Mehendi

Place me like a seal over your heart,

—Song of Solomon 8:6

Leaning on the windowsill, Zaira rested her chin on her folded arms and listened to the nightsounds. They were so different here in Ammarca than in Carana. She smiled as she identified the soft sound of the surf, the creaking ships as they shifted on the constantly rolling water as the tide came in. Even though it was almost dark, the gulls were still fighting over the last of the ships to come in with their catch, their raucous calls filling the night air with palpable sound. The salt tang nearly occluded the stink of the dead fish, along with other unsavory smells that rose from the street below.

Zaira noticed none of that, however. All she knew was that this wasn’t Carana, and tomorrow she would be on one of those boats sailing for another part of the world with Gaavan and Stacia. Carana would be just a memory as would be the Pari and their laws. Her bracelets were gone, thanks to Gaavan and his strange powers, and no one would ever know she wasn’t anything but a human ever again.

She was smiling to herself as she heard the tall red-haired man that had taken her away from Carana and her imprisonment moving behind her. She sat up and turned to watch him drop his shirt and trousers onto a chair near the door. He pulled the heavy ring that held his hair together out and put that on top of his clothes before turning to her and stood clothed only in his long scarlet hair and moonlight before her. A wide smile on her face and a warm tickle growing in her loins, she rose with a dancer’s grace and crossed the room to stand before him. She rested her hands lightly on his stomach and craned her head back to look up at his face, lit starkly by moonlight that streamed in through the window. He put his arms around the tiny woman in front of him and grinned down at her.

“You’re looking particularly ravishing tonight,” he said in that deep, gravelly voice of his.

“You say that every night.”

“That’s because it’s true.” He leaned down and kissed her, holding her immobile in his huge hands as he did so.

“Mmmm…” she murmured with a lazy smile on her face as he pulled away. Unconsciously, she lightly traced the outline of his hard muscles with her fingernails, raising gooseflesh on him.

“Ah! Stop that,” he said, pushing her away.

She chuckled. “What’s the matter, Gaavan? Ticklish?” She went for his sides.

“No,” he said firmly, catching and trapping her hands. “I’m not ticklish.” He pulled her hands around her waist then put his own arms around her, holding her firmly against him.

“I’m not too sure about that,” she said, pulling against him and taking one of his large hands. She drew him further into the room and to their sleeping pallet. He came willingly, a lusty grin on his face, hands going to encircle her waist again. “Gaavan,” she said with a light laugh. “Is that all you can think about?”

“Yes,” he said, kneeling on the pallet and pulling her close. “All the time, non-stop,” he breathed as he nuzzled her neck.

“I don’t believe that. Ahhh…” she hissed softly at the touch of his lips against her skin. He bunched up her light shift at her back, pulling it upwards as if to rid her of it. She caught his hands and pulled them away. “Patience,” she said softly.

“I’m not a patient man,” he growled back at her, pulling his hands free and putting them around her again.

“Gaavan,” she insisted, pushing away from him. “Please.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked a little peevishly.

She took his face in her hands and kissed him lightly. “Nothing. I just…Want to take my time.”

“Your time?” he echoed, noticing her wording.

Zaira thought a moment then nodded. “Yes. My time. I want you to let me take my time with you.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” He sat back and held his arms wide. “I’m all yours.”

The girl rolled her eyes and playfully smacked him. “I’m aware of that, you bastard.” She circled around behind him and pushed against him.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Lie down.”

“Okay…” He made as if to shift over so he was lying on his back, but she stopped him.

“Lie down on your front.”

“Why? All the interesting bits are in the front,” he said with a crooked grin.

“You’d be surprised and because I can’t rub your back if you’re lying on it, that’s why. Quit asking questions and just do what you’re told for once,” she said testily, using all her strength to roll him over. “You are the contrariest person I’ve ever met.”

“Is that a word?” he said with a grin, but he turned over onto his hands and knees and lowered himself to the mattress.

“It is now.” Zaira gathered up his loose hair and stowed neatly out of the way.

Gaav grunted and grabbed a pillow and used it to prop up his head. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to do—“

“Just shut up and you’ll see,” she snapped, throwing her leg across his hips. She had to splay herself wide to accomplish this, because even with his narrow hips, they were still quite wide compared to her own. After a moment’s fidgeting, she had herself comfortably situated and had just leaned forward to put her hands on Gaavan’s back when he looked over his shoulder at her.

“You’re supposed to do that on the other side,” he said with a sly wink.

