Amelle was in far more of a rush leaving the meeting with Illona than she had been to arrive. Granted, that had a great deal to do with having good news to deliver, as opposed to the dread she'd felt during the far, far too-long walk to the chantry, during which Amelle had imagined countless worst-case scenarios, and they'd all hung above her head like a guillotine blade suspended by a fraying rope.

Or they had. And now… well, if she were to take Illona at her word, then Amelle—insofar as Starkhaven was concerned—was… free? Freer than she had been, at the very least. There were strings and conditions, yes, but for the first time in her life, she didn't have to worry about hiding. She didn't have to worry about templars. She could remain in Starkhaven if she wished, without the lingering, hovering fear that she might wind up locked away forever. It was a fear she'd held deep inside her for far too long, and to be rid of it now left Amelle positively giddy with possibility. No, she didn't quite trust Illona, not completely, but she trusted that Illona wanted to keep Kiara and Sebastian as allies. She also trusted that Illona saw the benefit of not having a crazed psychopath acting as the royal healer.

Her future was spread out before her now in a way she'd never imagined—never dared imagine before.

She had to find her sister. She had to find Fenris.

"Maker's breath, Amelle," Cullen teased, his light armor jangling as he kept pace with her through Starkhaven's market square, "in much of a hurry?"

"What, can't keep up?" she asked, tossing a grin up at him.

"May I remind you, part of the arrangement was that you had to stay with me."

She let out a hmph, but didn't slow her steps at all. The palace's spires and parapets, visible no matter where you looked in Starkhaven, were getting slowly closer—too slowly. "Then I suggest you walk faster." She certainly wasn't going to slow down, not with good news to share.

As it turned out, Amelle didn't have to wait much longer to share it. She and Cullen parted ways—he wished to find Sebastian and give him an update on Illona's proposal (and, Amelle suspected, confer with another who was well-versed in the ways of the Chantry, probably to make certain none of this would blow up in their faces after the fact). Amelle, however, continued on in search of Fenris. Kiara was either still hiding from her wedding planners or had managed to get herself trapped neck-deep in wedding planning; Kiara also probably already knew anything Amelle could have told her.

Turning the corner, she saw Fenris halfway down the corridor, approaching the door to their chambers. Even from such a distance, she could tell he was flushed and sweat-damp; he must have returned to the practice yard after their picnic. Something, she realized abruptly, he probably wouldn't have done if he'd been entirely sanguine about her meeting with Illona.

"Fenris!" she called. He turned with a jerk and Amelle, smiling broadly, broke into a run, fisting her hands in her skirts and hitching them up as she pelted toward him. He caught her up in his arms, his expression wavering somewhere between surprise, curiosity, and wariness. All of that melted away, though, the moment Amelle flung her arms around him, wrapping them tightly about his neck.

"Amelle? What is—"

"We can stay," she told him, breathless and beaming. "Safely. We can stay."

Fenris' eyes widened and he drew in a short, surprised breath as arms tightened around her. "That… was the purpose of your meeting with the Revered Mother?"

Amelle nodded rapidly. "There… there'll be conditions, but—but acceptable ones. But I won't—I absolutely will not be… be a prisoner here. No being arrested and clapped in irons and sent away Maker only knows where—"

"That would not have happened," he said in a low tone, but Amelle knew what he was really saying was, I would not have allowed that to happen.

She let out a long, shuddering breath, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against his. Her heart still pounded, but it was dizzying relief that rushed through Amelle as the words we can stay circled round and round in her head. She hadn't realized until now how very worried she had been regarding the question of whether to stay or go. She hadn't wanted to complicate matters for Kiara or Sebastian, that much was true, but neither had she wanted to leave her sister. Not really. She'd missed Kiara terribly those days in Kirkwall. Perhaps they didn't need to be in quite such close proximity any longer, but that didn't mean they had to live with the Waking Sea between them.

Everything that had been so complicated before had now turned so unbelievably simple.

"We can stay," she breathed, tears prickling at her eyes even as she pressed a kiss against Fenris' mouth.

The kiss was unfettered by worry and flooded with cool relief, and as Amelle's eyes slid shut, as Fenris' hand traveled up the curve of her spine to settle at the nape of her neck, she felt it, felt that burden of fear and uncertainty finally lift. So many shadows and unknowable things were now thrown into light, relieving Amelle of a weight she hadn't even fully realized was upon her. For the first time in longer than she could remember, Amelle felt as if she had a future before her.

