onto the box that sat beside us, the open lid beckoning him.

“It's okay,” I whispered. His eyes darted to mine as I spoke, the rivers of wet that seeped from them catching me off guard.

“It's okay,” I repeated. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered.

His emotions peaked, and before I knew it, I was crying right along with him.

He had waited so long, watched so many others find their happiness, and now it was his turn. After so long. I couldn’t help the joy I felt for him, the excitement that I knew was hidden under his doubt. He didn’t need to feel that, not right now.

I dropped his hand from mine, my movement slow as I reached up to touch his face, resting my palm against his cheek as I pushed my magic into him. I kept my palm against his skin as his nerves faded and his breathing leveled, as his fear of losing me swelled before it, too, faded.

“I am staying right here,” I whispered before I reached up and pressed my lips against his, the soft touch enough to pulse through him, to promise him of the truth of my words.

His eyes lightened as I looked into him, his heart calming before I turned, settling back against him just as the thunder rumbled through the abbey, a lightning strike firing closer than it had before.

The lightning dissipated as I felt Ilyan's hand on the crown of my head, his touch gentle as he ran the golden brush through my hair, the strokes long and even as he moved from top to bottom, over and over. The last of my nerves melted away at his touch. The slow, steady strokes matched the beat of our hearts, the pulse of our souls.