She smacked him again. “Lie down!” Still grinning, he complied. Satisfied, she leaned forward and placed her hands on his back and ran them along his smooth skin down his spine from shoulder to his lower back. His muscles were hard under his skin and she loved running her hands over them.

“Mmmmm…” he rumbled deeply, so that she felt it through his body rather than heard it. “That feels good.”

“Does it?” She ran the flat of her hands across his wide back then up his thick neck. She leaned forward so she could kiss him between the shoulder blades and bite gently at his skin. He shivered and she felt him bunch his muscles up tightly under her where she sat. “And that?”

“That…That feels interesting.”

Zaira smiled and resumed stroking his back, this time using her fingernails to scratch lightly. She sat back and watched as his muscles twitched. “Stop that,” he said.

“Why?”

“It feels weird.”

“It tickles, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t tickle. It just…gives me chills.”

She laughed softly and ran her hand across his flesh then moved forward to rub his neck and shoulders again. She stretched herself out flat against his back, pressing herself against him, feeling his hard body through the light material of her nightshift. Her head fit neatly between his shoulder blades and she could hear his heart beating. He was warm, very warm, and she drank in his scent. Even though just newly bathed, a spicy scent lingered about him that she found intoxicating; it reminded her of spiced wine and herbs.

“Mmmm…” she murmured softly, breathing deep of his personal fragrance, stretching out so that she was lying atop him, her arms neatly tucked under him and her legs stretched out on top of his. “I love doing this,” she said softly, kissing the skin beneath her cheek.

“You sure you don’t want to lie on the other side?”

“I’m sure.”

“What if I want you to?”

The red-haired dancer sat up and stared crossly down at him. “You’re spoiling the mood,” she said.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“That’s better.” Zaira leaned forward and rested her weight on her hands in the middle of his back and pushed downwards as she started to give him a massage in earnest. As she did, she let her mind wander and she found her eyes going unfocused and a pattern appearing before her eyes, just as it had when she had embroidered his robe. The more she let herself go, the more detailed it became. Somehow, she had to get that pattern out. But how…?

Sitting back and letting her hands sweep across his back, she got an idea. Looking over at the low table near the window, she spotted the pot of henna and the brush that she’d been using earlier to stain Stacia’s hands. It was a magical mixture, designed to stain dark and instantly so there was no messy waiting around for the paste to dry only to find it hadn’t stained very dark. She gave the broad back of her lover a mischievous look, then leaned forward and whispered in his ear: “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Where—“ he started to say, lifting his head.

“Nowhere,” she said, pushing his head back down to the mattress.

“All right. I get the picture. Ow.”

She grinned, leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the brow before moving to the table and retrieving the pot of henna ink and the brush. As an afterthought, she lit several candles, set them around so she could work, then slipped out of her shift. She settled herself across his hips again, dipped her brush in the pot, leaned forward, and contemplated his back.

Her first strokes quickly outlined a serpentine head with long jaws surmounted by spiky, bony crest. She saw Gaav’s muscles twitch and snatched her brush away before he could ruin the design.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, twisting around.

“I’m…painting on your back.”

“Why?”

“You ask that a lot, don’t you?”

“Yes! I want to know what you’re doing!”

“I’m not doing anything, just…doodling on your back.”

“Zaira,” he said patiently. “I’m going to ask you this one more time: Why?”

“Because I want to, okay? Is that so bad?”

“It’s cold!”

“Of course it is. But it will warm up. And…” She leaned close to him and gave him a sultry smile. “It could be fun.”

“You think torturing me with cold paint on my back is fun?”

Zaira laughed softly and kissed his ear. “Now that you put it that way, yes. But I also meant…fun.” She touched her lips to his ear again, but this time she took the edge of it between her teeth and tugged gently.

The shiver that went through his body set the nearest candle flames to dancing. She knew she had him hooked as the thick muscles of his buttocks bunched up powerfully beneath her. He propped himself on his elbows, bent his head down to rest on his hands and took several deep breaths.

“You really know how to torture me, don’t you?”

“Torture?” she purred, using the tip of the brush to trace more of the patterns she saw onto his skin. “Would I do that?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice thick. “You do it to me constantly.”

“But, Gaavan. Just let me do this. Please? It won’t hurt.”

He blew a heavy sigh and lowered himself to the mattress again. “Go on—It will come off, right?”

“Oh, yes, it will come off,” she said perfectly straight-faced. She didn’t bother to add that it took several weeks to wear off.

“All right, then,” he repeated, making himself comfortable. “Just…be quick about it.”