If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.

Correction. They had a future.

Oh, Amelle was sure whatever lay before them wasn't going to be without its bumps. She even accepted the possibility they may have to run again, someday; what had been put into motion when Anders toppled the chantry would have repercussions, even if nobody knew exactly what those repercussions would be just yet. Nothing was forever, no matter how much it appeared like it could be, but it still was more of a future than they'd had yesterday, or the day before that. More than Amelle had ever thought would be within her grasp.

Fenris' thumb rubbed a slow pattern against her neck, scattering her thoughts into gooseflesh; instead of breaking the kiss with a contented sigh, however, Amelle pressed harder into it, parting her lips and chuckling deep in her throat when Fenris started ever so slightly. He pulled back far enough that his lips brushed hers as he breathed her name in a soft question, brows drawn together in an entirely different sort of question.

"Kiss me," she whispered. Kiss me like we have a future. Because, Maker help me, I think we do.

His response lasted barely more than a second, but was comprised of so many nuances Amelle could scarcely catch them all. His hands tightened on her, his lips parted with a sudden inhale, and then there was nothing but Fenris in front of her, all lean warmth, and the door to their bedchamber pressing unyieldingly against her spine. She reached down, groping blindly for the door handle, and when it turned, their combined pressure sent the door swinging open. It was Fenris' reflexes alone that kept them both from spilling to the floor. They stumbled a few steps, but then Fenris shifted his weight, catching Amelle and pulling her flush against him.

"Close the—"

He closed the door with a kick.

"Good man," she murmured, dipping her head to brush a kiss against his neck. "You went back to the training field," she observed softly, brushing fingers across his damp brow.

"I did."

"Worried?"

"I have the utmost faith in Hawke's judgment—Sebastian's as well. However, the Revered Mother's motives are still largely unknown. I was… concerned."

"You and me both," replied Amelle, a tiny breath of helpless laughter escaping her. "But… Kiara was right—don't tell her I said that—Revered Mother Illona presented… a solution. An experiment, she called it." At Fenris' arched brow, she explained in as few words as possible Illona's proposal.

When she was finished, Fenris gave a slow nod. "And it is your wish to remain in Starkhaven."

"I… don't want to be separated from my sister again," she answered quietly. "Not like we were. So…" Amelle trained off, gently worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, "as long as you don't mind staying…"

"Have I not told you before," he replied, his voice dropping as he leant so close Amelle felt the breath of his words against her lips, "my home is wherever you are, Amelle Hawke."

"You have," she murmured, fingertips stroking the side of his neck, up along the line of his jaw.

"Then Starkhaven will be our home, however long you wish it."

Home. Her breath caught at the word, at the thought. "It's only home," she said, pressing kiss after slow kiss against his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, "if you're there too."

Fenris' hand rested against her hip as he lowered his mouth to the curve of her neck. "I remain by your side." Amelle gave a shudder, both at the words themselves and the sensation of his lips brushing the sensitive skin, which sent another wave of goosebumps chasing down her spine. His mouth traveled to her collarbone, where he brushed another kiss before dragging the tip of his tongue against the line of her clavicle. A bolt of heat, sudden and dizzying, pulsed through Amelle, pooling deep in her belly; her resultant gasp was sharp and ragged, strange and foreign to her own ears.

They balanced on a precipice just then; ironically, it was the fog of want that brought everything else into sharp focus—Fenris' hands against the smooth fabric of her dress, his mouth dragging a path up to her shoulder, her own hands clutching at him, and the pressure of her teeth pressing down against her bottom lip. There'd been so very many reasons to stop before, but now, with possibilities sprawling out before them, Amelle felt none of the old fears and worries that had haunted her before. No, where there had once been fear, there was now hope. And that in itself was terrifying, but an entirely different kind of terror.

One little push. That was all it would take.

"Don't stop, Fenris. Please, don't stop." The words came out on a breath, barely audible at all, even over the soft sounds of lips against skin.

Fenris stilled suddenly, lips pressed against the sensitive curve of her neck. He looked up at her, eyes so very intensely green through the fall of his pale hair. "Amelle?"

"Please."

