Page 35 of A Thousand Burning Ravens

When she finishes and stands back to examine her handiwork, his eyes, rimmed with tears, knock the wind from her. After stripping the hard, cold warrior down to his barest self, nothing remains but a grieving man.

A lump catches in Myla’s throat and she presses a palm gently to his rough cheek, wiping a tear with her thumb. “Bryar,” she whispers, “tell me what you need.”

He says nothing. Instead, she is stunned by the raw vulnerability as his arms wrap around her waist and his head presses against her chest. Though he makes no sound, his shoulders shake with sobs. Myla wraps her arms around his head, holding him close, hoping if she hugs him tight enough, she will hold his broken pieces in place.

“I am so sorry,” she whispers into his hair after a while. “I wish I could take your hurt.”

He pulls back now, looking up at her. “Hurting is what makes us human, Myla. I do not want it taken away; I just do not want the guilt.”

The same guilt she felt earlier. “You have nothing to feel guilty for.”

“Our best friends are likely dead,” he heaves, “and so many men I trained from boys were slaughtered. If I had not walked in . . . I have everything to feel guilty for.”

A stinging sensation forms, and Myla blinks quickly, ridding her eyes of the tears. “I am so sorry.” She chokes on the words, and it is Bryar who now wipes the tears from her cheeks.

“It is not your fault,” he insists adamantly. “We were all just doing our jobs, you included.”

“Doing your job is not supposed to hurt this much,” she answers, cupping his hand against her face and leaning into his touch. “I am so tired of hurting all the time. For once, I want to feel something other than pain.”

His hand lingers, held in place by hers, and the sorrow on his face is replaced by a deeply starved look. Her skin pebbles with exhilaration as his countenance shifts. She is all at once aware of the thinness of her nightgown and the way little is hidden with the glare of the fireplace passing through the thin material. Bryar swallows hard, looking up at her as they are still fixed in what was only moments ago, a comforting hug, but now feels different.

“Take my pain tonight,” she whispers, pressing her forehead against his, “and I shall take yours.”

“Myla.” His brow furrows and she can feel a tremble pass through him as he battles temptation. The following is nearly laughed, “We are in a monastery right now. I bet a year’s wages it is a sin to these people for us to even be alone right now. Not to mention . . .” He clears his throat. “You are nearly naked here in my arms already.”

Unabashed, Myla leans to press parted lips to his neck and whispers, “Then I guess it is a good thing I pay your wages, we do not worship their god, and you have seen me naked before.” Slow and calculated, Myla pushes him flat against the bed and moves on top of him, her thighs pressing on either side of his firm abdomen.

Bryar’s body quivers with desire as her soft lips leave a trail of fire along his neck, and one delicate kiss against his mouth, causing his breath to hitch. His hands, filled with longing, grip her hips, drawing her body flush against his, and the taste of her lingers on his lips as he breathes her name.

“Myla.”

His hand is firm and possessive on back of her neck, drawing her into a slow, attentive kiss which melts her body against his like warm honey. From the nape of her neck, Bryar’s hand slowly travels down the contour of her back, barely grazing her with the tips of his fingers as he chases the tension of her muscles away.

Her hips sway intentionally now, rolling forwards and back against him until he hardens beneath her. His response is exhilarating and quickens her breath in slight, raspy gasps. What was slow, soft and hesitant turns to fire, sparks kindling into a lapping blaze.

Between breathless kisses and roaming hands exploring the dips and curves of his sculpted body, Myla finds the self-control to pull away from him, her eyes fixated on the green of his. He studies her back, looking deeper than a gaze should allow.

“I have spent five years catching glimpses of you, waiting for a brief smile and thriving off it alone until the next smile or the next word—and they were never enough to heal me,” she whispers, hoping the dead do not hear.

“Heal you?” he asks, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

“To heal the shattered mess that was made of me when my father told me it could not be you.” Myla leaves no time for a response, silencing whatever he is about to say with a kiss, her tongue moving with his. His body radiates heat, not the natural kind, but the kind that awakens through magic when his body does.

Bryar wraps strong arms around her and in a fluid motion, he sits upright, linking his arms beneath her so he can stand. Stunned, Myla grips his sides with her legs, holding on tightly as he pushes her against the wall with an unintentional thud, then lowers her to her feet.

His mouth finds her neck, then her shoulders where the shift still covers her. He kisses her gently there, then with a nimble flick of his fingers, he nudges the material off, watching, satisfied, as it slips to the floor at her feet.

For a moment he stands back, examining her, his hunter’s eyes expertly taking stock of the ways her body has changed and matured. A hand traces the rise of her collarbone, drifting lower and lower until he cups her breasts, massaging them reverently, causing warmth to pool between her thighs. Myla licks her lips hungrily. Her gaze travels from his chiseled midsection to the taut bulge of his trousers and hunger turns to insatiable starvation.

Sensing her need, his hands stroke lightly up and down her sides, teasing her senses. His magic, simmering now, steams from his body, coating hers in a hot mist, leaving her skin slick and glistening in the firelight.

At last, Bryar’s fingertips find a hold on her hips as he drops to his knees before her. The fluid motion sends flutters of anticipation through her stomach, and she lets her head fall back against the wall, waiting for his kiss there.

His attentions begin against her belly, slow kisses awakening her. Each shift of his hands, holding her in place, stokes a fierce heat in their wake. An intoxicating kind that makes his touches more electrifying, nearly burning her but not quite. Myla tangles slender fingers through his thick mess of curls, urging him lower.

He growls a laugh, looking up at her. “You are not in charge here,” he reminds her, pressing his thumbs to the inside of her thighs, nudging her open. “But I have been a patient man, and I do not want to wait any longer. So, I will oblige.”

It is a gentle kiss at first, slow and tender followed by an expert flick of his tongue against her core, already honeyed with warm arousal. Myla’s head falls back against the wall, her lips parted as he coaxes breathless, desperate moans from her. The stubble on his cheeks grazes the sensitive skin inside her thighs as he drowns in her pleasure.