“Of course,” she said without any real intention of hurrying. She looked at her initial sketch, considered it, and added another quick line. Again, Gaavan stiffened underneath her and she grinned.

She sat back and considered her design. As usual, whenever she thought of Gaavan, the image of a huge, red dragon came to mind. She shivered a little at the intensity of the image and leaned forward to place another stroke of the dark ink. By now, she had the image firmly in her mind. Balancing the bottle of ink up on his shoulder, she leaned forward and started sketching.

Working slowly and steadily, Zaira began fleshing out her design. The twisting body appeared, serpentine and twisting back on itself numerous times, coiled and ready to spring. Strong legs, tipped with vicious talons, curved and deadly and poised to kill. Then jaws, powerful, crushing, lined with teeth that could slash and crush stone…Leaning close, she placed each stroke with delicate precision. A strong slash here, a quick flick of the tip here. The brush became an extension of her fingers as she caressed Gaavan’s dark skin with the tip. She smiled to herself as a series of quick strokes not only delineated the scales on the dragon, but also produced a series of quivers in his flesh. Dipping the brush again, she caught her tongue between her teeth as she concentrated on a series of spine ridges that looked like waves. The brush dragged, slowly and surely as each curve appeared, starting wide and ending with a delicate flick. Over and over and over—

“Ah…ah…ahahah—HEY!”

Zaira sat back abruptly as Gaavan lifted himself onto his elbows again, jerking back the brush before he could spoil the design. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” he growled at her, shivering and shaking himself. “Enough!”

The woman looked down, noting that her design had grown to cover most of his back. “Oh my,” she breathed. She reached down to touch the design, but didn’t quite, since the ink was still wet. A grin spread across her face; she gathered in a deep breath and blew gently across the still-wet ink.

“AH!! Dammit!” he shouted, pushing upwards further. Zaira scrambled and caught the bottle before he could spill it. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Trying to dry the ink!” she retorted, jumping to her feet and placing a tiny foot on his rump to push him back down. “I’m not finished yet!”

“You most certainly are!” he said, twisting around to grab at her, but loosing her as she danced out of reach.

“Gaavan, please…Let me finish,” she pleaded.

“It’s cold! I told you that!” He reached for her again, and missed again.

Her glare turned into a smirk as she gestured with the brush. “You don’t look too cold,” she said. “In fact, you look like you’re feeling rather warm.”

Giving her a mock snarl, he made a grab for her and managed to catch her this time. “That’s the problem, wench,” he explained as he pulled her close to him. “It’s cold out here and I want to find a nice warm place to keep out the chill.” He went in for her neck, forcing her head back.

“Stop stop stop!” she shouted, trying hard not to spill the henna ink or lose her brush. “I’m going to spill this!” She hissed as his mouth clamped down on a particularly sensitive pressure point and her knees threatened to give out.

“Spill it, then,” he murmured against her throat, pulling her closer. He bore down with his teeth on her tingling flesh and she lost her balance. Fortunately, he had a good hold on her and she was able to lean against him.

“I can’t! Gaavan, please…” she pleaded as she sank down lower on his lap, straddling him. A gasp escaped from her as she felt his heat between her legs and the answering warmth rising inside her. He moved against her as he ran his hands down to her legs to pull them apart so that he could probe at that warmth, seeking it out, wanting it, needing it. “Oh…” she murmured helplessly as she leaned forward to press her slightly parted lips against his chest as her legs spread wide to accommodate him. Dimly, she was aware that one large hand moved along her arm to encircle the wrist of the hand holding the pot of ink to hold it steady while he lifted his hips against hers, pressing into her. Gasping, she threw her head back as he entered her, his huge girth stretching her to what seemed beyond physical limits, both pain and infinite pleasure in one. Her fingers tightened around the brush as her body stiffened in response to that exquisite intrusion, and she had to concentrate on merely breathing.

“Please?” he murmured, echoing her words and not requesting permission. His free hand slipped to the middle of her back to hold her up. “Please what?” He bent and nuzzled her neck, pressing firm lips against her skin as he stopped with just the tip of his member inside her. “Tell me, Zaira,” he commanded, moving gently, pressing himself in a little further and pulling out. “What do you want?”

“Unnnhh…” she breathed, unable to focus enough to form legible words. Instead she merely clutched at him with her unfettered hand, scraping her nails across his hard chest, dragging the end of the brush against him.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” he said, pulling back out of her just a bit.

“No!” she screeched, pressing downward and trying to take him back into herself. “Don’t…Gaavan, I need more of you.”