Then he nodded, though not without a little shudder of his own, and the heat of his mouth began traveling down to the neckline of her gown, to the gentle swell of her breasts. Amelle stared, not wanting to miss a thing, her eyes enormous as the tip of Fenris' tongue glided along the line of her bodice, the sensation shooting straight through her. All at once, Amelle's skin was too hot and too tight; she felt everything—every layer of clothing, every inch of lacing down her corset, the stockings upon her legs, the shoes upon her feet. Never mind the corsetry—her skin didn't feel like it fit anymore.

She wanted to touch him—more than where she was gripping his shoulders for dear life right now, anyway—and, swallowing hard, Amelle pried her fingers away and let her hands drift across his chest, toying at the toggle clasps on his jerkin. Warmth radiated through the leather, sending another sharp pulse of want through Amelle's blood as she imagined how Fenris' bare skin would feel beneath her hands. Anticipation turned slightly jittery after she pulled the first toggle free. Amelle swallowed hard. She'd seen Fenris without his shirt before—countless times, in fact; he even slept shirtless—but she couldn't call to mind any of those instances. At all.

Fenris' fingers were warm beneath her chin as he tilted her face up to meet her eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly.

"A little nervous," she admitted with a tiny shrug before closing her eyes with a grimace. "Which feels absolutely ridiculous, considering we've been sleeping in the same bed."

Dark brows furrowed together. "If… you do not—"

"Oh, I want to," she said quickly. "I really—I do. I just…" Amelle's cheeks flared hot as she slid her eyes to the side. "I want to… slowly."

He stroked his thumb across her chin. "Then we will go as slowly as you wish," he murmured against her lips, just before kissing them. Then, capturing both her hands in his, Fenris bowed his head and pressed a kiss against either palm. "At your leisure," he said, guiding her fingers to the next clasp.

Amelle stared at the skin she'd already revealed, a tan V where the leather hung open. Pale, twining lines of lyrium stretched down his throat, dancing along his skin in graceful lines before disappearing again beneath his clothes. She took a breath, but found it too shallow and inhaled again, more deeply, then worked another toggle through its loop. Then another.

Maker, but he's a beautiful man, came the sudden, strange thought. She'd never thought of Fenris as beautiful before. Handsome, certainly. But as she parted the now-open jerkin, her fingertips trembling—and glowing with magic she couldn't hope to suppress; oh, she couldn't even pretend otherwise—as they glided across his chest, she drank in the lean muscle, the tanned skin, the white lines etched into his flesh. Amelle's breath caught as a fierce swell of emotion surged through her breast. Even the thick lines of scar tissue, old and older, looked as if they belonged on him.

Slowly pushing the leather back until it bunched past his shoulders and fell to the floor, Amelle ran her palm up Fenris' abdomen, smiling faintly at the way the muscles bunched and jumped under her touch. She looked up at him through her lashes to spy a badly suppressed smile.

"Ticklish?" she asked softly.

"Perhaps," came his just as soft reply.

"Is it the magic?"

"It is you."

Her breath gone, Amelle closed the scant inches between them, taking Fenris' face in her hands and kissing him—slowly and softly at first, but urgency ate away at her trepidation and she gave a low, mewling moan as she parted her lips and knotted her hands in that deceptively soft hair, acutely aware of the way her body arched and pressed against his, of his arms tight around her, his hands hot against her back, searing her through the material of her gown. She tore her mouth from Fenris', gratified at his soft moan as she did, and began pressing kiss after slow kiss along his jaw, down his neck, to his collarbone, the earthy scent of him wrapping itself around her as the tang of salt met her lips and tongue.

I am yours, he'd told her. And she was his.

Amelle glanced up through her fringe, breath hitching when her eyes found his; Fenris was watching her so very intently, as if there were nothing else in the room, nothing else in the whole world. She brushed the backs of her fingers across his cheek, then ran her thumb along his lower lip. The tip of Fenris' tongue darted out, catching the pad of her thumb and a bolt of heat shot through her, down to her toes.

"Maker's breath, I love you," she managed, the words only as loud as they needed to be.

Fenris blinked, then tipped his head forward—for a wild moment, the whole room tilted as panic swelled through her at the idea she'd… somehow misjudged, misstepped, miss—

"And I you," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, then a path down her neck. Amelle closed her eyes a delightful shiver rose down her back, down her arms, down her legs. "Until the Void itself takes me."

