I nod absently, even as thunder crashes outside. “Oh, that’ll be Aron. Can I call you back later?”
She chuckles. “Yes, do this ‘calling’ thing later. You know where I am.” And she waves from within the web and then fades out.
I turn away from the web and smooth my hands over my hair and then down my dress. It’s new, just like most of the stuff in my private chambers in the Keep of Storms. As promised, my Aron waged a (teeny tiny) war on Glistentide and accepted the spoils of offering. Now I have a ton of pretty dresses, urns full of incense and fine fabrics, and the best damn palatial bed I have ever seen. I have chairs and vases and books I can’t read and a harp that I have no idea how to play, but I was thrilled with all of it and made sure Aron blessed Glistentide appropriately as a thank you.
I picked something a little flashy today to get Aron’s attention. Not that it’s hard to get his attention, but I love it when he gives me one of those long, heated looks that tells me his mind is nowhere near the battlefield. The dress I’m wearing is a long, shimmery pink that fades to blue at the skirt, with a deep, deep embroidered neckline that shows off my impressive rack.
The massive double doors of the Keep of Storms open and men pour in, wearing armor and speaking in loud voices. They laugh and jostle each other, full of enthusiasm even though not a few moments ago they were fighting each other on the field of battle. That’s all they do here in Aron’s slice of the heavens—battles after battles after battles, then they come and feast. I smile at them as they surge in like a wave, and each one makes Aron’s symbol in my direction. Some even move their hand up slightly with a second thump over the heart, a new gesture people have started to do for me specifically. Aron says that I’m not worshipped—not yet—but he wouldn’t be surprised if I started receiving prayers in the next millennia or two asking for him to intercede.
I scan the faces of the men—and women—as they crowd the feast tables that magically replenish themselves and begin to eat. Solat’s here, and Vitar, and I wink at them as they pass by. Solat’s following a female warrior from Old Suuol with a look of interest that tells me he hasn’t changed, even dead.
I’m about to ask where my Aron is when thunder crashes overhead again and I roll my eyes, even as I smile. Dramatic entrance incoming. I clasp my hands, waiting beside my throne and pretending I’m about to sit down in my smaller chair next to his. It’s a game we play—I move to sit, and Aron grabs me before I can and pulls me into his lap. It doesn’t matter how fast I am, my ass never gets in that chair.
Even now, I barely put my hands on the arm of my throne and then a massive gust of wind and a crackle of lightning sweeps up against me, rustling my skirts. A big arm locks around my waist and then I’m hauled into Aron’s lap as he sits on his throne.
“My love,” he growls, his throat full of thunder and pleasure at the sight of me. He’s become fiercer and more magical as he adjusts to his return in the Aether. Today, wind makes his hair constantly blow—even inside—and lightning sparks his eyes. The other day he wore a crown of pure lightning in bed.
Fucking sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
He nips at my neck, sending sizzles of pleasure through my body. “Did you miss me this day?”
“Nope,” I tell him.
Aron throws his head back and laughs, because he knows I’m lying.
I just grin and smooth his long hair back from his face, caressing his jaw even as I do. I’m getting used to the eyepatch and I have to admit, it does good things for my lady parts. “How was your day, dear?” I ask, teasing.
He gives me a pleased look, one hand gripping me high on my thigh. “Eventful. Prayers are coming in from Rastana. They are on the verge of civil war. I shall have to evaluate which side deserves my blessing.” He takes my hand and pulls my knuckles toward his mouth, pressing a kiss there. “You will help me?”