“Do you now?” he asked in an insolent tone. Grinning, he lowered her upper body to his legs so he could lean over her. “How much more?” He took the little pot of ink from her and set it on the floor out of her reach and safely out of the way, then did the same with the brush. He ran his hands along her arms, laced his fingers with hers and held her arms pinned above her head while he knelt over her. “I want to hear you tell me how much you need.”

His words burned inside her just as his flesh did. Taking a deep breath, she shivered and wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling herself further up the incline formed by his legs. A smile formed on her lips as she felt an answering shiver go through her tall lover as she took him further into herself. “I ache for you,” she whispered, looking up into his steely eyes. They sparkled in the candlelight, raw passion smoldering deep in their depths. She writhed under him, arching her back and flexing the strong muscles of her abdomen, clenching him with her inner muscles. A gasp and bared teeth were her reward.

“Damn, woman,” he growled, arching his own back and in the process sliding deeper into her. “How do you do that?” His jaw clenched and a low hissing growl sounded deep in his throat.

“I’m talented,” she said, watching him through the haze of her own pleasure. She released him only to grip him tightly again. “In ways you’re only beginning to understand.”

“Izzat a fact?” he mumbled, leaning down to nuzzle her neck. His firm lips trailed against her pale skin as softly as a breath of wind, fluttering over her pulse point. As he kissed her neck, he pressed hard into her, not moving, just pressing in as hard and deep as he could.

“Aah!” she gasped, arching upwards, straining against him. “Gaavan,” she pleaded. “Move…”

“No,” he stated flatly, softly, still working at her neck. He moved his caresses downward, towards the depression at the base of her neck and suckled there, dipping his tongue into the cup-like hollow to taste her flesh. She mewed and twisted against his hold on her, but he refused to move his lower half.

“Ooooo…” she breathed, the soft sound turning into a grunt as she tried to push against him and finding him as immobile as a rock. “Gaavan! You’re driving me crazy!”

He grinned as he lapped at her skin, moving along her collarbone to the point of her shoulder. “I know,” was all he said, and pressed in even further.

“You bastard,” she muttered under her breath, twisting her wrists in his hold. Biting her lip, she tried to find a foothold on his hips, but her feet kept slipping. “Do something!”

“I am,” he said with a deep chuckle, still not moving or allowing her to move. The tall man stretched out her arms so they were straight over her head, restricting her movements even more. He lifted his head from her shapely neck and looked down into her face. “Look at me,” he commanded.

Panting and sweating, Zaira opened her eyes and found his face only a few inches away from hers. “What do you want?” she managed to get out between gasping sobs. “Tell me what I need to do.”

He leaned down and put his lips close to her ear. “Lie still,” he whispered, his voice nothing more than a breath. “Just feel me filling you; let me feel you surround me…” Her struggles grew less and less as everything but the sound of his voice and the feel of him filling her to overflowing was pushed aside. Her skin was warm to the touch, hot even; however, the breeze from the open window that cooled the sweat on her body was not alone responsible for the chills raging up and down her spine.

She lay there, listening to his powerful voice, feeling him deep inside her and yet unable to move. He lifted himself once again to look into her eyes and all she could see were the lights there. Deep, dark shadows lit by flashes of something that no human could fathom let alone look upon and remain unchanged.

And all the time, there was the rumbling symphony of his voice holding her in an intangible web, guiding her, leading her, touching her, lifting her into those dark places in his eyes. She fell—no, not fell. She flew through them on delicately webbed wings made from the echoes of his voice; she soared a sea of darkness, his darkness. Currents of power steered her higher, higher into the eternal dome of dark fire that was her lover…

Then there was a light above her. A light in this darkness that did not disturb it at all. Light and darkness lived side by side, neither occluding nor eclipsing the other. He was there with her, paradoxically both the light and the darkness, and her soul was filled with him. There was no limit to him and she drank him in willingly. His fire seared her, but she did not care. She was with him and he with her and the universe was theirs for the taking. Like a bird, she flexed her wings made of light and sound and embraced him, throwing herself into that fire, to feel its cool fingers licking at her skin, burning away into bright, black nothingness—

Zaira threw back her head and screamed as she imploded. The spasms that rocked her strong body arched her back like a bow, straining against Gaavan’s hold on her. She keened as though her voice were being torn from her, and the force of it caused the candle flames to glow as if through a veil of blood. When she finally slumped back down, her sobbing cries wracked her slight frame even as Gaavan released her wrists. He gathered her into his arms to haul her upwards where he held her against his broad chest, stroking her hair and her back, silent now but speaking eloquently with his hands as he comforted her. She lay gasping against his shoulder, her tears spilling onto his skin. “Gaavan…” she whispered into his shoulder. “How…?”

