A/N: Another NSFW chapter - although less so than the last one! Many thanks to my beta, EasternViolet, for helping me combat my wordiness and my tendency to overuse dashes. And many, many thanks to all of you who continue to read, follow, review, and favorite this story. Your support matters more than you can know. Just one last chapter before we come to the big battle...
Moira awoke slowly, her eyes fluttering open as she emerged unsteadily from the Fade. She was immediately aware of how well-rested she felt, and she stretched her limbs lazily, basking in the pleasure of awakening from a deep, satisfying sleep. Her arm bumped up against a lonely, rumpled pillow, and she frowned in brief puzzlement, when a flood of memories rushed through her. The heady and joyous sensations of the night before returned in full force, and she could not suppress a spontaneous grin of pure elation. She was waking up in Loghain's bed.
A dull ache, persistent but not unpleasant, throbbed through her core, reminding her of what she had done last night – and what she had given to him. Her body flushed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the furs under which she was comfortably snuggled – and under which she did not remember snuggling. Loghain must have tucked them over her at some point in the night, after she had drifted off – a small, intimate gesture that brought a giddy grin to her face. She stretched again, more vigorously this time, and began to wonder where he was. Surely he hadn't left. He wouldn't dress and leave without even saying good morning to her, would he?
"Ah, I see you've woken up."
Any uncertainties that plagued her evaporated upon hearing his wry but warm greeting. She turned to the far side of the room, where he stood, dressed only in a pair of trousers, shirt hanging loosely from his hands.
"I was just about to go down to the kitchens. I thought it might be more relaxing to have a bit of bread and cheese here than to contend with all the squabbling in the main hall." He regarded her with an affectionate ghost of a smile. "I trust you feel well enough this morning?"
She gazed at him openly and without inhibition, drinking in the sight of his bare, muscular chest, and shivering as she recalled the heat of his touch and the warmth of his skin against hers.
"I feel wonderful." She sat up against her pillow, a remnant of her modesty compelling her to hold the furs against her body. She realized, as her eyes met his in the early morning light, that breakfast was the last thing on her mind.
"Loghain…" She trailed off, unsure exactly what to say. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she knew that, as soon as they walked out the door, the opportunities for any further intimacy would be severely limited as they marched off to battle. A distant, malicious whisper in the back of her mind reminded her what awaited them in Denerim, but she silenced the voice with an emphatic thought.
"Moira." She could tell from his tone that he'd anticipated her request, and she could also tell – with a pang – that he was preparing to disappoint her. "As much as I would prefer to spend all day sharing a bed with you, the army readies itself to march. We cannot afford any costly delays, not with the horde so far ahead of us."
"I'm not asking for all day," she rejoined, and with a boldness that surprised her, loosed her grip on the furs that she'd clutched to her chest, letting them fall into a heap on her lap. She happily noted that her actions elicited exactly the response from him she'd been hoping for: his eyes widened in shock, then rapidly darkened in lust, and he dropped his shirt from uncaring fingers as he advanced slowly towards the bed. Moira shifted restlessly against the pillow, her pulse quickening in anticipation.
"You certainly know how to convince a man, don't you?" She rose from the bed to meet him halfway, his arms crushing around her as he pulled her in for a passionate kiss. She gasped as he quickly pushed her back onto the bed, kicking aside the fur covers as he lowered her to the mattress, quickly unlacing and dispatching his trousers with one impatient hand.
"Fifteen minutes," he growled into her ear as he nipped at her sensitive lobe, his hands roaming restlessly across her naked body. Moira shuddered in pleasure, her own hands mapping the planes of his back, her legs sliding up his to assume an already-familiar position loosely wrapped around his waist.
"Fifteen minutes," she agreed, seizing his lips with her own as she felt his hardened length against her thighs.
Denerim, the horde, the Archdemon: soon it would all intrude on their blissful interlude, and she would have to face the reality of her impending doom, of their impending doom, of the impulsive decision she'd made to Morrigan's proposal and the fate that inevitably awaited them. But not right now.
Not for fifteen more minutes.
When at last Moira entered the great hall – a few minutes behind Loghain, at his insistence, to 'keep the tongues from wagging' – she found her companions ready and waiting for her. Leliana greeted her with a smile and a proffered basket of bread and cheese, which Moira gratefully accepted. Loghain, she noticed, maintained a coolly professional countenance, and when she searched out and met his eyes, he responded only with a firm nod of his head.
