CHAPTER 545: HIDING HEAT IN PLAIN SIGHT (3)

"This is amazing," she managed around the mouthful, and dabbed her lips with the back of one wrist like a lady at court remembering she was also a person.

Sigrid took her portion with both hands like a sacrament and tore off a generous bite that crackled. "Lord Lyan, you’re a wizard with food too," she pronounced, not bothering to dress praise in anything fancier than truth. Her ponytail swayed like a banner when she nodded again, this time as if to tell fate that it had done well delivering supper.

Lyan didn’t preen, but his half-smile came and went like a secret handshake. He glanced across the fire at Arielle, and something in that look—pride borrowed and returned, a private joke only the two of them knew—sent a bright, foolish spark skittering along her nerves. It landed somewhere under her sternum and settled there, warm and unnecessary and wonderful.

She accepted a slice, the heat of it through the knife-scored bark shocking her fingertips into focus. She blew, took a cautious bite, and then a second, less cautious. Savory, smoky, a little wild the way forest meat always was, but civilized by thyme and the crisping fire. She was briefly, purely happy in the way only food and safe company and a job finished to the best of your day’s ability can make you. The ants ferried kindling like tiny, dutiful stewards; someone—Tara, of course—tucked an extra sprig into the rim of the spit so the next wave of smoke would taste green. Lara hummed something that had the shape of a lullaby but the beat of a march. Sigrid kicked her boots off, wiggled her toes toward the heat like a contented bear, and began a tale about a winter so cold your breath had to be chopped with an axe before you could speak it.

Arielle eased back, the blanket forgiving, her body a ledger balanced to zero at last. She watched Lyan hone his blade between checks on the boar and thought with mild astonishment: a lord, a warrior, a summoner... and a man who knows how much salt a good cut wants. The day had asked much of her; she could feel where she’d been braced and where she’d stopped. But this felt like the reward governments can’t write into law—fire, meat, laughter low and unafraid, a sky brightening its first cold stars. Her eyes tipped closed for a breath, then another. She let them, trusting the circle to hold.

Every now and then a fragment of the afternoon’s wildness drifted back—the wind at her ears, the bright sting of speed, the way her name sounded when Lyan said it like a promise he intended to keep. She tucked the memories away like warm stones lined along a windowsill and let the present breathe around her.

Arielle’s stomach rumbled, her body heavy with the day’s exertions—the ride, the race, the wild, passionate frenzy with Lyan. I’m exhausted, she thought, her eyelids drooping as she watched the mountain women gather around the fire, their laughter bright and unburdened. Lara carved a slice of boar, the slice slice of her dagger clean and precise, and passed it to Tara, who took a bite and groaned with delight. "This is amazing," Tara said, her voice muffled by the meat, her fair cheeks flushed with warmth. Sigrid nodded, her blonde ponytail swinging as she tore into her portion, the crunch crunch of her bite echoing in the quiet. "Lord Lyan, you’re a wizard with food too," she said, her tone teasing but genuine. Lyan’s half-smile was a flicker of pride, his eyes meeting Arielle’s for a moment, sending a spark through her. He’s perfect, she thought, her heart aching as she took a bite of the boar, the flavors bursting on her tongue—savory, smoky, with a hint of wild herbs. This is perfect.

The fire’s warmth seeped into her bones, but the day’s intensity weighed heavier. The ride, the race, the slap slap and quelch quelch of their lovemaking, the thrill of Lyan’s touch—it all swirled in her mind, pulling her toward sleep. I can’t stay awake, she thought, her body sinking into the blanket, the plug a quiet reminder of their connection. Her spectacles slipped down her nose, and she didn’t bother to adjust them, her eyes fluttering shut as the crackle crackle of the fire and the mountain women’s laughter faded into a soft hum. Just a moment, she thought, and then she was gone, sleep claiming her like a gentle tide.

She woke with a start, her heart racing as the clang clang of steel and the thud thud of footsteps pierced the night. What’s happening? she thought, her mind foggy as she pushed herself up, the plug shifting slightly, sending a warm shiver through her. She crawled to the tent’s flap, peering out into the starlit darkness. Lyan stood in a clearing, his blade flashing in the moonlight, parrying strikes from Lara, Tara, and Sigrid. Their laughter rang out, sharp and wild, as they moved in a mock battle, their weapons a blur of steel and rune-glow. Lara’s spear thrust forward with a whoosh, Tara’s bowstring twanged with a snap snap, and Sigrid’s axe swung with a thwack

that split the air. Lyan danced between them, his movements fluid, his scar glinting as he deflected each blow with a clang. It’s a game, Arielle thought, her heart swelling with awe. He’s playing with them, and they’re loving it.

The mountain women’s laughter was a bright chorus, their movements fierce but joyful, their bond with Lyan a living thing in the starlight. Arielle’s breath caught, her lips tingling with the memory of his kisses, the slrp slrp of their passion still echoing in her mind. He’s theirs too, she thought, a pang of wistful hope mingling with her pride. But tonight, he’s mine. She adjusted her spectacles, her eyes wide as she watched the dance of steel and laughter, the clang clang and thud thud a rhythm that felt like an extension of the day’s wildfire.

