I am. Whoever I am in that moment. Truly, you are the gods’ greatest gift.”
He looks as if I have taken a poleax to his head. As if he has never expected such words from me. And perhaps he hasn’t. His face grows serious with the weight of his own emotions, his mouth parting slightly in surprise.
Before he has time to respond, I reach out, grab his head with my hands, and bring his lips to mine. He does not resist, his mouth hungry and warm, his wide hands coming around my waist, sliding upward and drawing me closer. My fingers relish the solid, implacable feel of his muscles beneath his linen shirt. Savor the hard planes of his stomach, the faint traces of the myriad scars that he wears as easily as that shirt. And heat. The man is like a smelting furnace. I gently nip his bottom lip and angle my head to deepen the kiss, swallowing the groan that escapes him.
It is like a dam breaking, and all that I have been feeling in the last hours, days, weeks, rushes at me in one giant wave that leaves me lightheaded, dizzy, wanting. Beast has seen me, at my worst and my best, and in those moments when I am both at once.
He not only welcomes those parts of me, but rejoices in them.
He pulls his mouth from mine, his lips working their way to my ear, nibbling and tasting. “Sybella.”
We want to take our time, to enjoy all the kisses we feared we would not have, to slowly welcome each other home—for wherever we both are is home—I know that now. But everything that I feel in that moment is so big and overwhelming that it cannot be contained in one body. I slip my hands around to his back, bringing him closer. He groans, then presses his entire body against mine so that I am engulfed by him, awash in sensation that licks at my skin like flames until I am utterly consumed.
With exquisite tenderness, he lays me down on the floor and then the time for tenderness is gone. “I will not break,” I murmur against the hard line of his jaw.
“No.” He grins. “But I might.” And then he is on top of me, covering me, warming me, loving me, and I give myself over to the magic that only he is able to work upon my body.
* * *
When we have taken our pleasure, we lie together with my arm draped over his chest, feeling the steady—if somewhat rapid—thudding of his heart against my ribs. His hand runs lazily through my hair, stopping to rub strands of it between his fingers. He shifts so that he can look down at me. “Do you think that we will ever manage to do this in a bed?”
“A bed,” I scoff. “Where is the fun in that?” But, oh, how I long for such simple meetings. Not wishing to think of that right now, I let the questions that have simmered inside me for weeks come tumbling out. “How did things go at the convent?”
He shifts under me, making himself comfortable. “Annith was not as surprised to see us as you might think.”
“What do you mean?” I murmur, kissing the rough misshapen shell of his ear, wondering if anyone has ever done that.
He flinches and reaches up to rub it, so I’m guessing not. “She said Sister Vereda had seen us coming.”
“So the old woman is still alive.”
“And thriving, according to Annith. Balthazaar’s arrival has breathed new life into her.”
Is it just my imagination, or does he hesitate ever so slightly over that name? “And Balthazaar?” He is not Mortain any longer, but it is still hard to separate the two.
He shrugs, making it feel as if the earth beneath us is moving. “Ah, he seems to be well. I think he’s still adjusting to the wonders of being human.”
“And the girls?”
Beast puts his free arm around me, pulling me closer. “They will do fine there.” His voice is filled with absolute surety, but the vise of my worry will not let go.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because Annith and the others have had years of experience taking in frightened, wounded girls. Because all the nuns were kind and welcoming. Sister . . . the older, fussy one who loves clothes?”
“Beatriz. That is Sister Beatriz.”
“She took Louise under her wing immediately, petting and coddling her like a small dog. Louise enjoyed it for a grand total of