"Moira! I hope you slept well. Our journey will be grueling, but we are almost at the end, thank the Maker!" Leliana's words were no doubt meant to be reassuring, but she could not possibly know exactly what that 'end' entailed – not for Moira or Loghain. Moira forced a smile, and tried resolutely to ignore the lump in her throat that Leliana's words evoked.
"Yes, we are. An end to things, one way or another," she finally responded. Moira could have sworn Leliana's brow creased, if only for a moment, at the cryptic nature of her words, but if the bard had thought anything amiss, she did not make any comment.
"We are all here and waiting for you," Leliana continued. "All except Morrigan. It's the oddest thing – I knocked on her door this morning when she did not arrive for breakfast, but she was not there. Why would she leave us now, on the eve of battle?"
Another spasm of grief jolted Moira at Leliana's words – not for Morrigan, but for what her absence implied. "Who can say with Morrigan?" she managed distractedly, willing herself not to dwell on what awaited her in Denerim. "She was never exactly the most trustworthy companion."
Leliana looked as though she wanted to say something more, but decided against it. In all the anguish and upheaval and passion of the previous night, Moira had utterly forgotten about Morrigan's decision to leave, and the inevitable questions her departure would raise among the other companions. She knew they would wonder at what had happened – why Morrigan, who had insisted on accompanying them all these months despite her obvious distaste for nearly every decision Moira had made, had finally decided to depart now, when her assistance would be most valuable. It was fairly plain to Moira that Leliana – who had always been far more perceptive than her innocent Chantry sister act let on – did not entirely accept Moira's professed ignorance of Morrigan's departure, but if her curiosity went deeper than mere interested speculation, she made no indication. Moira only hoped that her other companions would be as uninterested – or discreet – as Leliana.
"Sodding ancestors, are we going to stand around all day? We've got a great big ugly dragon to kill, don't we?" Moira found herself grateful – for once – for Oghren's battering-ram bluntness.
"I couldn't have said it better myself," she agreed, raising her voice to be heard across the length of the hall. "Ferelden's armies wait for us to lead them to Denerim, and victory. Let's waste no more time in ending this Blight on our land!"
Her companions raised their voice in a resounding cheer, and Moira hoped that she looked as confident and self-assured as she sounded. Her companions, who had followed her for so long, through so many trials and tribulations, all looked to her for leadership. She hoped, now more than ever, that their faith in her was not misplaced – that she would not be found wanting, and fail Ferelden in its ultimate hour of need.
She was grateful to each and every one of them: for their swords and shields in battle, for their moral support, for their willingness to slog from one end of Ferelden to the other on what was increasingly likely to be a suicide mission. But, as she surveyed the faces of her friends with warmth and appreciation, she found her gaze drawn, like a beacon, to Loghain. He met her eyes, amidst the cheering crowd, and afforded her a soft half smile. But just as quickly as she'd met his gaze, the moment was gone, his face once again arranged into an impassively cool mask.
As she rallied the crowd to assemble outside for the march, she thought of him, and what she now felt for him, and hoped that it would sustain her in the hard days ahead.
Moira found herself outside Redcliffe Castle looking upon a veritable legion. Companies of soldiers – dwarven, elven, and human – milled around the castle environs, checking and rechecking armor, packing up tents and provisions and readying themselves for the grueling march to Denerim. At best, such a massive army would take several days to reach the capital city. Moira only hoped that there remained something to save by the time they arrived.
"Don't borrow trouble, Moira. These armies are as well-trained and prepared as we can hope for." She heard Loghain's voice as he approached her from behind and took up position at her side, just close enough to send a thrill of intimacy through her blood, but not close enough to invite any stray glances from nosy onlookers.
"I know," she sighed, wishing more than anything she could reach out and take his hand. Unfortunately, he seemed rather insistent on keeping their relationship – or whatever it was that they shared – behind closed doors. "But ever since last night, I can't help but have an awful feeling about what will happen." She forced herself to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. "Loghain, what if – "
"Moira." His voice, though not unkind, was firm and brooked no dissent. "You will drive yourself mad dwelling endlessly on all the dire possibilities. Believe me, I know. And if you do that, then you will be of no use to anyone, least of all yourself." He furrowed his brows. "You cannot allow anything to distract you from our ultimate purpose. The Archdemon must be defeated, at all costs. No price is too high." He looked at her meaningfully, and she knew he was not now referring to the readiness of their armies.
