Author's Note: As per usual, it's been forever, but I wasn't sure how I was going to pull this one off, so it took longer than expected. I hope you guys like it. I did my best. Let me know what you think! =)

.

Chapter Fifteen

In the Still of the Night

.

.

The seconds and minutes of the following day bled away as if from a thousand wounds. That evening, Dylan stood in the hall leading to her—former—bedroom, eyeing the gaping maw of the door, waiting for the shadows to reach out and claw at her.

Her twin brother stood beside her. He glanced at Dylan, saw the dark circles beneath her eyes and the shadows in her gaze, and wanted to ask why she couldn't go into her room and get her own clothes…but he knew the reason why was a good one, even though he didn't know what it was, so he didn't ask. He just gave his twin a one-armed squeeze around the shoulders and walked into the bedroom.

Dylan watched him go. The moment the door shut, a presence at her back slid into her awareness. She didn't turn her head to look at Nuada as he came up behind her. She felt his hesitation like a hiccup in the air before his hands settled on her shoulders. His fingers burned like bands of fire through her knee-length, black tunic. She sucked in a breath and leaned back into his strength. His breath ruffled her hair as he pressed his face into the soft strands. It was impossible for him not to touch her now; it was impossible for her to deny him. Even though touching each other was torture. Even though touching each other was so wrong.

"I have been aching to touch you all day, mo duinne," Nuada whispered against her hair. Butterflies took wing in the pit of her belly in an attempt to escape the heat settling there. "But so much needed to be taken care of…but now, I…" His fingers drifted down her shoulders, down her arms, whispering through the silk of her tunic. Callused fingertips like rough velvet found the delicate skin of her wrists, caressed the small bones there. Nuada's breathing quickened when Dylan pressed back against him. "Forgive me," he murmured. "I must…I must touch you, Dylan. I must know you are here with me."

"I'm here," she whispered, keeping her voice low so John wouldn't hear. Nuada needed to be gone before her brother left her bedroom. He didn't know what was going to happen tonight. She couldn't explain it to him. If she tried, he would be furious with the Elven prince for Dylan's pregnancy on top of his part in what Eamonn had forced on them. "I'm here," she repeated as Nuada's hands slipped from her wrists to settle at her hips. His touch burned. Always burned. "Nuada…"

Dark lips traced along a scar on her neck; warm breath swept like a gentle finger over her skin. She remembered his kisses on her neck from beyond the drugged haze of faerie poison. Remembered his mouth, hot and hungry, at her throat, tasting her skin and drinking her pulse. Nuada's voice came ragged and tormented when he breathed, "You have bewitched me, Dylan. I am helpless against it."

She shifted her weight to better feel the solid strength of him against her back. Perspiration left her skin uncomfortably damp; the cottage was too hot, despite the wintry chill of late November freezing the world beyond the cottage walls. Her breath caught when one of his hands spanned her stomach, cupping the natural curve of her belly—the one caress he always made, a silent acknowledgment to what rested there. His fingers flexed against her belly. She made a small sound. Nuada shuddered. Buried his face against the side of her throat as his fingers drifted upward over her lower ribs.

"Nuada," Dylan gasped as his touch moved a little higher, tracing first one rib, then another. "Nuada, I can't…we shouldn't…I…"

The hand caressing the fragile bones came up to cup her face. He turned her into him, capturing her mouth with barely restrained hunger. Dylan made a soft sound of longing and pressed closer. Her fingers twisted in his hair. His other hand hadn't moved; it flexed against her hip as he pulled her close. She dragged him even closer, needing, drowning, terrified, desperate.

And then she heard him in her mind, a frantic murmur. Stop, stop, shouldn't want this, need this, need her, so good, she tastes so good, more, need more. He parted her lips with sharp, quick love-bites at her mouth that left her gasping. He invaded her, poured himself into her, feeding on every gasp and sigh and moan as he kissed her. So good, so good, have to touch, have to touch her, need to touch her, and the hand at her hip slid down to grab at the hem of the tunic, to pull it up, to press the searing heat of his palm against her bare thigh just above her knee. Dylan gasped into his mouth; Nuada swallowed her half-strangled cry. Gods, oh, gods, need her now…

Somehow the sound of the bedroom doorknob turning shattered the haze of poisonous need clawing at them both. Maybe since Dylan's fire burned so hot because she feared John's return—and so Nuada's smoldered for the same reason. But in the seconds it took for the doorknob to turn completely and the door to open, Nuada had wrenched himself from Dylan's tantalizing embrace, sucked in a breath, and glamoured himself invisible while throwing a glamour over her that would make her look as if she hadn't just been thoroughly kissed by her future husband. With his lady safe from her brother's prying questions, Nuada let his back thump hard against the wall as he struggled to get his breath back.