“How what?” he asked softly, his voice hardly more than a rasp of gravel and she noticed that he was breathing hard. His large hand cupped the back of her head protectively, twining his fingers in her hair.

“How do you manage to drive me insane like that?” she gasped, trembling in his arms. She slipped hers around his broad chest and held on to him tightly, as if she could hold onto this moment forever.

“I’m talented,” he said, a smart-ass grin (albeit a kindly one) curving his sensuous lips as he echoed her previous quip.

Pushing back reluctantly, she looked up at him. “I should hit you for that,” she said, grasping a handful of his hair in each hand. “But instead I’m going to kiss you.” Using her grip on his hair, she pulled his head down so that she could kiss him. He came willingly, covering her lips with his and parting them.

Gaavan kissed her, gently and tenderly at first, but with growing passion. He’d been both surprised and pleased at the intensity of her reaction. The knowledge that he’d made her peak just by talking to her filled him with a sense of power greater than most anything he had known in his long existence. His heart sang savagely inside his chest, and that savagery was reflected in the intensity with which he kissed her. His hand gripped her hair at the back of her neck, tilting her head back so he had easy access to her lips, holding her steady for his second invasion into her. Oh, how he enjoyed kissing her, enjoyed delving into those secret places where only he had gone. She tasted like wine, but she was more intoxicating than any wine he’d ever had. He savored her like all fine wines should be savored: Dipping his tongue into her to taste her over and over again. She was sweet with an edge that excited him; a vintage that promised to grow even more thrilling and exhilarating with age and one that he looked forward to sampling many, many times.

The warm, dark velvet of her mouth more than invited him in; it grasped him and dragged him in. She had released his hair by now and had worked her fingers in through its thickness as she tightened her grasp to hold him as much prisoner as she was by his grasp upon her hair. And then she was invading him with a passion to match his own. Always, he was struck by her own great need of him as he was by his of her. It was this knowledge, the knowing that she desired him for only himself, was enough to send him spiraling down into her time and time again, seeking that closeness that comes from sharing glimpses into one another’s souls.

Zaira’s tightly clenched fists in his hair turned into a gentle tugging, one that forced him backwards. Releasing her reluctantly, he obeyed her unvoiced command to lie back on the mattress. He grinned as he had to lift his hips to straighten his legs out beneath her, forcing her upwards and impaling her further upon his thick manhood. She bent backwards, hissing in pleasure while her fingernails raked his chest. Gaavan held himself like that for more than a minute, forcing himself deeper into her; she keened again as the pressure became too great and she slumped forward onto his chest as another release wracked through her, leaving her shaking and sweat-soaked.

“Bastard,” she muttered as she dragged herself upwards, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. “Think you’re funny, don’t you?” she said, words slurring together.

Reaching up, he pushed her hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I’m a riot,” he said in a low, rumbling purr. “And you can’t get enough of me. Admit it.”

She looked at him, her green eyes boring into his blued-steel orbs. “Could any woman?” she said, surprising him with her candid admission. He felt his eyes go wide and color burn high in his cheeks. She leaned down, arching forward so that she kept him sheathed inside her, but so that she could stare into his eyes just as he had done to her moments ago. “No, I can’t get enough of you,” she breathed, resting herself against him; her breasts pressed into his chest and their hearts beat mere inches apart. She lifted one delicate hand and brushed his own unruly bangs out of his face, the fingertips tracing the long arch of one bushy eyebrow, then down along his cheekbone, along the splash of red that deepened his tan. Her eyes were smoky from her previous climaxes and there was a glow about her that captivated him. “I admit it. I need you; I want you. But I’m sure you can tell from how hot I am for you.” She ground her hips hard against his then, drawing a gasp unbidden from his lips. “Can you feel it, Gaavan?” she whispered, the smoke in her eyes creeping into her voice. “Can you feel me?” She directed her green stare into his eyes a moment longer before lifting herself in one graceful arc to sit upright upon him. Then she began her dance.

The mighty Chaos Dragon lay under her, enthralled and helpless as she writhed. Entranced, he watched her lean backwards with her hands behind her head, holding the heavy mass of her ruddy curls up off her shoulders so he had an unobstructed view of her breasts. He groaned as he reached up to cup them in his hands, feel their softness under his calloused fingers, only to have another groan torn from his throat as her hips rolled upon him. Again her strong muscles gripped him, over and over, immersing him in waves of pleasure. Her belly contracted as she rocked her hips back and forth, side to side, then tracing the path of the symbol of infinity: An endless loop doubling back on itself.