"Is that what last night was? A distraction?" She met his gaze unflinchingly.
He did not look away, but his countenance remained inscrutable, even to her practiced eye. It was as though he were deliberating with himself; and Moira had begun to fear his answer when he sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging down, almost imperceptibly, as though overcome.
"No. Not to me," he said carefully, but his eyes searched hers intensely, perhaps seeking his own answer to her bold question. "It is not my custom to… 'distract' myself in that manner. I am not a casual man, Moira." He sighed again, and lifted a gauntleted hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "But regardless of what either of us feels about last night… you must remember that nothing can stand in the way of destroying the Archdemon. No emotions must cloud our judgment. A great sacrifice has been demanded of us. Perhaps it is the Maker's will that neither of us will have to pay that price, but if He bids it otherwise, then we must be prepared."
"I know that, Loghain," she said, willing her voice to remain steady. "I have done what has been asked of me ever since Highever. But I don't want to pretend that I'm not terrified of losing you. Don't ask me to pretend this doesn't matter."
Her words seemed to strike a nerve in the taciturn teyrn. He flinched, briefly, as though she'd wounded him, and opened his mouth as if to furiously protest. But, as soon as the impulse arrived, he mastered it, and closed his mouth again, pursing his lips tightly.
"I am not asking anything of the sort, Moira," he finally said. "And if I have given you the impression that I do not care, then let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. No one knows the depths of your courage and resolve more than me – and there is no one here who wishes to see you live more than I do." She flushed at his praise, a sudden sense of shame overwhelming her. She had never meant to doubt him – not after the passion he had shown her last night, and again this morning. "But the fact remains that we face overwhelming odds, and unlike at Ostagar, there will be no option to call a retreat and live to fight another day. We will fight, and we will most likely die." He frowned, and his eyes took on a distant cast – as if he were recalling the ghosts of battles long past. "I have come to terms with that. I do not long for death, but I am resolved to it, especially if that is what is needed to save my home. When the time comes – you must not hesitate. If Riordan is unable to perform this duty, then I will do it, and you must allow me."
"Loghain – "
"But if I have already fallen, then the responsibility will be yours. You cannot afford to spend even a single moment mourning me. You must do what needs to be done, even if you wish you had gone to the Maker instead." The muted pain in his voice, and his eyes, left no doubt that he spoke from experience – and that his hard-earned wisdom was meant for himself as much as for her.
Moira bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood; it was only by focusing on the pain that she was able to stave away the tears that threatened to fall. She wanted to embrace him; to proclaim that somehow, they would both make it through the battle alive and unscathed; to tell him how much she'd come to love him. But this was not the time for dramatic proclamations of love or weepy farewells. Loghain was right; she had an army to lead. All the people in Denerim would be helpless against the horde, and every moment she dallied could mean the difference between life or death.
She drew in a shaky breath and gave him a firm nod. "Then let us not delay any longer."
The culmination of her long, arduous journey was in sight at last. Win or lose, live or die; it would all be over in Denerim, to one end or another. Months ago, that thought would have brought her immense relief; to finally be allowed to lay down her burdens and rest, without worrying that the fate of everything she loved rested on her shoulders. Now, the thought of the end – knowing what it held – brought only a bleak, desolate sorrow, now that she could suffer the loss of the one last thing she could not bear to lose. But, until that end, he would be with her, beside her; and she knew she would draw from his strength, and his love, to sustain her for the last, brutal push.
"You will ride beside me." Her voice lost its surety at the end – her words were not so much of a demand as a request. She would never wish to compel his presence; she only wanted whatever he granted her willingly.
He gifted her with that gentle half-smile she was convinced was only ever given to her. "Of course," he said.
It would be the hardest ride of her life, but, at least, she would not ride alone.
The sounds of the army camp rang in Moira's ears as she surveyed the Fereldan soldiers gathered around one of the many fires that warded off the darkness. She stood far enough away from the fire to remain unlit by its flickering glare, and so she observed them unnoticed. She'd spent enough time around soldiers and military camps to know that soldiers guarded their leisure time ferociously. After a hard day's work, a man at arms could be counted on to indulge in as much food, drink, and general merriment as he could get away with before the dawn broke and his difficult task resumed.
