Dream of Me/Believe in Me

his hold on Cymbra but she made no attempt to move. It was enough that her legs held her and that her stomach had no contents to vomit up. The terror of the dead men still reverberated within her. She felt it as keenly as if it were her own blood sinking into the earth.
    Dragon steadied her with a hand. She felt his concern, too, but could not bring herself to turn her head and look at him. There was nothing in her sight or her mind save the brutal, barbaric figure who stood, blood-drenched sword still in hand, lit by flame against darkest night. Their gazes met and held. Even as she watched, he shrugged off the acclamation of the crowd and walked toward her.
    He said something to his brother but she didn't hear it. So, too, did he speak to the crowd, but again the words were lost in the screams echoing in her mind. He took hold of her arm but did not draw her close to him. The stench of blood enveloped her. Her senses swam and for a horrible moment she feared she would faint.
    When next she was fully aware, the lodge door had shut behind them. She was alone with the Wolf.

Chapter TWENTY

    T HE WATER IN THE TUB MUST BE TEPID. SHE should offer to fetch hot water for him, or to send someone for it, or … something. But Cymbra could not move or speak, could not do anything save stand where Wolf had left her and watch.
    He said nothing, merely went over to a chest and withdrew a cloth along with a small vial of oil. These he used methodically to clean his sword before returning it to its leather sheath. Having laid both on the table beneath the window, he kicked off his boots and in a single, lithe motion, pulled the blood-drenched tunic over his head.
    Still without acknowledging her presence, he stepped into the tub, sat down, and proceeded to wash himself with the same efficiency as he had used to clean the sword. He even dunked his head under the water and soaped his hair. When he was done, he rose, water streaming from him, his body glistening, and toweled himself dry.
    The towel joined the discarded tunic on the floor. Naked, he came to her. His hand brushed the curve of her uninjured cheek.
    “You need to rest.”
    Her husband's voice.
Her husband.
She stared up at him, seeing the concern in his eyes—and the caution. Seeing, too, firelight and blood, anguish and death, justice and revenge.
    He had won. She knew beyond question that no one would ever again make the mistake of questioning his power. But far more, he was alive. And whole. And with her.
    Thinking only of that, she caught his hand. Holding his gaze with hers, she touched her lips gently to his knuckles, let them drift over his fingers, and lightly bit the tips. Before he could react, she pressed a kiss into his cal-lused palm.
    His eyes flared in surprise and something else—relief? No, not merely that. Hope. What had he thought he needed to hope for? The answer came to her in a ripple of understanding as her lips lingered against his skin and her gaze held his. Hope that she would not be so disgusted and frightened by what she had just witnessed as to turn from him in revulsion. Hope that they could recover what had existed between them before all this. Hope that she would accept him for all that he was.
    Tenderness filled her. This was a part of him she knew instinctively he had never shown to others—not the indomitable warrior or mighty leader but the man with all the yearnings that she herself shared.
    Still gazing at him, she drew his hand back and joined it with her own so that their fingers met and intertwined. As she did, she noted the contrast between them. His hand was so large as to easily engulf hers, hard and sinewy, the skin burnished, the palm callused. Yet this same hand that wielded death touched her with consummate care, as though she were the rarest and most delicate of flowers.
    Rising on tiptoe, she touched her mouth to his, softly coaxing his lips apart. When her tongue met his, hegroaned deep in his throat, loosed her hand, and made to catch her in his arms. But she caught his wrists instead, though her fingers could not close around them. With a smile his dazed mind thought must surely be goddess-born, she drew him to their bed.
    He did not take his eyes from her as she gently urged him down with a light but urgent touch to his massive shoulders. When he was seated on the edge of the bed, she stepped back a little. Although she trembled inwardly, Cymbra did not hesitate. Slowly, watching him every moment, she removed her