He could still feel Dylan's thigh under his hand. Still feel her mouth against his. Still hear her soft little cries as he touched her, kissed her. If she did that tonight…if she wanted him as much tonight as she had in the last few moments…gods, he might not survive the need brewing between them.

Damn mortal whelp, he snarled silently as Dylan's brother came into the hall holding a cream-colored garment in his hands. He loathed Dylan's brother. Wished he had the right to cut the base creature's throat and be done with him. After how he'd distressed Dylan with his incessant and insensitive questions about the events she would not share with anyone…after how he'd attacked Nuada, had the gall to lay those filthy mortal hands on him…

Nuada shuddered. Only one person could touch him. Only one. Dylan. Only she could touch him. Only her touch soothed the sickness almost constantly churning in his belly.

Dylan ran a hand through her hair and accepted the garments with breathless thanks. The whelp cocked his head, eyeing her. Nuada wondered if he were about to be stupid enough to ask another question. Surely not. Long, pale fingers convulsed into a white-knuckled fist so tight it shook as the creature opened his mouth. If he asked her anything, anything—one single thing—the Elven prince would make sure the whelp ate his own teeth.

But he asked nothing. He only lied about loving Dylan, about being available if she needed him. He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek and she flinched away from him. Nuada nearly went for his throat; only Dylan's quick, pleading glance held him back. Insolent human—didn't he realize he was scaring her? Didn't he comprehend that the thought of him touching his sister disgusted and terrified her?

John walked out of the cottage just as the sun was setting. Nuada's entire body relaxed as his muffled footsteps crunching across the snow slowly faded. He touched Dylan's shoulder; the shock of his skin against hers, even with the flimsy silk barrier between them, jolted through his blood like lightning. Dylan looked back at him.

"The priest comes soon," he murmured. "And our witnesses. You should make yourself ready."

Dylan swallowed hard. Touched a loose lock of hair before brushing it out of her face. "Who are they? The witnesses?"

"One you know—my valet, Wink Ironfist. The other is a servant from my father's palace—Themba, Master of the Tailors. He is a friend and ally. You needn't fear him." Though he knew it was stupid to tell her not to fear a strange man she'd never met before when even her brother's presence left her skittish as a wild horse.

She only nodded, however, and escaped to the den to change, leaving him to wait for Wink.

The silver cave troll did not keep him waiting long. He emerged like a hulking shadow out of the swirling snow and moonlit darkness, carrying a leather satchel and bearing a carved, white box with a silver clasp. His mother's ring-box. Inside was the white-gold ring his father had labored for six months to earn. Tonight, Nuada would give it to Dylan. He couldn't have said why, but he wanted to see that ring on his betrothed's finger desperately.

Wink said very little as his prince accepted the satchel with his wedding clothes and the ring-box. He only laid a massive, three-fingered hand on Nuada's shoulder and squeezed it briefly, rumbling, "You are doing the honorable thing, my prince—for your lady and your children."

He forced back a flinch. Telling Wink about the existence of the unborn twins in Dylan's womb—twins that he, Nuada, had sired—had been like carving out his own heart with a shard of glass. Hearing the cave troll speak of them, without any of the horror or confusion or gut-churning frustration boiling inside the prince, left Nuada feeling as if his very heart's blood had spilled into Dylan along with his seed in order to create the children he'd never wanted.

He said nothing of that. Only murmured, "I care for her, Wink. She is…my friend. At least there is that."

The troll nodded. "At least there is that. Go. Make yourself ready. I will greet Themba and McTavish when they arrive."

.

