Chapter 527: The Lord’s Return (3)
Lyan’s first thought—after the shock that he’d survived the night without suffocation—was that the girls smelled different now that dawn warmed their skin: Wilhelmina carried clean steel and wild mint; Arielle a faint inky lavender; Solia sunlight and soft linen; Alicia honey and fresh-baked crust; Alina a spark of citrus; Belle warm vanilla; Emilia the tang of sweat and rose oil; Josephine sweet wine; Raine rain-kissed moss; Ravia sugared berries; Surena sandalwood and parchment; Xena spiced rum; Clarisse a whisper of almond soap; Tara mountain thyme; Sigrid pine sap; Lara cool river stone. The perfume cocktail made his pulse skip—half desire, half disbelief.
He shifted, and Wilhelmina’s eyelids fluttered. Even half-asleep she glared, as though accusing him of mismanaging dawn itself. He bent and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She sighed—actually sighed—and the line between her brows vanished. Her mouth twitched upward, then: "Distraction technique acknowledged," she muttered before sliding her fingers under his tunic to briefly—very briefly—pinch his side. He hissed; she smirked and drifted back to sleep, the taste she left on his lips crisp as mint leaves snapped in two.
Encouraged, he tilted toward Arielle. Her spectacles had left a red mark across her nose; a strand of chestnut hair clung to her cheek. He brushed it away, and she mumbled figures from yesterday’s ledgers. He stifled a chuckle, caught her chin, and kissed her gently. She tasted of ink and late-night tea—dry, floral, and oddly comforting. Her eyes opened halfway; she blinked owlishly. "Margin error... accepted," she whispered, cheeks turning rose as she realized what he’d done. Then she promptly rolled over, scroll still in hand, pretending the moment never happened—but he spotted the shy smile hiding behind her shoulder.
Solia was next: press of soft curves, easy warmth. He craned back to meet her half-awake grin. "Greedy morning lord," she teased, voice husky. He stole a languid kiss anyway, tasting peach and something buttery—last night’s pastry raid. She giggled into his mouth; the sound vibrated through both of them, and for a dizzy second he forgot about schedules. She nipped his lower lip—playful warning—then tucked her face into the crook of his neck, content.
Alicia murmured nonsense words, breath fluttering across his throat. He turned, pressing a quick kiss to her hairline. She shifted—eyes still closed—and ghosted her lips across his Adam’s apple in sleepy retaliation. The taste she left was caramel and yeast, a baker’s dawn promise. "Bread’s fresh," she repeated, half dream, half demand.
Alina and Belle lay like mirror images, his ragged cloak clenched in their fists. He tried to free the fabric; both growled—actual growls. He bent to Alina first, catching her pout with a swift kiss. She tasted lime and sugar rim: sharp followed by sweet. Her lashes fluttered, then she pulled the cloak tighter, satisfied. Belle cracked one amber eye, mischief already brewing. "Where’s my sample, Commander?" He obliged, brushing lips to hers. She tasted cinnamon and a hint of brandy filched from last night’s stores. She hummed approval, then loosened her grip so he could slide the cloak free. Victory—small but vital.
Emilia’s leg remained hooked around his thigh, iron-strong even in sleep. Carefully, he traced the line of muscle with fingertips. She woke with a warrior’s reflex—eyes sharp—but softened when he pressed a respectful kiss to the inside of her knee. A faint gasp escaped her; the salt of her skin lingered on his tongue, undercut by rose. She unhooked her leg, patting his thigh like a commander granting passage.
Josephine’s drool edged dangerously close to his sleeve. He tapped her nose. She snorted, eyes slitting open. "Morning, hero." He kissed her before she could tease further. She tasted of tart cherries and mischief. She bit his lip—not hard, just enough to remind him she’d win any banter later—then rolled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Your fault if my ribbon’s soggy," she muttered, but her grin was bright.
Raine and Ravia stirred together, twin bundles beneath one blanket. He eased closer. Raine peeked up, cheeks flaming. "S-sorry, we stole your pillow." "Keep it," he whispered, kissing the tip of her nose first—she squeaked—then her lips, feather-light. She tasted morning dew, cool and fresh. Ravia arched an amused brow, claiming her own kiss before he retreated; her lips were berry-sweet, tongue daring a teasing flick that made him blink. "Fair is fair," she whispered, voice smoky.