Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(66)

Wrapping her arms tightly around her middle, Bel looked down at her shoes and refused to react or respond as Constantine, Khalil and Carling launched into why they had concluded that Malphas had placed a lien on the Elven High Lord’s soul.

Smoothly, Graydon slipped his big body in front of her, putting his back to everyone else in the room. When he took hold of her upper arms, she raised her gaze to his.

Just like that, they fell into their intimate landscape. Everyone else existed outside the borders. All their noise, all their strenuous argument.

Inside the boundary, Graydon’s eyes were warm, calm and clear, lit by a slight smile and free from fear.

She held her hands out to him. In a long, light caress, he slid his fingers down the length of her arms and clasped her fingers. With that gesture alone, he made her feel remarkably precious and incredibly valued.

He was so unlike Calondir’s stern, cold personality, she found it hard to believe that the two males had occupied the same universe.

Calondir had been obsessed with the letter of the law, but he’d had no real sense of compassion or the ability to make deep emotional connections to others. She hadn’t truly seen that until after they had married. It made many of his decisions harsh and unyielding. She suspected it had also made it easier for him to lash out when he grew angry.

Calondir’s son and heir had been his most prized possession. For too many years, she had watched Ferion as a boy try time and again to win his father’s love, until eventually he had stopped trying, which was the most heartbreaking thing of all, while Calondir never comprehended what he had lost.

Whereas Graydon . . . He would make an incredible father, if he were only given the chance.

His warmth, patience and affection appeared to be boundless. He would love his child with all of his big, generous heart, and do everything in his power to ensure the child felt safe, wanted and loved. Graydon would always be faithful and welcoming, always be a steady touchstone for a young, vulnerable mind.

The part of her that had gone cold and distant so very long ago, the part that he had resurrected with a touch, resonated to the realization with an immense internal vibration.

He was everything she could possibly want—everything she had always wanted. Among other things, his very loyalty had made him Dragos’s First sentinel. It was also why he would never walk away from his obligations.

She was horribly jealous of that stupid, arrogant dragon.

Stinking, raving jealous.

Tightening her fingers on his, she said softly, “Now that you’ve forced Soren’s hand, you don’t have to go to war against Malphas. You can step away from all of this and go back to your life.”

He gave her a smile that was so remarkably sweet, she felt as if she had lived for hundreds of years just so that she could see it one more time. “No, I can’t, Bel.”

“Why not?” she whispered.

He tilted his head. “Would you walk away?”

Her response came from her gut. Walk away to leave her son’s fate in the hands of others? “Never.”

His thumbs stroked over the backs of her hands. “Why not?”

Involuntarily, the answers ran through her mind.

Love and commitment. She would die before she let go of fighting for her son.

While his father had viewed him as a possession, she had been his only touchstone.

Hers had been the hands that small towheaded toddler had reached for when he had taken his first steps.

Her lap was where the young boy had buried his head when he had sobbed out his hurts and disappointments.

She was the one the proud young man had looked to when he had achieved an accomplishment.

She had been the one to tell him with fierce, passionate pride, “Well done.”

The only thing that could make her turn on Ferion would be to find out that he had become unsalvageable, as corrupt as Malphas, and a danger to others.

Because, the simple fact was, she was not built to do anything else.

You did not walk away from those you loved. You fought for them, always, with everything you had, even if it meant fighting the long fight, and staying on the hardest, quietest, most difficult course.

No matter how long it took, no matter what needed to be done.

Her lips parted on a soundless intake of breath. That couldn’t possibly be what Graydon meant by asking.

Could it?

It was a hell of a logical leap for her to make, from what he had actually said, which was let’s see where we might take this to love.

And now wasn’t the time to ask what he had meant. Not with ten other people with super sharp hearing and an abundance of curiosity overcrowding the room, not to mention an impending war with a Djinn.

Words fell out of her mouth anyway. She, who was respected for her sense of diplomacy and discretion, had no control over herself. The last twenty-four hours had obliterated any filters she might otherwise have had.

“What are you saying?” she demanded, yanking his hands.

At her vehemence, he looked quietly astonished. Then his expression shifted to something very male, and so intense it rocked her foundation.

He yanked her hands in return, only his grip was so strong, he pulled her forward until she collided with his chest.

She had to tilt her head back to keep staring at him. The front of her torso, everywhere they touched, felt seared by his hard body. Oh gods, she had never forgotten how hungry she had been for him, back in England, but this felt entirely new, deeper and more raw than anything she could remember or imagine.