When the clock chimed the eighth hour, Nuada—standing under the tall hawthorn tree beside the whitewashed wooden gate in the stone wall around Dylan's cottage—swallowed hard and looked toward the slab of granite that served as the cottage door. Warm amber light filtered through the curtained windows and smoke rose from both chimneys. Becan, healthy enough after an extended stay with the healers, had returned in time to decorate the cottage for both the upcoming holidays and his mistress's impromptu nuptials; his silent hope was that the cheer would help lift his mistress's spirits at least a little.

White and blue fairy lights glittered in the elder trees that flanked Dylan's front gate, twinkled in the pomegranate and hawthorn trees, sparkled in Dylan's rosemary bushes and magically preserved rosebushes. The icicles that clung to the edges of her roof were real icicles, some glistening with frost, but they all glimmered with tiny drops of magical light, courtesy of the hearth sprite. The flagstone walkway had been swept clean of snow and lined with more lights in silvery-white and amber and starry blue. Becan had done wonders.

But Nuada could not look away from the vision that stepped out of the cottage and began to walk toward him with hesitant steps. Beautiful, in her slim, cream-colored tunic embroidered in gold; it took him too long to realize it was his tunic, one he'd lent her during her stay in the underground sanctuary, one he'd sent her home with. The Elven cloth kept her warm despite the winter chill. Beneath the tunic she wore a long white skirt that brushed the glittering snow. She'd pinned up her hair in an elegant knot.

So beautiful. Yet her face, the ravaging scars and the terrible shadows burning like the knowledge of Hell's fires in her gaze, made that beauty almost tragic. Heartbreak and heart's ease. His curse, his damnation…and yet his solace, perhaps even his salvation…

In a mere breath of a whisper, Wink rumbled, "For a human, beneath all the scars, she is quite lovely."

Nuada nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes." And in but mere moments, she would be his wife. That lovely mortal would be his wife, and he would be her husband. Already the mother of his firstborn, soon she would be even more than that. He could feel the threads of that fate tightening around him like iron wires.

The priest, Bishop McTavish, an Elven follower of the Star Kindler from the castle of Findias where King Balor ruled, didn't know the situation. He didn't know that the prince was marrying a mortal woman because he'd been magically forced to rape her until he'd seeded her and gotten her with child. He didn't know that a poisonous, twisted need—both physical and not—pulsed between them like the ache of a raw, exposed nerve. He only knew that Prince Nuada had ordered him to skip the usual speech-making and whatnot and get right to the ceremony as quickly as was seemly.

Beside Wink stood the ebony-skinned Themba, an Elf of Nyame, clad in buff-colored leather and fur. His eyes gleamed in the fairy- and moonlight like beads of jet. His thousands of tribal braids hung nearly to his waist, the copper and ivory beads at the end of each braid glittering in the light. Becan, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, shivered slightly in the cold on Themba's shoulder.

Dylan carried one thing which Nuada had also brought for her—a single, long-stemmed rose carved of jade and yellow diamonds, with a trapped lightning bolt inside to give off soft, gold-white radiance in the dark. She held it carefully, the glow illuminating her slender fingers, as she came to stand beside Nuada. She offered him a tremulous smile.

Bishop McTavish nodded to the prince, who took Dylan's left hand in both of his. Panic clutched in his throat; but he was a warrior, and so he swallowed the iron-cold salt-sickness of it, gripped Dylan's hand, and said, "Tá tú fuil mo chuid fola, cnámh de mo chnámha, anáil de mo anáil. Mé a thabhairt duit mo chorp, go mb'fhéidir go mbeadh muid beirt a bheith ar cheann. Mé a thabhairt duit mo chroí till beidh ár saol a dhéanamh."

Dylan smiled a little easier as the lyrical Gaelic words flowed.

"Tá tú mo chuid fola, mo anáil agus mo croí."

She watched him as he spoke the ancient words in the Old Tongue, a soft light like both sorrow and joy in her eyes. He could see himself reflected in her gaze: tall and proud in gold and crimson and white silk, leather, and chainmail. His lance was strapped to his back. His sword, nestled in its sheath, hung at his side. His twin-knife was snug in his scarlet sash.

