Chantal stood up, stretching her aching limbs. Night watch surely was a drag, so boring it drove her mad. No one to talk to, nothing to do.
Nothing to distract her from her thoughts.
She missed Bishop. So much it hurt. Why? How could it be? She did not understand herself anymore. She tried to banish the longing, tried to remember what he had done to her, his betrayal, his murder, the cold and unfeeling look he had given her as she lay bleeding at his feet, dying, killed by his hand...
...but it was of no use. Her head told her she should be glad he was gone. Other parts of her felt different. She hated him for what he had done. She still did not trust him.
But she wanted him. No denying that.
It's just my body that wants him.
Right. That would pass. And it probably only was because she had been living alone for too long. She would leave her voluntary exile in the Mere, she would live among people again. She would meet some nice man. And then she would never think of a certain ranger again.
Movement caught her eye, and she whirled round, hand on her sword. A tall, dark figure was standing at the edge of the camp, just outside the glow of the fire. Her heart missed a beat, then started racing madly. The hurt vanished like a puff of smoke, to be replaced by a jittery feeling.
She knew that figure. Would have recognised him anywhere.
He's come back!
Slowly, carefully, she moved towards him, her eyes never leaving him. Soon, she could make out his mahogany hair, and his wolf eyes, glinting and reflecting the light of the fire.
She stopped, several steps away from him, and they stood, staring at each other. Then she spoke, her voice slightly hoarse:
"Where's your dagger?"
He held out his hands, open, empty.
"No dagger", he replied, equally hoarse.
Her eyes fell to the scimitars, hanging by his side. His lips curled, and he pulled them out of their sheaths, letting them fall to the ground.
Still she did not move, just looked at him. He gave a soft laugh. The sound made her shiver.
"You know me too well", he murmured, crooked smile on his face, as he reached down with both hands, pulling a dagger from each boot. They, too, fell to the ground.
She retreated some steps, away from the weapons on the ground, her eyes holding his. He shook his head, still smiling, and followed her.
"You do learn", he said. "I really am proud of you."
"Why are you here, Bishop?", she asked, softly.
He stalked closer, until he was just one step away, and she could see his face in the dark, the light in his amber eyes, anything but cold now, burning with some emotion she chose not to dwell on. The gash on his cheek she had given him a lifetime ago, starting to heal, but surely leaving a scar. His mouth, lips parted slightly. And she could hear his breathing, quick and shallow.
Her gaze wandered to his eyes again, and he held it, one of his hands reaching out, touching her hair softly, then running through the short, tangled tresses, fingers trailing down, over her ear, down her neck, slightly stroking the sensitive skin. Again, she shivered.
"You know why I am here", he said, his voice low and vibrating ever so slightly.
She held his gaze, swallowing as something started to burn deep inside her. How could he do this to her, just with his voice?
"Tell me", she said, willing her own voice to be steady.
He took another step, their bodies now nearly touching, his eyes never leaving hers. "Just one more time", he whispered, the fire in his eyes searing her.
Oh gods.
She had to close her eyes to keep him from seeing the desire in them. Then she found herself pulled forward, into his arms, pressed against his body, and his mouth found hers in a wild kiss. His hands grabbed her hips, roughly pulling them against his own, and she could feel how hard he already was. She moaned slightly, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing closer.
He practically dragged her back into the woods, and after a couple of steps started shedding her armour and clothes. Her hands shook as they sought the buckles of his own armour, and she only knew she had to get rid of it, of every shred of clothing that kept them apart, had to feel him, feel his skin on hers, now.
Finally, the last piece of cloth gone, they fell to the ground, bodies clashing, and it was all made even more frantic by the need to keep silent, because just a few yards away, Neeshka and Casavir were sleeping. Chantal buried her face in Bishop's shoulder to stifle her moans. It was just as she remembered it, the wildness, the need, the passion. His strong body above her, his hands pressing her close, his hot breath gasping into her ear, whispering "yes, yes, oh yes" over and over again... it was too much. She cried out, muffled, into his skin, and she felt him tensing, his teeth sinking into her neck, repressing a scream as he shuddered above her. For a moment, he stayed like this, not moving, his breathing still ragged. Then he rolled to his side, taking her with him, holding her close against his chest, his face buried in her hair.