She gasped at the sheer gentleness of it, the way he found every sensitive spot—the skin behind her ear, the junction of her neck, that shiver-inducing place at the nape of her neck. And all of them he visited… slowly.

"Fenris?" she breathed.

His teeth caught her earlobe briefly. "Anything."

"Help me." The words came out edged in a whimper; there was too much sensation, and everywhere his hands touched, every brush of his lips, tongue, or teeth only caused the blood to pound harder in her veins, heat rushing beneath her skin, down to her belly, between her thighs. Her breasts ached in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with corsetry. Every second that passed left her increasingly aware of every bloody inch of skin on her body.

"Help you?" he murmured, chuckling. "How?"

"Buttons," she gasped, one hand going futilely behind her, fingers groping at the air. "Down the back. Help me with the buttons, Fenris. Please."

"As you wish," he replied in that same low tone, still laced with humor. "Though I do recall you requested we go…" His hands were warm, so incredibly warm on her shoulders as he turned her around, his fingers gliding down from her shoulders along the back of the dress, coming to settle in the middle right where the blighted too-small buttons began.

"…Go?" she prompted breathlessly.

Fenris worked one tiny button free. "Slowly."

Sweet merciful Maker, he's going to kill me this way. "I didn't… I didn't mean it about the—" Another button came free. Well, that was two down, and there were only, what, about a million more to go? "You don't have to—to go slowly with the buttons, Fenris. You—"

"I disagree." Another button.

I am going to immolate the whole wing of the palace if he keeps this up. "Fenris," she ground out through her teeth, "I don't care about the dress. The buttons can bloody well hang."

"I distinctly recall you said—"

"Fenris."

With a chuckle, he bowed his head, pressing a kiss to her back as his hair drifted ticklishly across her skin. "As my lady wishes it." His fingers traveled down her back more quickly, though for all his evident calm, there came the occasional plink of a button skittering to the floor. All right, so perhaps he wasn't that calm. Amelle spared a silent apology to Tasia, to be followed up with a proper one once she figured out a reasonable explanation for the missing buttons beyond Fenris did it, which, while the truth, was not the sort of truth Amelle was prepared to tell Tasia.

But now—finally—the dress hung loose, gaping at the bodice. It was one of her more modest gowns, appropriate for meeting with Starkhaven's Revered Mother, but now it was anything but modest, sliding downward. She shook the sleeves free and let the material pool on the floor, then turned to face Fenris.

It was at that point she decided she would gladly face Tasia's wrath a million times over. Amelle had teased him with descriptions of the impossible underclothes before, and now she was beginning to wonder if maybe Fenris hadn't taken her entirely seriously. He ran one hand along her side, deft fingers finding a line of boning and following it upward until they met flesh. Her breath caught as he ran the backs of those fingers along the exaggerated swell of one breast; she didn't realize until several seconds later that his brows had drawn together in a frown.

"What's wrong?" she murmured, quietly shocked at how very husky her voice had become.

"Nothing. I—" Fenris stopped short, then placed a hand on either side of her waist, following the path of the exquisitely-embroidered corset's boning. "Forgive me. You are…"

"Yes?"

"While it is very…" he hesitated, uncertain. "Pretty? It appears…" He trailed off, his frown never budging.

"Uncomfortable?" His nod brought a laugh bubbling past her lips. "Maker's breath, Fenris, your capacity for understatement remains unmatched. Yes. You're right. It is."

"And yet you wear this… every day?" The unspoken why would you do that? lurked all around his words.

"Mmm. Well, it's not Starkhaven fashions I'm staying for, let's be honest."

Fenris' hands found her back and followed the path of the corset's laces, then he stepped closer, gently steering Amelle backwards, toward the bed. As she opened her mouth to ask just what it was he thought he was doing, he slid in behind her and sat, then placed both hands on her waist and pulled her closer until the backs of her legs came in soft collision with the side of the bed. A gentle tug, and her petticoats fell in to the floor in a quiet shush of fabric.

"Fenr—oh. Oh."

He was untying the laces. Loosening the corset. And he was taking far less time about it than he had with the buttons. Amelle tipped her head back and sucked in a breath so full it was nearly dizzying. Then the corset fell and it felt so good to be able to breathe that Amelle forgot for a moment she was—aside from her stockings and a fluttery piece of Orlesian silk too scant to be referred to as smallclothes—almost completely naked.