Nuada studied her eyes for a moment. Looked to see if they reflected the battle he waged, to stop himself from crushing her to him and taking her away from all this pomp and ceremony that made her so uneasy, so miserable; the battle to stop himself from falling to his knees and begging her for true forgiveness, for a washing away of the sins he'd committed against her, the sins carved into his very bones; the battle to stop himself from dragging her back into the cottage, ripping away skirt and tunic and whatever other flimsy barriers stood in his way, and sinking into her until neither of them knew where one finished and the other began.

"Faoi cheangal ag an grá agus ór faoi bhun sceiche faoi an ghealach," he said, fighting to keep his voice steady and clear, "tá muid i gcónaí ar cheann, agus é séalaithe le póg. "

"Your Royal Highness, Prince Nuada Silverlance," McTavish said now, "Crown Prince of Bethmoora, and son of King Balor the One-Armed King of Elfland. You stand beneath the Eildon tree robed not for war or death, but for matrimony. You have spoken aloud the marriage vow. Is this why you are here?"

"It is," he said, careful not to glance at Dylan.

"Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park," McTavish added. "You are clothed as a royal bride. Is this why you are here?"

Dylan nodded. "Yes."

"Then, as the words have been spoken by the prince, it is now your turn to say the words in the tongue of your fathers."

Gripping both of Nuada's hands with hers, Dylan locked her gaze with his and said, "You are blood of my blood, bone of my bone, breath of my breath." Truer words had never been spoken. She needed him. He was part of her. Blood of her blood, bone of her bone. The very air she breathed. It hurt to be apart from him, and that terrified her. "I give you my body, that we two might be one."

Amber eyes lightened briefly to the palest topaz she'd ever seen. The same soft yellow she'd glimpsed on those rare occasions when only one thing had been in the forefront of Nuada's mind: lust. Heat whispered through her blood, licked down her spine.

"I give you my heart till our life shall be done."

Nuada could feel the magic humming in the air as his bride continued, "You are my blood, my breath and my heartbeat. Bound by love and gold beneath hawthorn under the moon," Dylan whispered, and felt her eyes widen when Nuada reached into his belt-pouch and pulled on a slim, white-gold ring set with three brilliantly blue sapphires. Moonlight and the glow of will-o-the-wisps glinted off the silvery metal. Her breath hitched when a strong, Elven hand slipped that ring over the fourth finger of her left hand. Fighting back tears, Dylan finished with, "We are always one, sealed by a kiss."

When he brushed his lips lightly over hers, Nuada felt the magic of Bethmoora, the magic that tied him to the land as the heir, flare to life in his veins. Now he and Dylan were wed. Now she was his wife.

His wife. His princess. Little one, dearest one, mo duinne. He would always protect her. Always protect, always defend, as he had failed to do when it was most needed. And because she had protected him, defended him, he would always cherish her, would always love…

Always love…

Suddenly his mouth was on hers, hungry, desperate. Her arms slid around his neck. The mortal woman clung to him as he had once clung to her. And he could taste her hope, her—could it be happiness?—like a star on his tongue. Hear the hammer of her heart in his head... or was that his own pulse? It didn't matter. She was his. His, his wife, his lady. His.

And he knew—felt, deep as bone—that he was hers. Body and soul, he was now hers forever. But then, hadn't he been hers since that first joining?

They parted at last, her eyes lit from within by stars. That one kiss had fired his blood. Dulled the grief in him, edging it with lust and gilding it with desire, with the warmth that he couldn't acknowledge because it would break him to admit that he could…that he…that he loved…that he had failed to protect the one that he…

Nuada pressed a kiss to Dylan's forehead and murmured, "Shall we have dinner, mo duinne?"

Her smile was tremulous, but sincere.

.

There were other things he'd done in the night and day since asking Dylan to wed him, since discovering he was a slave to her needs, to her heart. One of the most important had been to remodel the sanctuary. That hadn't been difficult—he'd spoken to the golem that guarded the underground haven, telling it what he needed. The creature was intelligent; it knew what to do. One of the things it had done for him was to create a fourth door, in addition to the ones leading to privy and bathing chamber as well as the entrance itself.

The fourth door led to Dylan's cottage.

Near Dylan's bedroom was a door Nuada had never gone into before; Dylan had asked him not to, and he'd respected her wishes. The magic involved in connecting that hitherto unused door to the fourth door in the sanctuary was tremendous, but the golem had been willing and able. Now, as Nuada escorted Dylan into the cottage and down the hall, the Elven prince prayed his elemental guardian had completed all the prince had asked of him.