She was quick to perceive, therefore, the comparatively subdued nature of the men gathered around the fire this evening. Where ordinarily such a band of soldiers would by now be well into their ale and roaring with laughter at a thrilling yarn or a bawdy tale, these men were gaunt and grim-faced, and they partook of their ale and meat not with rowdy abandon, but with stoic, almost mechanical purpose. Few words were traded; the men instead seemed intent on their own ruminations, perhaps thinking of loved ones left behind.
They believe they are going to their deaths. And, Maker help me, they probably are. Moira ran a troubled hand through her braided hair, the weight of her burden feeling heavier by the minute. Riding next to Loghain all day had been a comfort, but once they had made camp, she'd lost track of him; never one for idleness, he'd insisted on making the rounds of the camp, taking a survey of the army's readiness and providing what little morale boost he could (among the quarters where his presence was wanted, at least). Moira had decided that it might be a good idea to do the same, but now, she wondered at what she could possibly say to lighten the burden of men who knew they would likely never see their families again. How could she tell them to bear up under a load that nearly had her collapsing beneath its weight?
"You look troubled, child."
Wynne's voice was a welcome intrusion on her dark thoughts, and she turned to find the older woman regarding her with maternal concern. Despite Wynne's inability to mask her dislike of Loghain, Moira still valued the mage's concern – she knew Wynne truly cared for her, even if she could occasionally be a bit overbearing in that concern.
"It's just that… here I am, barely shy of my twenty-fourth year, and I'm asking nearly every fighting man and woman in Ferelden to die for me. How can I possibly be worthy of such a sacrifice?"
"You aren't." Moira frowned, taken aback by Wynne's uncharacteristic bluntness. "These soldiers do not sacrifice themselves for you, or for the Grey Wardens, or even for Queen Anora. They do so because it is the only thing that might be able to save their homes and their families. Is that not also why you fight? You fight for Ferelden, for your home. So do they."
Moira sighed heavily, casting another sad glance at the forlorn soldiers. "I just want to tell them that their sacrifice will mean something," she said quietly. "And I'm not sure I can, because what if I fail? What if they give their lives in vain because I was too weak to do what had to be done?"
"You will only fail if you allow yourself to be consumed by doubt," Wynne said. "Think of the previous Blights. Some of them lasted decades, and the darkspawn horde numbered far greater than what we face today. And yet the Grey Wardens overcame those odds. I have fought beside you, Moira. I have seen what you are capable of – and that you give yourself far too little credit."
Moira smiled weakly, grateful for the older woman's support. "It is not in battle that I fear failing," she said. "I know I can lead the army into Denerim. But the Archdemon… " She trailed off, realizing that Wynne would not understand the magnitude of the sacrifice demanded of her and Loghain. Wynne was as well-versed in history as anyone she'd ever known, but she had never given any indication that she knew precisely how a Warden was able to end a Blight.
A troubled look, equal parts concern and admonishment, passed across Wynne's face. "Moira, I hope these last minute doubts have nothing to do with Loghain," she chided. "I… well, I will not belabor my opinion of him. You know it well. But despite my counsel, you seem to have grown closer still to him. If it is he who distracts you now, then I must urge you to push all thoughts of him from your mind. You cannot afford any diversions. Your responsibility is to Ferelden, not to Loghain Mac Tir. I do not wish to see you give your life in a misguided attempt to honor the friendship you believe you share with him."
"Loghain is not a diversion!" Moira exclaimed, stared in mounting anger at Wynne. The mage could not have known how closely her words echoed the agonizing conversation Moira had shared just that morning with Loghain, nor how much anguish they caused now.
"Do you think you have been discreet?" Wynne said. "I do not know the precise nature of your relationship with him, but if it is as intimate as I suspect – " Moira blushed hotly – "then I am not surprised that you are having last-minute doubts. I advised you against trusting him at the Landsmeet, and so I advise you against it now. This is the man who was willing to throw away the life of his king to get what he wanted – do you not think that he will not similarly discard you once you have outlived your use?" Wynne reached out and grasped Moira's hands in her own. "I do not say this to anger you, but please – consider the counsel of a friend who has lived far longer and seen far more treachery than you."