Sweat soaked him and pooled on his skin; in the ridges of his muscles; in the hollow of his throat. His blood thundered in his ears and his breath tore at his throat as he sucked in great gasps of air. His voice was gone; all conscious thought had fled. All that remained was passion, raw and rampant as she rode him. Dimly, he was aware of her peering down at him, calling to him. “Do you feel it?” she whispered, her voice scraping against raw nerve endings to send lightning streaking along his skin. Somehow he managed to hiss out an answer.

“Yes.” It was a low, animalistic growl torn from the depths of his consciousness, the last dregs of sanity.

“Can you feel me?” she asked again; though worded differently, it was the same question repeated.

“Yes!” he hissed again, staring upwards into those green eyes that had become his universe.

Zaira, for even in his passion he still remembered her name, smiled. “Can you feel us together?” she whispered. “One being, one body, one soul?” She leaned over him, and her hair brushed his chest. It felt like stinging nettles upon his raw nerves.

“Yes!” He tried to thrust into her, but she held him down.

“Come to me, Gaavan,” she whispered, moving faster and faster now, infinity splintering on top of him. Her breath was warm on his chest as she spoke, panted, gasped; it sent chills skittering along his skin, electrifying it even more. Her nails tore into him as she worked him; the sharp pain fired his excitement. “Come into me,” she repeated. “Come with me! Now, Gaavan! NOW!”

“YES!!” With a powerful roar, he grabbed her hips and thrust up so hard he lifted her off the mattress. Light exploded around him, inside him; he screamed his passion with a threefold voice to the winds of eternity that threatened to drag him away. Then there were wings surrounding him, pulling him out of the whirlwind’s grasp, guiding him higher and higher, lifting and supporting him. He looked into the face of the tiny woman who had become his lover and she was smiling at him, holding him, hovering over him with wings made of light. Her hands were on his face and her eyes were shining. In them, he could see himself reflected and wondered that he had found her, out of all the world and how cold and empty he would be if he hadn’t. Then, for a brief moment, he saw another face in the shifting plumes of light that formed her wings. Golden eyes looked down on him and they, too, were smiling.

Thank you, Mother, he sent on a thought as he reached out and embraced the firebird who held him, pulling her close. He looked deep into her emerald eyes before he leaned down to cover her mouth with his. As their lips touched, the universe shattered and they knew nothing more.

Sometime later, Gaavan woke to find himself in a darkened room lit only by a few guttering candles, clinging desperately to their precious, fragile life. The moon had moved along its course and its light no longer streamed into the open window. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, but a familiar weight nestled next to him quickly reminded him. Looking down, he saw Zaira snuggled close to his side, as she was accustomed to sleeping: Tight in the crook of his arm with her head resting on his chest. Memories of their lovemaking began to return and his eyebrows arched high on his brow at the unexpected intensity they’d shared. Their nights were never what one could call ordinary, but even for them tonight had been extraordinary. And immensely satisfying, he thought as he lay back, one hand behind his head, and grinned effusively. Sometimes he even amazed himself.

A small sound from the woman lying next to him made him look down sharply, but she was only dreaming. In her sleep, she shifted; one hand quested for the blanket that had been kicked off sometime earlier. Gaavan gently twisted, pulling her closer against himself and brought the errant blanket around her slender shoulders. She drew close to him, her head neatly tucked under his chin. Smiling gently, he kissed the top of her head, drinking in the scent of her hair. She was so delicate, and yet there was great strength inside her. How else could he explain his attraction to the little wildcat?

He grinned a self-satisfied grin and settled back with her in his arms. Tomorrow they would be on their way to Gehn, completing the circle he’d begun so many years ago. Val would be nearly old enough to begin teaching him. Hopefully, by now, that bastard Xellos and his bitch mistress would have lost interest in the dragon maiden and her charge, because he fully intended to find the boy and teach him everything he could. He’d been given a second chance—both of them had been—and he meant to take every advantage of that.

Thoughts of Gehn and Val were forced out of his mind as he suddenly became very aware of what had woken him. “Dammit,” he muttered and tried to ignore the pressure but to no avail. Grumbling at the inconvenience of human bodies, he relaxed his hold on Zaira and gently let her settle onto her back. Using just a small portion of his power, he teleported himself just a few feet away. Keeping himself very still, he watched Zaira to make sure she hadn’t woken. When she did nothing more than pull the covers around her and snuggle into the warm hole he’d left, he breathed a sigh of relief. Moving as quietly as he could, he found his trousers and pulled them on then slipped out the door.