"Where are we going?" Dylan whispered, her voice a mere thread of sound in the dimly-lit cottage hallway. "Nuada…we can't…I can't…not in my bedroom, I—"

He stopped, turned to her. Cupped her face. "I know. That is not where we're going. We're going to the sanctuary." The hope and gratitude that sparked to life like twin stars in Dylan's moonlit blue eyes made him feel like an idiot for not simply taking her there to begin with, instead of remaining in the cottage all these weeks. "I have arranged a way to get there without unnecessary travel. Do you trust me?"

Dylan nodded without hesitation, humbling him as effectively as anything could have. After all he'd done, after all he'd inflicted on her, she trusted him. Oh, mo duinne, you humble me…He caught her hand again and tugged her gently down the corridor.

When they reached the door, he said, "Close your eyes." After only a moment's hesitation, she obeyed. He whispered the spell to appease the guardian and opened the door into dimness. He smiled. Taking Dylan's hands in his, he led her with exquisite care over the threshold and into the main chamber of the underground sanctuary. Only when he'd closed the door and brought her to the center of the room did he say, "Open your eyes."

She opened them and gasped. Every available surface in the chamber—the tops of chests, the wooden table, the stone shelves along the walls, as well as the floor where it butted up against the stone walls—were crowded with lit candles. Tiny amber flames flickered and danced, illuminating the haven with soft candlelight.

Dylan smelled roses, too. She looked around and saw the sanctuary's single bed had been replaced with a much wider one, almost as big as the one she had in bedroom. Satin sheets the color of champagne gleamed in the light from the candles. Pillows of champagne, rose, and ivory silk decorated the bed up near a headboard carved of polished, golden wood. Dylan realized there were rose petals sprinkled across the bed, too. A rosewood fire burned in the hearth, filling the room further with the sweet scent of roses. In front of the fireplace lay a plush, burgundy and gold rug that looked as soft as a cloud.

"Do you like it?" Nuada asked softly. Dylan turned to him with her heart in her eyes, but found she couldn't speak around the lump in her throat. Biting her lip, she nodded. "It is what you deserve," the prince whispered, cupping her face. Gold-kissed ivory eyes scanned her features. "You deserve romance and seduction, little one, mo duinne, mo crídh. So I will give it to you."

Whatever she saw in his eyes was enough to relax her a little. She slipped just a breath closer. Whispered his name like a plea. "Nuada." Each syllable slid over him like silk. In that instant of awareness there came desire, hot and swift, burning in his belly. His thumb brushed away the single diamond teardrop gilding her cheekbone. He moved just a little closer.

Usually the need to kiss the mortal in his arms, to devour that soft mouth, came whenever something triggered one of the hellish, delicious memories Eamonn had carved into Nuada's skull. But now it was merely the softness of her skin beneath his stroking thumb; the candlelight on her hair; her eyes like stardust, shining with trust and an impossible emotion he dared not name because to name it was to break himself against it.

His settled his hands at her waist; Dylan felt the heat of that touch burning through her tunic. Her arms twined hesitantly around Nuada's neck. She slid a little closer. The blood was humming under her skin and she knew she was about to step across a line she could only cross once, because once crossed, there was no going back. But there was no going back anyway. She'd taken the first step by marrying him. By agreeing to be with him forever. And she couldn't find it in herself to regret that choice.

"You're so beautiful," Nuada whispered, "so damn beautiful," almost as if the confession hurt, and Dylan knew he hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to say anything. He pulled her even closer. "Dylan," he whispered, as candlelight flickered over her face. "I…I want…" He swallowed, and his voice came out husky as he rasped, "I need to take your hair down." A tiny wrinkle formed between her brows, and he knew she didn't understand. "I need to see you with your hair down…in my arms…need to see it touch your face, caress your throat…I need to see you that way. Please."

She licked her lips and his control nearly snapped. She nodded. Nuada let his forehead rest against hers again; reached up and carefully slid the pins out of her hair one by one so that those dark curls tumbled down around her shoulders and back. He tossed each pin aside as it came lose. He threaded his fingers through her hair, tugging them through, feeling the silken strands whisper across his skin. Then he leaned in and touched his lips to her temple. He could feel her pulse fluttering beneath the fragile skin. Dylan's long, indrawn breath was almost a sort of sigh.

