Page 173 of Reign

We made the most of our private chamber, making love over and over again until the first light of dawn.

Battle of the Kinfolk.

Not long after sunrise, Bash and I returned to camp.

I made for the smithy straightaway, ready to offer my help with any last-minute tasks, while Bash—unable to keep his hands off me—followed close behind.

Though the camp buzzed with the chaotic energy of men preparing for war, the smithy was quiet, occupied solely by Godwin.

“Good morrow,” I said as we stepped inside. “Where’s everyone?”

“At the armory, kitting up for battle,” Godwin answered as he placed the final enchanted sword into a barrel. “There’s not enough chain mail for everyone. If you seek protection, you’d best head down there quickly.”

Wrapping his arms around the barrel, Godwin grunted as he heaved it up. “I’ll see you on the beach,” he said, his voice strained under its weight.

“See you,” I replied, watching him shuffle toward the exit.

After the tent flap closed behind him, Bash stepped closer, his hands cradling my face.

“Promise me one thing,” he murmured.

“Anything,” I said without hesitation.

He exhaled sharply. “Promise me you won’t get hurt.”

“I cannot do that,” I replied, my gaze holding his, unwavering. “I vowed never to lie to you again.”

I didn’t waste breath asking for assurances over matters beyond his control. Instead, I closed the space between us, my lips softly grazing his.

We kissed deeply—his fingertips caressing my cheeks as my hands found the dip of his lower back.

“I like you in a pair of breeches,” he mumbled against my lips, guiding my hand to his stiffening cock. “But if you were wearing a kirtle, I could easily be inside of you right now.”

Just feeling him grind against my palm unraveled every ounce of my resolve. The looming war faded entirely from my thoughts, leaving only one desire—how quickly I could get Bash inside of me.

“Take them off,” I whispered between kisses. “Hurry, we still have time.”

Bash chuckled softly, fumbling with the fastening of my breeches, his eagerness matching my own.

A sharp whistle pierced through the tent, and Bash’s hands froze.

“I thought I’d find you two in here,” Fletcher announced as he slipped through the opening, a smirk appearing beneath the brim of his cap. “Fitzroy’s looking for Smith, and we’re being called to board the ships.”

A rush of fear pierced through me—the stark realization that time had run out sank in, biting deep like unforgiving teeth.

“Thou’ll giefan thou theer meed æft’th beadu.” I’ll give you your reward after the battle, Bash murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the worry lines etched into my forehead.

“Hwat’ll pæt wesan?” What will that be? I asked, momentarily distracted.

“Swa hwæt swa theer lic lustas.” Whatever your body desires, he replied, gently squeezing my waist.

“Thee lufian thou.” I love you. I whispered the words in Yfelle, too shy to voice my deep-rooted affection in a language Fletcher would understand.

Yet I felt it—more than fear, more than anything—love.

Bash chuckled warmly. “You think you do?”

“I know I do,” I declared firmly, leaving no room for doubt.