He made his way along the dark corridor to the bathing room, grumbling even more. “Why the hell couldn’t this place have chamber pots in the rooms?” It seemed, though, that the practice of having pots in rooms was not a common practice in this part of the country. Instead, there was a room off the bathing room reserved for that particular function: A simple bench with covered holes where one sat to do one’s “business” over a sluice filled with running water where it was washed out of the building. At least the room was clean and dimly lit by a lantern turned down low, and the smell was minimal.

Once finished with that, Gaavan headed back through the bathing room when he caught a glimpse of himself in the long mirror there. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the black lines of the doodle that Zaira had done on his back earlier. Curious, he paused, looked around and found another mirror. Dragging it over to the other one, he set them up so he could see the reflection of his back in them. Turning the lamp up, he pulled his hair to the side and examined the dragon design she’d painted. He grinned to himself; he didn’t know how she did it, but she was always thinking of him as a dragon; she’d even taken to using the term as a pet name for him. That both pleased and troubled him at the same time. But looking at the wonderful design on his back, he was more pleased than troubled.

“You are one talented woman, Zaira,” he said, grinning wider still as he continued to examine his reflection. “Nice work.” He dropped his hair and turned to go back to his room only to pause and consider the sunken bathing pool. Even in the middle of the night, the water was clear and warm; tendrils of steam rose from the surface in the cooler night air. His skin started to itch terribly as the scent of clean water called to him. This would probably be the last chance he’d have to get a good bath before they reached Gehn; that thought alone drove him towards the waiting water. “Sorry, Zaira,” he said as he dropped his trousers and kicked them aside. “But I need a bath.”

Gaavan let loose with a heartfelt hiss of pleasure as he stepped into the steaming pool. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the square pool was deep enough to let him sink into the water up to his chest, which he did. Leaning back, he rested his arms on the edge of the wall behind him and leaned his head back as the heat soaked into his muscles. “Yes,” he breathed. “This is nice…”

When he’d soaked long enough, he quickly washed and got out. A quick touch of his power dried both his hair and himself. “Much better,” he said with a contented sigh as he pulled his trousers on over his lean hips. “Very much…” His voice trailed off as he glanced up and saw himself in the mirror he’d positioned earlier. It was still positioned to let him see the reflection of his back. Leaning forward, he pulled his hair out of the way and found that dragon staring back at him—still. His eyes scanned the entire design; no part of it had faded during his bath. “You said it would come off,” he muttered crossly. “Damn, woman!”

He stormed out of the bathing room and down the hall, not caring how much noise he made. The door to the room they shared loomed large in front of him and he slapped it open. “Zaira!”

“What?” She sat straight up, clutching the covers to her breast. “What’s wrong? Gaavan?”

Slamming the door behind him, he crossed the room in two strides and loomed over her. “I thought you said it would come off!”

The girl blinked at him sleepily. “What? What would come off?”

“This!” He twisted around and pointed at the design painted on his back.

“That…yeah, well, yes, it does come off…” She scooted away from him.

“When?” he growled, grabbing her arms and pulling her back.

“Oh…in six weeks…Let go!”

He stared at her. “Six weeks?”

“Maybe more?”

“More? You mean I’ve got to have this on my back for six weeks or more?”

“Do you hate it that much?” she snapped at him, getting angry herself. “Is that what you’re saying? I thought you’d like it.”

“What? No, no…I didn’t mean that!”

“What? That you don’t like it?”

“I do like it! It’s beautiful! Just like everything else you do. But…” He looked at her pleadingly. “On my back? Why?”

“Because I wanted to,” she said. “And you enjoyed me drawing it on you.” She didn’t sound angry any more, just disappointed.

“That’s not the point. The point is—“

“What? The point is what?” she threw back at him. “Tell me, Gaavan.”

Searching for an explanation, his eyes lit on the bottle of ink and brush on the floor near the mattress. A wicked smile twisted his lips as he grabbed her wrists, pulled her out straight and straddled her. “I’ll demonstrate my point instead!”

“What are you doing?” she screeched, struggling against him. He bundled both lean wrists into one hand and reached for the bottle. “Oh, no…Oh, no you don’t,” she said as she saw what he was thinking.

“Why not? You’ll enjoy it,” he said as he stuck the brush between his teeth and picked up the bottle, flipping the cap one-handed.