Nuada's lips trailed along her skin, down her face to her jaw, to the soft spot beneath her ear. She whimpered when his tongue darted out to taste—just briefly. That taste. He remembered it. Salt that burned and sweet skin and Dylan. His mouth moved on to her throat. Tremors shivered through him, fast and hard, as he fought the urge to go faster, to do more. Not yet. No, not yet. First he needed to feel her hair brush against his face, needed to breathe in the scent of it.

"You smell so good," he groaned against her hair. Dylan's breath caught. "So good, Dylan…Your hair is so soft. You're so beautiful."

"Nuada…"

Nuada could feel her every soft curve against his body. Feel every beat of her heart, every shallow breath she took through slightly parted lips. He wanted...he wanted so much...no. No, not wanted. He needed to kiss her.

His hand moved of its own accord, sliding up her back, whispering along her spine, over the rigid silk of scars and the delicate ridges of shoulder blades through the thin cloth of the tunic, to the nape of her neck. His fingers tangled in her soft, thick hair. His fingertips just barely grazed the side of her neck, small tickling caresses he was almost certain were causing the little shivers down her spine.

Her own fingers, the ones not playing with his hair—when had she done that?—brushed against his neck. Right above where the pulse beat hard. His heart was suddenly pounding. Did she know it was for her? That her softest touch made his pulse race? Nuada felt each of her touches down to his very bones. Those oh so very lovely blue eyes like moonlit lakes held him prisoner. Nuada could drown in her gaze. Drown in her. He wanted to drown. Wanted nothing more in that moment than to sink into her and lose himself for eternity.

"Nuada," she whispered. "It's…I…it's okay if…" Dylan nervously licked her bottom lip. Saw when eyes like gold-dusted ivory sharpened and focused on her mouth. The delicious heat of his body embraced her. His feral eyes caressed her face, her mouth. His other hand at the small of her back held her against the hard sheltering strength of his body. It left Dylan lightheaded and tongue-tied. "I know you want…"

"It is no longer about wanting," he whispered, his breath hot as a promise in her ear. "This isn't wanting, what exists between us now. It is need. Pure. Merciless. It must be sated if it can. Dylan, I…" The words trembled on his tongue, clutched at his throat. She had said them the night before, in a way. Claimed the thing shackling them both was love. Perhaps it was. It was more than need. "Dylan, I…" More than lust. "I…" But more than love, as well. So much more.

"Nuada, I think I love you," she gasped as his hands spanned her waist, as his fingers moved over silk and skin. "I'm sorry, I think—"

"We're both damned, a ghrá," he whispered. "Both of us. This is Hell. This hunger." His mouth found her throat again, rained soft kisses over her skin that left her gasping, moaning. "Shall we not enjoy our torment if we can? Gods, I want you…"

"Yes," she gasped, cradling his head to guide him. "Nuada…"

He shuddered, lifted her into his arms. Tightened his hold just a little, reveling in the softness of her. She was so very soft. So small and fragile. The words growling in his throat came out hot against her skin. "Say it again." Her breathing hitched. "Say my name like that again. I need you to say my name."

Her gaze found his for a brief moment. An inferno flared between them. She whispered, "Nuada."

"Damn," Nuada rasped just before his mouth came down on hers with a generous hunger that shook him. Nearly undid them both. Her mouth was like hot silk beneath his. So perfect. Was he drowning in her yet? Nuada didn't know. Couldn't find it in himself to care one way or the other when Dylan tasted of strawberries and honey. So sweet. Dylan offered him a soft sigh as his lips caressed hers again, making a little kitten sound low in her throat. He loved that sound.

Dylan felt the softness of satin sheets at her back. Felt the mattress dip beneath her weight as Nuada laid her on the bed. The air was redolent with the scent of roses as Nuada kissed her, groaning into her mouth, his hands sliding over her sides, over her hips, her legs. She could hear him again, hear his thoughts frantic for her, have to touch her, have to taste her again, again, I need her, don't leave me, Dylan, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but I love, have no right, no right, shouldn't, can't, this is wrong, sick, I have no right but I need her, need her always, I love, my love, my love…

He pulled back, panting for breath. His gaze smoothed over her body like a touch before leaping back to meet her eyes again. "I need to see you," he whispered. Embarrassed heat crept through her body, flushing her skin with soft pink. "So much," he added. "I need to see you, Dylan."