Moira ripped her hands away from Wynne's, her eyes blazing in fury. "And this is how you show your friendship? By chastising me like an errant child on the eve of our doom?" She struggled to control her anger and willed her voice to remain calm – she hardly wanted the eyes of all the camp on her as she fell into a scorching row with one of her companions. That would hardly do wonders for morale.
"Moira, I worry for you!" It was true enough that Moira detected no malice or pettiness in the old woman's eyes, but that did little to abate her anger. "Loghain is a treacherous snake! It is one thing to enlist his sword against the darkspawn, and quite another to – "
"To what?" Moira cut her off heatedly. "To become friends with him? To bed him? To love him? I am not sure what nefarious plot you imagine he has in mind, Wynne, but I fail to see how any of the above could be part of some mad scheme to deliver Ferelden to the darkspawn. If Loghain wanted me dead, he'd have stuck a dagger in my back and been done with it. He cares for me, whether or not you will ever believe that. And I frankly don't give a tinker's damn if you do. I know who has stood by my side in my darkest days. Loghain has, and he will stand by me as long as he is able. I wonder whether you will do the same."
Wynne looked as though she'd been slapped in the face, her countenance shocked and crestfallen in equal measure, but Moira – still tamping down on the anger that percolated in her blood – could not muster the will to care. Turning about, she stalked away from the mage, ignoring the intensely curious looks directed at her by the men around the fire – who she fervently hoped had not overheard the entire quarrel.
Stalking through the camp, Moira struggled to regain her equilibrium. She almost immediately regretted her outburst. Wynne might be an insufferable busybody, and she might be dead wrong about Loghain, but she does mean well, in her way. And I suppose I can't truly blame her for not seeing the side of him that I do. The spat bore witness to her fraying nerves – had she only been more in control of her emotions, she would not have lost her temper so thoroughly. Between her anxieties about the upcoming battle, the fate of Denerim, the readiness of the army, and the terrible choice that possibly awaited her and Loghain, she felt pushed to her breaking point.
Courage, Moira. It was something her father used to say to her, when she'd been discouraged by any setbacks as a young lass – whether in the sparring ring, on the back of a horse, or in her interminable lessons with Brother Aldous. Courage. There's nothing my little spitfire can't do when she puts her mind to it. A hot, searing pain welled up in her throat. His little spitfire. Rendon Howe had used those exact words – 'Bryce Cousland's little spitfire' – intending to taunt her, to drive her into madness before he killed her. Instead, she'd proven her father right, and avenged her family by driving a cold blade of steel deep into Howe's belly and twisting it until his last breath seeped from his body. Had he known her father's pet nickname, or had it just been an uncanny coincidence?
Moira had reached the edge of the camp in her haste to escape Wynne, and, standing on the periphery, she looked out over the vast landscape of tents, horses, and men, at the bright beacons where dozens of fires blazed. Every single one of these soldiers was counting on her to hold it together. Every man and woman who took up arms in the name of Ferelden needed Bryce Cousland's little spitfire to pull it together and find her courage, one last time.
I won't let them down, Father. I swear it.
She stood there for several long moments, hot tears escaping down her cheeks, as a slow, steady sense of calm settled over her. She only had a little farther to go, and then she could rest, her duty done. She drew strength from the milling masses of soldiers, each doing his part, who gathered here in this clearing, following her into the maw of death. She drew strength from her family, her spirit reaching out to graze against the memories of her mother and father, her brother and sister-in-law and nephew, dipping into the wellspring of love they'd held for her. She drew strength from her companions, each one standing beside her and fighting with her during all her trials and journeys. But, most of all, she drew strength from Loghain, who had somehow transformed from her enemy into her dearest friend – and her lover.
Thinking of him brought a flush of warmth to her belly. The memories of the past night and morning washed over her with a wave of renewed intensity. She felt a need to see him, to touch him, be near him. Imbued with a sense of purpose, she strode back through the camp, making sure to dry her eyes before stepping back into the lights of the blazing fires.
It did not take her long to find him, still clad in his massive chevalier suit, his arms crossed imperiously as he watched over the camp like a hawk. She approached him steadily, her pulse racing at the sight of him in full armor-clad splendor. In spite of how close they'd become, he remained reticent, as evinced by his reluctance this morning to acknowledge their newfound intimacy in front of others. She knew he was a very private man – and, truthfully, she was a rather private person as well – but as the grains of her life dripped slowly but inexorably through the hourglass, measuring out her final days and hours, she knew she did not have the luxury of time.