She clung to him, breathing his scent, feeling safe in his arms. Feeling home.
The last thought scared her to no end. She flinched. He lifted his head, and she felt his hand under her chin, tugging slightly.
"Look at me", he murmured softly.
She looked up, her eyes meeting his. There was a soft, warm light in them that touched something deep inside her, and she could not look away, her anxiety forgotten. He ran his hand over her cheek.
"Gods, you are so beautiful", he whispered. He bent his head, his eyes closing again, as he searched for her mouth. The kiss was different this time, soft, tender, lingering. His hands started to wander over her body, slowly exploring, softly stroking. It felt so good, so right. Her hands slid up his back, over his strong shoulders, his neck, his soft short hair. He moaned into her mouth, and she could feel the desire for him rise again.
His mouth wandered to he ear, nibbling softy, sending shivers down her body. She gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and she heard him inhale sharply.
"Witch", he murmured, his breath quickening. His mouth went further down, softly biting the tender skin of her throat, and she shuddered, pressing closer, the need growing unbearable again.
"Bishop, please...", she panted, her hands running down his back, grabbing his buttocks, pulling him against her.
He growled, his teeth sinking harder into her skin for a second, then his lips found hers again.
"You drive me crazy", he rasped into her mouth, and she moaned, kissing him hungrily.
This time, it was slower, less frantic, but not by much. She held on to him, her hands buried in his hair, his mouth never leaving hers, panting short, chopped words, - "yes... please... more... want you" – while he thrust himself into her, quicker and quicker, his breathing ragged.
She felt her body tighten, her fingernails raking his back. "Bishop", she moaned, tearing her mouth from his, sinking her teeth into his shoulder to stifle her cries. It took him right over the edge with her, his jaw clenched to suppress his screams, burying himself deep within her with one last forceful thrust.
Collapsing, he pressed his face into her neck, trying to calm his breath.
"Witch", he gasped again.
Her arms went around his neck, holding him close to her, enjoying the feel of his weight on her.
It felt much too good.
He lay still for a couple of minutes. She could hear him breathing deep and deliberately, his face still buried at her shoulder.
Then his body tensed, and his hands went to the ground at her side, lifting his weight from her. She let go of his neck, seeking his eyes, but he would not look at her.
Dread settled in her stomach.
He got up, starting to collect his clothes, starting to dress. She lifted herself on her elbows, watching him, pain starting to build up in her, and she could not help but remember a scene, so long ago, where the roles had been very much reversed.
Had he felt the same pain then?
She did not think so. He was not one for pain, wasn't he? Not one for letting himself feel much of anything.
She wondered if she should say something, try to stop him, try to hold him back. But it would be of no use. If he wanted to stay, he would. If he wanted to go, nothing would stop him. She had given him what he came for. Now he would leave. Simple as that.
The pain in her stomach nearly made her sick. She felt like doubling over, pressing her hands to her aching stomach, but she would not let him see how much this was affecting her. Would not let him see how much it hurt.
Fighting the tears, she watched him picking up his weapons at last. Then, still without having given her as much as a glance, he passed her by, further into the woods. A couple of steps from her, he stopped.
"Farewell, Chantal", he said, without turning back. Then he vanished into the dark.
He had never used her name before. Not once.
That was when she knew that this time, he had left for good.
She choked back a sob, getting up herself at last, gathering her clothes and dressing with shaking hands. As she slowly made her way back to the camp, she passed the place where Bishop had let his weapons fall down. Something caught her eye, dark spot on the ground, nearly invisible in the dim light of the fire. She bent down, picking up the small object, examining it closely.
It was a wood carving, beautifully done, of a wolf, his head thrown back in a howl. Her hand closed around the carving, and at last, the tears started to flow.