Somehow she managed to reply, "I want to see you, Nuada."

He shuddered again, then in a movement too quick for her to register with mortal eyes tore off his tunic and shirt, leaving his torso bare. A thin sheen of perspiration already glistened across the defined muscles. When Dylan touched a hand to his scarred abdomen, she found his skin hot to the touch. Then he was pulling her into a sitting position and she caught the hem of the white tunic in her hands, bit her lip to stifle the fear, and slowly drew it off. Her hands shook as she revealed herself to him—not quite naked, and the light was dim, but he could see the scars on her upper body easily with his Elven eyes—and Nuada whispered something that sounded almost like a prayer.

Tears stung her eyes but then Nuada touched her collarbone, his fingertip grazing over the delicate clavicle. He whispered in what might have been awe, "You are so beautiful. I remembered, I…I could never forget in all my centuries to come, but…how are you so beautiful, Dylan?"

Nuada pressed his hand to the spill of white scar-tissue across her upper left breast, fingertips grazing delicate clavicle and sloping shoulder. He ached to memorize all of her—the shape of her mouth, the paths of her scars—with the tips of his fingers, his hands, his mouth. Dylan's lashes brushed his cheek as he leaned in and his mouth caressed hers. Nuada followed a slender scar from the very corner of her mouth down over the delicate line of her jaw and along the side of her neck with his fingertips. The pad of his finger found her pulse, relished letting it flutter against him for a moment.

Then he moved on to the shallow dip where neck met shoulder, ghosting absently as he kissed her soft mouth. Lines of golden fire licked across her skin, radiating from the feather-light brush of his fingers, threading through her chest and down the length of her spine, sweeping over her skin. She gasped. Sighed Nuada's name on a slow exhale of delirious amazement.

"So beautiful," he groaned as his hands covered her body, smoothing and sliding, shaping her curves, mapping out pathways along her skin. "So soft. You are so soft. Gods, Dylan, how…how did I never know…"

"Nuada, please," she whispered, trapped in a tangle of fear and desire and hope and uncertainty. "Please, I need…I need…"

"Tell me what you need," he replied as more clothes landed on the floor beside his shirt and her tunic. "Tell me, and I will give you whatever you wish. Always." He kissed her mouth, kissed her face, her throat, her shoulders, her satin skin. He drugged her with kisses, drowned her with them, until she could do nothing but wrap her arms around him, her fingers tangling in his hair while his touch filled her with fire. "Tell me," Nuada rasped. "Beg me. I will give you everything. Anything. Always." He bent his head to taste her skin and she arched, crying out, desperate.

"Nuada, please," she begged. "Please, please, I need…I need…"

"Tell me," he whispered, pleading in a rasp. "Tell me, Dylan. What do you need?" She cried out with every touch of his fingers, fear and pleasure twining with each other, writhing under his touch. Tremors shuddered through him, through her, as he struggled to maintain a hold on his control. "Tell me what you need."

"You," she gasped, begging him with smoky blue eyes and flushed skin and lithe, elegant, arching frame. "I need you, please!"

Oh, gods, he couldn't wait any longer. Neither could she. Grasping for each other, gasping, swallowing each others' cries of pleasure, muffling them with kisses, they melted into each other. Fear whispered and hissed in their heads, but gentle hands and coaxing kisses and soft words chased the nightmares away. Dylan's body opened to him like a flower, like a blooming rose, and she gasped his name, buried her face in his chest as a storm took them, as lightning arced in their blood, as the scent of roses surrounded them, as they sank into each other, as they filled each other with light, as she cried out his name and he whispered hers like a precious secret, like a prayer.

And in the aftermath, as Dylan lay curled up in his arms with tears glittering on her cheeks, as the perfume of roses and the crackle of the fire filled the softly-lit chamber, Nuada laid his cheek against her hair and allowed the tortured confession to escape him at last.

"May the gods help me, Dylan, but I…I think I love you, as well."