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“The word stubborn does you a disservice,” Cae muttered,
“You’re not an inconvenience, Velasin. You’re my husband.” “Many Ralian women claim that the one is synonymous with the other.” Caethari snorted. “That’s because many Ralian women are married to Ralian men.”
“Yours is a strange and stubborn endurance, Velasin.”
And then, more softly still, such that I might almost have imagined it: “Just like your mother’s.”
“Cae, whoever did this didn’t blame the Wild Knife.” Cae stilled, heart pounding stupidly. You called me Cae, he wanted to say, you used my name, please, do it again, but this wasn’t the time, and he forced himself to focus with a brutal wrench of will.
“I’m sorry. I’m not … good, at accepting praise.” “I’ll have to help you practice, then,” said Cae. Unhelpfully, his brain reacted to this by conjuring up an image of Velasin, dishevelled and panting in his bed as Cae whispered filthy endearments into his ear. Cae slammed a mental door on that (very intriguing, absolutely to be considered later) prospect and returned his focus to the moment.
But seeing him as he was now—poised, controlled, competent—was thrilling in an altogether more familiar way. It was a skill Liran also possessed, and which Cae was self-aware enough to admit a preference for. He’d already been attracted to Velasin in its absence; to suddenly stumble on it here, now, was rather like being smacked soundly about the ears.
His hands slid reverent over my hips, and it felt like being devoured by worship,
I was full and bright and beautiful, and if any clouds would later scud across the risen moon of this moment, still it would remain unsullied, untouched.