"Ah. There you are," he said, his eyes darting over to her as she approached him from the shadows. "I've been making the rounds all evening. The soldiers' mood is grim, but resolute. They are prepared to risk everything to defend their homeland." He smiled softly at her. "You have done well. This is the grandest army Ferelden has ever raised in my lifetime, and it is you they follow. You have every reason to be proud."
She flushed, both at his words of praise and at the renewed blossoming of anticipation that spread through her blood. "Thank you," she said. "But I didn't come here to talk about the army." She reached out boldly and grasped his hand, feeling him tense through the plate metal. "I want you to come to my tent."
Loghain's normally unflappable visage wavered, and she knew she had taken him aback with her bold request. The moments dragged on in excruciating silence as he hesitated, the uncertainty in his eyes sending a creeping tremor of disquiet through her.
"Moira, there are many soldiers about," he said, his eyes flickering around the camp to ensure they remained unwatched.
"Are you ashamed of me?" She refused to release his hand – she would not believe, after everything, that she could have been so wrong about him. Wynne's words came back to her, unwanted and uninvited, and she shoved them away forcefully.
Loghain frowned in consternation, and seemed ready to respond in haste, but he cut himself off, at last closing his eyes and releasing a weary sigh.
"Never." He opened his eyes and she was startled by their intensity as he pierced her with his gaze. "But you are young and still perhaps unwise to the ways of the world. If I go to your tent now, someone will see, and it will be on everyone's tongues come tomorrow morning. Not everyone shares your good opinion of me, Moira, and there are many who would seek to sully your reputation through my dishonor. I would not have you be the object of the rumormongering of vile gossips. Not on my account."
The stubborn, foolish, noble man – of course he wasn't ashamed of her. He was trying to protect her from the pit of vipers who would no doubt look askance at her when they realized just how close she'd become to Loghain Mac Tir, the disgraced regent. Moira felt an absurd well of laughter bubble up within her – what a perfect gentleman he was, trying to spare the reputation of a woman who had mere days to live.
"Oh, Loghain," she murmured, before leaning in close to him and pressing her lips against his. She kissed him long and slow, wrapping her arms tightly around him so that he would have to push her away to break the kiss. His armor clanked as it collided with hers, and they kissed deeply, her lips moving against his in a sensual dance. She did not break the kiss until she felt her lungs crying out for air.
She pulled back and looked him in the eyes, and was delighted to see that he looked as flushed and disheveled as she felt. He goggled at her incredulously, and she laughed.
"Well, that ought to give the vile gossips something to talk about," she said. Sobering up, she regarded him with a solemn mien, reaching up to place a hand against his cheek.
"We have such little time left," she said, her eyes locked with his. "I don't want to waste a single moment. I want every second to count. To really mean something."
"Moira," he murmured, reaching up to tuck a tendril of her hair behind her ear. "I can promise you that every moment I spend with you is as worthy as any I've had in all my years of life."
She did not trust herself to respond; instead, she tugged insistently at his hand, leading him towards her tent. This time, he did not resist.
It was strange, knowing that her life would be measured in days, not years. All the dreams she'd once had – of a husband, a family – had crumbled to dust. But she still had this – she still had him. She resolutely ignored the curious eyes that followed them as they strode, hand-in-hand, into her tent. She had never removed his armor before, but was familiar enough with the clasps of her own that it proved no difficult task. The feel of his skin against hers was warm and welcome, and she found her body responding to him even more eagerly than it had the night before – something she hadn't thought was possible. His hands against her skin were rough and unyielding, and his mouth crashed against her with bruising intensity. She knew that tonight, she felt the full hurricane force of his passion, now that he knew he did not need to tenderly minister to an innocent maiden. She never would have thought, all those months ago, that the stern, grim-faced teyrn was capable of such ardor. But now, as he moved inside her with wild abandon, she relished seeing him come undone – and she relished coming unraveled with him.
Afterwards, they lay entwined together, breathless and sweat-soaked, and she curled herself into him as she'd done the night before, nestling her head against his shoulder. He tucked an arm around her and held her close, the heat and scent of his body lulling her into a sated drowsiness.
"I love you," she whispered into his neck as sleep overtook her.
Just before she drifted away, she felt a gentle pressure as his hand squeezed her shoulder.
"And I you."