Then Fenris dragged the callused tips of his fingers along the indentations in her skin, and she forgot to care about that, too. Amelle closed her eyes with a soft groan, drinking in the sensation of Fenris' fingers trailing across her skin. Her own fingertips tingled with magic and when she put her hands over Fenris' he inhaled a short gasp and pulled her close, winding his arms around her, palms flat and warm against her stomach. Her tongue flicking out to moisten too-dry lips, Amelle turned in the circle of his arms, reaching up belatedly to cross her arms over her bare breasts.

"We—we're going slowly," she reminded him, a hint of defiance in her tone as she lifted her chin imperiously.

"As slowly as you wish it," Fenris replied, looking only fondly amused as he moved further back on the bed, leaning indolently against the pillows. That fondness—to say nothing of the amused portion of things—melted away into something else entirely as he looked at her, however. His throat moved as he swallowed hard, his eyes darkening with want.

It wasn't until she was sat on the bed that she slowly lowered her arm, hands clasped loosely in her lap, eyes focused intently on her hands, which were still, yes, glowing softly. At least it was healing energy and not, say, fire. There was that. She took a breath and tried to push her mana down, but it was pulsing as erratically through her as her heartbeat.

Fenris said her name and she looked up, her cheeks suddenly warm. Whatever he saw there, he crept closer, resting his fingers beneath her chin and pressing a soft, leisurely kiss against her lips.

"As slowly as you want," he murmured, between kisses.

"I've— you know I've never…"

"I do."

She swallowed hard, managing the words in an apologetic whisper. "I'm probably going to be really bad at it."

Fenris shot her a look—one of his more eloquent ones. Unfortunately, it was eloquent in the direction of, That may have been the most idiotic thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth. "Do you think that is why I am here with you like this now?" he asked, now looking intently at the arrow scar at her shoulder, slowly running his thumb over the star-shaped mark. "To… judge your performance?"

Blinking hard, she jerked back a fraction. "No."

"Good." He looked up to meet her eyes, and this look was eloquent too, but in an entirely different direction that made her stomach flip and heat flood through her veins anew. "Then cease concerning yourself with things that do not matter."

"But—" Suddenly his finger was pressed against her lips, silencing her.

"It does not matter."

He was right. None of the rest of it mattered. Nerves were normal, natural even. She wanted this, wanted him, and nervousness sure as the Void wasn't going to make her turn away now. Amelle parted her lips, letting the tip of her tongue dart out, flicking against the pad of his finger. Fenris closed his eyes, his moan barely audible, but more than enough to make her shudder.

Amelle crept closer to Fenris and knelt between his legs, bracing her hands against his chest—was it her imagination, or did the markings beneath her hand jump and flare at her touch?—and leaning close, kissing him slowly and thoroughly. Then Fenris was sitting up, wrapping both arms around her until their bodies were flush against each other, and Maker it was nothing like anything she'd imagined. Bare skin pressed against bare skin, soft breasts against hard muscle; Amelle gasped, pressing more insistently against him, when Fenris' hands found her waist and he turned them both. Suddenly the soft mattress and pillows were against her back, and Fenris was above.

Never had she felt so like a rabbit caught by a wolf. And she didn't mind in the least.

#

She was beautiful.

Other thoughts, prurient and reverent alike, rushed through his head, battling for dominance as they two moved together, as Amelle's lips traveled across his skin, as her hands sent tremors of arcane energy outward, waking the lyrium in his skin and augmenting his own reaction to her touch. But Fenris always circled back to Amelle's wide green eyes and tousled dark hair; her pale skin, now with a pink flush upon it; her lips, now swollen with so many kisses.

Amelle Hawke was indeed beautiful. And kind. Clever. Stubborn. And in love with him.

That above all else was hardest to believe.

And now she lay here before him like this, waiting and trusting and wanting him.

Fenris dipped his head, lips brushing the pulse in her neck. Amelle's arms twined around him, fingers trailing down his spine, carding into his hair, while he reveled in her soft curves as she arched her back and exhaled a soft groan.

"Slowly," she reminded him. He allowed himself a soft chuckle before closing his teeth gently upon her earlobe.

"Slowly," he echoed, dragging the tip of his tongue along the shell of her ear. Amelle shifted again—this time it was closer to a writhe, her breathing ragged as she dragged one leg upward, letting it slide against his. As Fenris reached down to stroke her calf, his fingertips snagged on something silken; when he sat back he realized she still wore her shoes and ivory stockings, and took little time divesting her of both.