Arielle’s whisper—"Wow..."—hung in the cool night air, her breath a soft cloud as she peered through the tent’s flap, her spectacles glinting in the starlight. Lyan’s movements were a dance of precision and power, his blade flashing like liquid silver as he parried strikes from Lara, Tara, and Sigrid in the moonlit clearing. The clang clang of steel on steel rang out, sharp and rhythmic, blending with the whoosh of Lara’s spear, the snap snap of Tara’s bowstring, and the thwack of Sigrid’s axe slicing the air. His scar caught the moonlight, a silver thread across his cheek, his dark eyes alight with focus and pride. He’s a marvel, Arielle thought, her heart swelling with awe, her body still tingling from the day’s wild ride, the slap slap and quelch quelch of their passion echoing in her memory. The plug she’d slipped into place—a discreet, polished secret from Grafen—kept Lyan’s essence close, a quiet thrum that grounded her even as her mind spiraled.

Lyan’s voice cut through the night, steady and clear, his tone that of a teacher guiding eager students. "Lara, keep your spear low—use the ground’s leverage," he said, dodging her thrust with a fluid sidestep, his boots scuffing the earth with a scrape scrape. Lara’s fiery red braid swung like a flame, her freckled nose crinkling as she adjusted her grip, her lean frame taut with effort. Her green eyes sparkled with determination, her leather armor creaking as she lunged again, the whoosh of her spear sharper now. "Tara, aim for the joints, not the chest," Lyan added, deflecting an arrow with a clang of his blade. Tara’s fair skin glowed in the firelight, her brown hair adorned with sprigs of thyme that released a clean, herbal scent with every movement. Her slender fingers notched another arrow, her bowstring twanging with a snap snap as she followed his advice, her shot grazing his shoulder. Sigrid, the tallest and broadest, swung her axe with a thwack

, her blonde ponytail bouncing, her muscular arms flexing under her fur-lined vest. Her blue eyes gleamed with fierce joy, her square jaw set as she grinned. "Better?" she called, her voice a low rumble.

"Much better," Lyan said, his half-smile warm with pride, his eyes flicking to each woman with a nod. He’s proud of them, Arielle thought, her heart warming at the sight. He sees their strength, their fire. The mountain women moved with a wild grace, their laughter a bright chorus that mingled with the crackle crackle of the firepit, the glowing acid ants scuttling nearby, their mandibles clicking with a tick tick as they tended the camp. Arielle’s scholar’s mind cataloged their appearances—Lara’s lithe, freckled energy; Tara’s delicate, thyme-scented poise; Sigrid’s towering, muscular strength—each a contrast to her own soft hands and waxed ledgers. They’re warriors, and I’m... me, she thought, a pang of envy mixing with admiration. But the plug’s quiet weight, the memory of Lyan’s touch, reminded her she was part of this too, bound to him in a way that felt both thrilling and daunting.

The mock battle shifted, Lyan’s voice taking on a playful edge. "Let’s make it interesting," he said, sheathing his blade with a shink. "Wrestling—one against three." Lara’s laugh was a sharp bark, her red braid swinging as she tossed her spear aside with a clunk. "You’re on, Chief Husband!" she teased, her green eyes flashing. Tara’s fair cheeks flushed, her bow landing in the grass with a thud as she cracked her knuckles, her thyme-scented hair catching the breeze. Sigrid’s grin widened, her axe propped against a tree with a thunk, her blonde ponytail swaying as she rolled her shoulders, her fur vest creaking. Chief Husband, Arielle thought, her heart twisting at the nickname. They call him that, but he’s not theirs—not yet. The mountain women, sent as tributes to Lyan’s keep, carried a promise of marriage, their bond with him a mix of duty and devotion. Arielle’s fingers tightened on the tent flap, her lips tingling with the memory of his kiss, the slrp slrp of their passion still vivid. He’s mine too, she thought, her cheeks flushing as she watched.

The wrestling match began with a burst of laughter, the women charging Lyan with a thud thud of boots on earth. Lara dove low, aiming for his legs, her red braid a fiery streak. Tara circled, her fair skin glowing, her movements quick and darting like a deer. Sigrid barreled forward, her muscular frame a force of nature, her blonde ponytail swinging like a whip. Lyan laughed, a deep, rich sound that made Arielle’s heart skip, his body moving with a fluid strength that seemed effortless. He caught Lara’s arm, twisting her gently to the ground with a thump, her laughter bright as she struggled. Tara leapt onto his back, her thyme-scented hair brushing his neck, but he spun, pinning her with a thud beside Lara. Sigrid’s charge was fierce, her blue eyes blazing, but Lyan ducked, sweeping her legs with a whoosh that sent her sprawling with a thump. He’s unstoppable, Arielle thought, her breath catching, her body warming as she watched his muscles flex under his tunic, his scar glinting like a badge of honor.

The women laughed, their voices a wild chorus, but Lyan’s skill was unmatched. In a swift, graceful move, he locked them in place—Lara and Tara each caught under one arm, their struggles playful but futile, their laughter muffled against his chest. Sigrid, the biggest, was pinned by his leg, her muscular frame writhing as she tried to break free, her blonde ponytail splayed across the grass. Arielle’s smile widened, her heart swelling with warmth at the playful scene, but then her breath hitched. Lyan’s trousers, loosened by the wrestling, had slipped, exposing his massive, hardened length, swaying dangerously close to Sigrid’s face. Oh, gods, Arielle thought, her cheeks burning as she saw Sigrid’s blue eyes widen, her square jaw dropping in a gasp. She’s thinking what I thought, Arielle realized, her mind flashing to the first time she’d felt Lyan’s size, the overwhelming heat and stretch. It’s huge.