Chapter 517: Scars and Promises (3)
"Hopeless romantics, the lot of you," Clarisse said, but her voice was breathy. She pulled Raine back to steal her taste straight from Raine’s lips—a quick flash of tongues—then winked at Lyan over Raine’s shoulder.
On the fringe, Lara hovered, silent shadow. Lyan reached a hand toward her. "You, too," he murmured. She stepped forward, not quite meeting any eyes, and knelt. Her kiss was feather-light—just a brush of lips, no sound but the faintest m—but her hands cupped his jaw with surprising heat. She tasted of mountain berries and rainwater collected in stone bowls. When she withdrew, she touched her forehead to his for one steady heartbeat, then sat back with a rare small smile.
The pile of affection threatened to topple him; his head swam. Each woman’s scent, taste, the sound of lips parting, the heat of breath—it layered like chords in a song, overwhelming yet harmonious.
Tara, half-laughing, fanned herself. "Okay, mathematicians—new calculation: we’re down to five hours if we keep this up."
Raine flopped beside Lyan, white hair spilling like moonlight over his thigh. "Someone put him in a ledger. We’ll take shares."
Alina, cheeks flushed rose, hugged his arm claimingly. "He’s mine tonight."
"Not all night!" Solia objected, sliding in to nuzzle Lyan’s shoulder—mmmh—leaving a wet imprint before licking it away with a playful flick. "I want at least the watch bell before dawn."
"Stop bargaining like merchants," Emilia growled, yet she was smiling. She pushed hair off her face, streak of soot now smudged across her brow like war paint. "We could just stack in order and swap positions every trumpet call."
Clarisse laughed—sharp, delighted. "We’ll have a queue outside like a soup line. How romantic."
A flicker of movement by the entrance silenced the uproar. Wilhelmina’s silhouette filled the flap, backlit by torchlight outside. She wore her undershirt and trousers, reed-straight posture unbent despite visible bandages crossing one muscular arm. In her hand: a tin mug of dark coffee that steamed faintly in the cool night air.
"If I have to watch another one of you unbuckle your boots," she said, each word clipped like dagger points, "I’m throwing him into the wagon and sealing it with runes."