"You're easily distracted," Amelle murmured, wiggling her bare toes.

"Not in the least," Fenris replied just as softly, before running his thumb along the sole of her foot, following the curve of her instep. She let out a little breathless laugh, and though her foot twitched, she did not pull it away. "On the contrary, I am incredibly thorough," he said, just before capturing that foot in one hand and pressing a kiss to the inside of her ankle. Amelle's laughter turned to a gasp and Fenris noted with deep satisfaction as a deeper flush crept upward, beginning at her breasts and coming to rest at her cheeks. He kissed another spot, a few inches above the ankle, and Amelle's eyes slowly widened, her throat moving as she swallowed. From there, his fingers came to rest at the sensitive area just behind her knee, slowly stroking circles against her skin as he kissed the inside of her knee. It was at that point she began to… squirm.

"Fenris…" she breathed, "what in the Maker's name do you think you're doing?"

He chuckled, bowing his head and pressing another kiss scant inches above her knee, just along the inside of her thigh. "Going slowly."

"You're going to make me combust."

Another kiss, higher than the last. The perfumed baths she favored since arriving in Starkhaven left the whisper of lavender on her skin, but beneath was something earthier, something intrinsically her. He kissed the inside of her thigh again, slower this time. "Do not tell me I have more faith in your control than you do."

"I don't—that's not what I—" When he licked a path from one kiss to the next, Amelle pressed her head back into the pillows with a desperate, keening groan. "Fire, Fenris. Sparks. Flames."

The path of his ministrations moved outward, to her hip. But still slowly and ever upward. "You will do no such thing," he said against her, delighting in Amelle's shiver as his lips brushed her skin with every word. Her reactions were fueling his own—every one of Amelle's gasps made Fenris' own breath grow labored; her moans made his pulse pound like thunder in his ears; her skin against his ignited his blood—and his insistence on a… leisurely pace was as much for Amelle as it was for himself.

"I might," she countered, breathing harder now. "You have no idea what I could do. I might—"

Amelle's words were lost in a sharp gasp as Fenris licked a long, slow line up the underside of one breast before capturing the taut nipple in his mouth. She went rigid beneath Fenris before suddenly reacting—arms coming up to wrap around him, pulling him closer, fingers clutching, hips lifting and pressing. She arched, trembling, beneath him, her fingers, vibrating with raw, healing energy as they wound their way into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, her mouth forming his name over and over again, with reverence he'd never heard fall from anyone's lips before. With every pass of his tongue over the pebbled flesh, she gasped and squirmed, half-formed exhortations dying in her throat. Magic rippled across his skin, calling out to him, pulling, pulsing, twining into his blood, threads of light making his markings prickle—but not in pain.

There had always been pain, before. There was none now—no pain, nor the indelible memory of it.

When Fenris pulled away—slowly, for he'd not forgotten that portion of his promise—Amelle watched him with huge, dark eyes, the pupils having nearly consumed all but the thinnest circle of green. He licked once more at her nipple—she closed her eyes and bit her lip, a tiny, strangled sound forming in her throat—and then swept his tongue along the swell of her other breast. She tensed beneath him in anticipation; the mad pounding of her heart beat against his lips as he pressed a kiss against her breast. With the tip of his tongue, he traced a path around the dusky nipple, his other hand sliding leisurely up Amelle's hip to her waist, and onward to the underside of the breast he'd only just abandoned. Closing his mouth over her nipple, he sucked hard, even as he gently stroked inch after inch of soft skin, noting the way Amelle gasped and cried out, the way she shuddered, the way she parted her legs and lifted her hips in silent entreaty.

Perhaps it was time he obliged.

Still mindful of Amelle's every reaction, every response to his touch, he dragged light, teasing fingertips down her body, leisurely following every curve as he traveled lower and lower. Her skin prickled in gooseflesh as she shifted and squirmed and sighed his name, and then his fingers swept between her thighs, pressing against the warmth of that scrap of silk covering her.

"Fenris," she breathed. "Sweet Maker, what are you…"

Fenris lightly—so very lightly—rubbed against the silk. Back and forth.

Slowly.

"Don't stop," she begged him, her broken, quavering voice never climbing above a whisper. "Please. Please, don't stop."

Never.

