Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(60)

“Everyone, but what about you?” Gently, Rowan takes my face between his hands. He bends to me, until his forehead touches mine. “You fight so hard to keep everyone safe. But who is going to watch over you, when you go into the dark?”

The day when the Lord Under first asked for my help, I stood alone and afraid as the darkness overwhelmed me. For the first time, I imagine how it might feel to stare into the shadows with someone at my side.

I look up at Rowan. He’s flushed from the heat of the kitchen and the banked-up stove. I think of how undone he was when I went to his room. His bare skin. His tangled hair. The sparks of magic that scattered as he kissed the sigil on my wrist.

I’ve hated him. I’ve lied to him. I’ve seen him bled and wounded. I’ve bandaged those same wounds. I’ve heard truths from him that he’s never told another person. And right now all I can think about is the two of us in my garden. The world turned to fire by crimson sunset. My skirts tucked back and my scars laid bare. His hands on my skin.

I slip my hand beneath his sleeve and touch the bandages I tied there last night. Then I reach up and run my fingers over the hollow of his throat.

“Rowan, I care for you. More than I’ve ever cared for anyone, except for Arien.” The words are too raw, too tender, to speak louder than a whisper. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

He reaches past me, enclosing me. I move back until I’m against the door with his arms braced on either side of me. He shoves the door, slams it all the way shut. We both jump—he’s startled by his own action. Then he slides his hand into my hair. His fingers press into the nape of my neck. He moves slowly, and I realize he’s giving me a chance to stop him if I don’t want this.

But this is all I want.

I put my hands against the door, shift forward onto my tiptoes, and close the final distance between us. Rowan’s breath catches in a strangled growl as my lips brush his. My first ever kiss. It’s all so unexpected. How clumsy I feel, the rasp of his mouth on mine, the heat that unwinds all through me when he kisses me back.

At first, he’s hesitant and soft, like he still wants to leave me space to change my mind. But at this moment, I don’t want softness. I want fierceness and fire and incandescent surrender.

I catch hold of him, pull him toward me. He groans against my mouth and his fingers tighten and tangle through my hair. I kiss him more deeply, my tongue sweeping his. He tastes of burnt sugar and spiced tea. I can feel the place where the scars cross the edge of his mouth. Rough, it feels rough, and wonderful.

I let my head fall back, baring my throat. He kisses my neck. His teeth scrape sharply over my pulse. A tattered sound escapes me, and magic blossoms from my hands, heated and golden.

I’m overcome with a rush of desire that blisters, molten, through my whole body. We’re pressed together. Heart to heart, hip to hip. His hand strokes down the curve of my waist, then lower. Through the thin gossamer fabric of my skirts, his fingers grip my thigh. He’s so warm that it feels like he’s touching my bare skin. I gasp, the sound loud in the quiet room. He sighs out a desperate breath that feathers hotly over my skin.

I start to pull at the laces on his shirt, but he catches my hands, stopping me. His thumb fits into the scar on my palm and he sighs again, softer. He bows his head and gently kisses the mark. “Leta, please don’t summon the Lord Under again. Promise me that you won’t.”

His expression is so full of despair that I can hardly stand it. I press my lips together, tasting heat and honey. I wish for another choice. A way out of this where no one would be hurt. I wish I could lie to him, but instead I shake my head. “I’ll not make a promise I can’t keep.”

He lets me go. “You say you don’t want me to be hurt. Well this hurts, Leta.”

I step away from him and cross to the table, to the basket full of the fruit I gathered. I take a pomegranate and slice it open, then scoop the seeds onto my fingertips. Small and bitter, they burst like bubbles over my tongue. Juice runs through my mouth, sharply sweet.

Rowan comes over and picks up a seed with careful fingers. We stand there, on opposite sides of the table, eyes on the opened fruit. Neither of us speaks. Slowly, we eat seed after seed, hesitating each time we reach to pick another. Making sure our hands never touch.

The door opens, sending a bright gleam of sunlight across the kitchen as Clover comes inside. She has a basket of herbs cut from the small patch in the garden; wild mint, nettles, feverfew. The scent of them fills the air. Sweet and bitter and freshly green.

“Whew, it’s really hot in here.” She runs her sleeve across her forehead and peers at the stove. “What have you done to the fire? You know Florence hates when we mess around with it.” When neither of us replies, her mouth lifts into a curious smile as she takes in our stilted silence. “Did I interrupt something?”

I scrub my sticky hands against my skirts and step back from the table. Rowan looks everywhere in the room except at me. “We didn’t touch the fire.”

Clover pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose as she peers at him. “Are you sure? You look a little … overheated.” She touches his forehead, then reaches to check his pulse. Her mouth twitches, as though she’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Do you want some feverfew? I’ve picked plenty.”

“It’s nothing,” he says tightly. “I’m fine.”