“Gaavan!” she cried, straining against his hold on her wrists.

“Ah, come on,” he said around the brush in his teeth as he set the bottle on a small table nearby. Now with both hands free to use, he took her wrists and pinned them under his knees so she couldn’t move them.

“If you do this I promise you, you’ll pay!”

He chuckled and took the brush out of his teeth. “I’ll be so looking forward to it. But right now, it’s payback time.” He picked up the bottle of ink, dipped the brush into it. “Now…what to do, what to do…”

“Gaavan!” The red-haired girl squirmed beneath him, but to no avail.

“What’s the matter? It’ll wear off,” he said, grinning wickedly at her.

“Bastard!” she muttered, still straining against him.

“Hmm…” He sat back, bottle of ink in one hand, brush in the other and examined his “canvas.” She was nude beneath him and he had an excellent view of her breasts. “Ah ha!” he said and lowered the brush.

“Don’t!”

“Quiet or I’ll paint whiskers on you,” he growled without looking up.

“AH!!” she shouted as the tip of the brush touched her skin. “It’s cold!”

“Imagine that,” he said with a snicker. “Seems I said the same thing. What was it you said? ‘It will warm up.’”

“You’re dead,” she muttered past chattering teeth.

“You wouldn’t kill me,” he said without looking up. He added another stroke and watched her writhe. “I like what that does,” he commented.

“What?” she asked, against her better judgment.

“The way your breasts jiggle when you struggle.” He looked up into her eyes and winked at her.

She gave him her most poisonous glare. “I am going to hurt you.”

“I doubt that.” He winked again then went back to his sketching.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Turnabout, my dear, is fair play,” he answered without looking up. After just a few more strokes he sat back and grinned. “There. Finished.”

Zaira lifted her head and peered down at herself to see what he’d done. Splayed across her chest was… “What is that? A scribble?”

His grin twisted into an annoyed snarl. “It isn’t a scribble.”

“It looks like one.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s…” He stopped and considered his answer. It was safe enough to tell her; she wouldn’t recognize it. Out here on the frontier, the names of Shabranigdu’s Generals had been lost for a thousand years. “It’s my name.” He moved aside and let her up as he set the bottle of ink—tightly capped—and the brush on a table.

“It is?” Zaira sat up and peered down at it. “That seems a strange way to write your name.”

“That’s the way it’s done where—where I come from,” he hedged.

“How interesting,” she said, venom sneaking into her voice as she looked up and glared at him. “So you doodled your name on my breasts?”

“Yeah,” he said with a sudden grin. He sat back up and leaned towards her. “And it’ll stay there for six weeks. Or more.”

“Get away from me,” she said and pushed him away. Or tried to. He grabbed her and pulled her close to him again.

“Oh, no,” he said. “You can’t get away from me. Especially not with my name scrawled on your chest to let everyone know who—”

“I don’t belong to anyone!” she snapped, interrupting him. “I thought you understood that.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” he said in a suddenly serious voice. “I was going to say so that everyone would know who is close to your heart. Just as you did to me.”

“I…” she gaped at him then suddenly smacked him. “Damn you!”

“What?” he demanded.

“You always know the right things to say and say them before I can!” She collapsed into his arms and rested her head against his hard chest and slipped her arms around his waist. “I wish I’d said that first.”

“You did,” he said softly with a chuckle. “You just didn’t say it out loud.” He held her a moment in silence before adding, “I like it.”

“What?”

“The dragon. I like it.” His grin turned wry. “I even like the thought of it being on my back…sort of.”

She laughed and sat up. “It looks good back there, too. Like a tattoo, only without the sharp, pointy objects digging into your skin.”

He smiled. “You’re absolutely right.” He pulled her up so he could kiss her. “Still mad at me?”

“Of course.” She was grinning as she said it, however.

“Good. I like bedding you when you’re mad. You’re more energetic.” He pushed her down to the mattress and pinned her in one swift movement.

“Gaavan!” she shouted.

“See? Already you’re shouting my name and I’ve barely even touched you.”

She reached up and grabbed his hair and jerked him down roughly. “We’ll see who’s shouting whose name,” she growled and pulled him down and kissed him hard.

He was quite breathless by the time he managed to pull away from her deathgrip on his hair. Panting, he looked down at her. “See?” he said. “Much more energetic.”

“Oh, I haven’t begun to show you,” she said, her voice sultry and full of dark promises.

“I’m so looking forward to it,” he murmured just before he leaned down and kissed her neck.

Finis