Back and forth. Slower and slower. The silk was warm with the heat of her body, and damp with her impatience. His own impatience was making itself known. He wanted—oh, how he wanted—

Hooking both thumbs in her smallclothes, Fenris moved aside long enough to drag them down Amelle's legs—even then, taking the time to touch her, to watch her as he did so. All remnants of her earlier shyness had all but vanished. Amelle radiated heat and desire, slick and flushed and ready. She shivered—from head to foot she shivered, and it was a movement that was altogether distracting—and opened dark green eyes, drunk with arousal and—yes; yes, he did dare think it—love, blinking slowly at the scrap of fabric he held, as if she could not quite comprehend how it had managed to get itself off her body. Then she looked at him and blinked again.

"You're wearing too many clothes," she mumbled thickly.

"In a moment," he said, stretching out on his side, their bodies so close, so entwined it was hard to tell whether Fenris lay on top of Amelle, or beside her. He reached down, fingers brushing dark curls before grazing Amelle's bare skin, touching and teasing her, drinking in every gasp, every moan, as he pressed his fingers deftly and gently further into her slick folds, stroking deeper, groaning at the heat that clutched at him, pulsing like a heartbeat. He went slowly, relishing Amelle's reactions, letting the sensations spiral higher and higher until—until, yes, there, he thought as her body tightened around him. His fingertips sought out that spot, as sensitive, as aching as the rest of her.

Fenris watched Amelle's face with avid concentration; their room was golden with midday sunlight, and none of what they did would be lost to shadows and candlelight. Her head lolled to the side and she looked up at him, bringing one hand to cup his cheek, her thumb sliding across his lips.

It was at that point Fenris slowly—so very, very slowly—withdrew from her. Where Amelle had appeared drunk on arousal moments before, she now looked entirely alert. And dismayed.

"Fenris," she panted, "what are you—"

Never pulling his eyes from hers, Fenris brought his fingers to his lips, licking them slowly, tasting her and savoring it, watching as Amelle's beautiful lips parted in near silence, but for the curse she breathed. Before she could gather any of her scattered aplomb, he placed a hand on either side of her waist and rolled, shifting them until he sank back against soft linens and dented pillows and Amelle knelt above, straddling him. When she arched an eyebrow at him in silent question, he only mirrored her expression and guided her hands to the laces on his leggings. Her fingers drifted down from his waist, and only his sharp intake of breath stopped her questing fingertips.

"You did say you thought I was wearing too much clothing," he said, fighting the sudden dryness in his throat. "Perhaps you might wish to remedy that."

The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, but that was the only evidence of her uncertainty. Working slowly—too, too slowly, in Fenris' opinion—Amelle loosened the lacings, fingers brushing him through leather, faint eddies of magic sinking in, until she pulled leggings and smallclothes free all at once, tossing it all without ceremony onto the floor.

Amelle still knelt, straddling him, teeth sinking gently into her lush bottom lip as she reached out, and when her fingertips grazed his skin, his breath stuttered and every single nerve flared to life as too many sensations rushed through. He had not thought—foolish, but he had not thought he could be affected by her any more than he already was.

He hissed a curse in Arcanum, growling out another when Amelle chuckled.

"Language," she purred, stroking, teasing, touching, learning—and getting her most perfect revenge in the process. For she did it all slowly.

But then there was no more teasing and very little talking at all. She was beautiful above him as they came together—uncertain, but only for a moment.

"Fenris…" she murmured.

"You must only move," he urged her quietly, "however you wish."

She slid against him, eyes widening then closing as she breathed in and out again on a sigh. Fenris' hands rested on her hips, thumbs rubbing circles against her skin as she moved slowly, experimentally. She nodded, unvoiced questions still lingering in her eyes. Then she closed those eyes, rolling her hips once, and then again, and slowly they began moving as one, the soft hiss of fabric beneath them punctuated only by their own gasped breaths and whispered oaths. When, finally, the moment came when that long-building tension snapped. Amelle cried out, her familiar voice rough and ragged as they moved together like one until passion subsided into pleasant shudders, and she collapsed against his chest, her head lolling to the side and resting upon his shoulder, her hair tousled and face flushed. Content. Sated.

She had never been more beautiful.

Fenris tightened his arms around Amelle, willing his own heartbeat under control, and pressed a kiss into her hair.

"Maybe… not quite so slow next time," she murmured, fingertips trailing lazily down the markings at his neck.

"Perhaps."

She grinned up at him. "So there will be a next time. Good to know."

Fenris lifted an eyebrow at her. He scarcely had the energy to do more than that at the moment. "Yes, I believe it is safe to say there will be a next time. Though perhaps," he added, working his way under the covers and pulling Amelle close, "not right away."

#

There was nothing at all to be concerned about.

Nothing at all.

Amelle was just looking for her sister. Nothing at all wrong about that. Nothing unusual. Nothing conspicuous in the least. Kiara was probably even expecting Amelle to come by after her appointment with Illona.

Though, Amelle realized with a sudden, fierce blush, Kiara had probably expected Amelle back rather sooner than several hours later.

What if she already knew?

Maker's balls, she probably already does know, came Amelle's sudden, unpleasant thought, her stomach dropping somewhere to the vicinity of her toes as she approached the door to her sister's suite. There was, of course, the possibility Kiara might be persuaded to believe Amelle was only getting back now, but—no, no that wasn't any good either. Cullen would've been by to see her too, probably. Amelle knocked, far too lightly to be heard.

"Come in." Kiara's voice filtered softly through the door and she cursed under her breath as her stomach, still down by her toes, started to do the Remigold.

Swallowing hard and steeling herself, Amelle pushed open the door to Kiara's rooms. Her sister was within, tucked upon a divan, a cup of tea in her hands—the sitting room still looked like some manner of wedding demon had been recently slain—looking… disturbingly pleased.

"So?" Kiara prompted, smiling as she set the teacup down on a nearby table, too ornately carved to look as if it had any business holding teacups.

"…So?" echoed Amelle, weakly.

Kiara's smile didn't budge. "It was a good plan, wasn't it?"

"You… planned that?"

"Well. I planned part of it. A big part. Sebastian helped."

Amelle began seriously worrying about the state and location of her stomach. "Sebastian helped?" she croaked. Sebastian? Helped? How? And did she really want to know?

Kiara smiled—and, Maker, it was a benign smile. It didn't seem possible the world's most devious, evil sister could have a smile like that. "Of course he did."

Crossing her arms protectively over her chest—though that did exactly nothing to stop Amelle's skin from feeling as if it were about to catch fire—Amelle replied, "Maker's balls, you could've avoided dragging him into this too."

"Mely? What's wrong?" Kiara asked, taking a few steps forward, preparatory to clasping Amelle's hands. "Did it… not go… well?"

Amelle's blush burned hotter. "I don't want to talk about it, Kiri."

"What happened?"

"What?"

Kiara's brow arched, nearly meeting her hairline as it did. "What happened?" she repeated more slowly. "What did she say?"

Amelle blinked, feeling suddenly lost in her own conversation. "What… did who say?"

Her sister looked at her as if she were daft. As if there were no human being on the Maker's green earth who could possibly be dafter than her sister. "Illona," she said slowly. "Revered Mother? Who were you talking about?"

"Nobody," blurted Amelle, her face positively burning now. "Nothing."

Kiara cocked an eyebrow. It was a troubling eyebrow. A worrisome one, even. That eyebrow boded no good. It never had. "Amelle…"

"Nothing! Everything went fine with Illona. Nothing else. Everything's fine!" Maybe Kiara was onto something insofar as Amelle's daftness was concerned.

"Then you… approve of Illona's proposal."

"Oh, complete approval in this corner." She needed to get out of the room before Kiara ferreted out the truth. Because she would. Because that's what Kiara Hawke did.

"And you'll stay?"

Amelle slowly backed her way to the door. "Yup. Staying. In Starkhaven. New royal healer, at your service."

Grey eyes narrowed and Amelle groped blindly for the doorknob. "For somebody staying, you look in an awful hurry to leave."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." The door clicked open, mercifully. "I'm just… leaving you to your tea. And your privacy. Very important for a princess to get her quiet time, right?"

But Kiara didn't answer. She'd directed her troubling eyebrow and those narrowed grey eyes in the direction of Amelle's dress. "Weren't you wearing a different gown earlier? And… Mely, is your… is your hair wet? Have you had a bath?"

Sometimes Amelle Hawke truly hated the fabled eagle eyes of the rogue. She had a feeling she wasn't going to hear the end of it this time. The doorknob slipped out of her grasp then clicked shut.

"Maybe… maybe just a little one," she sighed.