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“I usually slept in a shirt and leggings,” she sighed regretfully.

Pyetar grabbed his chest as if in pain. “Don’t ruin my fantasies.”

“You like picturing me in a nightgown?”

His eyes darkened further, mouth parting. “I like to picture running my hands up the sides of your legs, pushing it higher and higher. Slowly revealing every inch of you. Slowly pulling it off.”

Iryana swallowed and Pyetar watched the movement of her throat.

Instead of kissing her like she desperately wanted, Pyetar asked, “Do you remember the first time I brought you here? After you’d slipped away from the fort after that party? Came back barely able to walk?”

She nodded. That was the night she had told him why she was really trying to join the 18th. The night she first started to let him in.

“I wanted to kiss you that night,” he admitted. “I was so close, but I knew you didn’t want me to. No matter how much you had stared at my mouth.”

She shuddered at the memory of that night. His candlelit kitchen, his knuckles brushing against her stomach as he tended her wounds.

“And when we kissed that first time in your room in the barracks—after the pit fights,” he continued, “I couldn’t get it out of my head. Almost let a dakya get the best of me on my next mission because I was too busy thinking about your mouth.”

“Speaking of my mouth,” she breathed, fisting her fingers in his hair and pulling his lips down to hers.

Pyetar groaned, the sound vibrating in his throat, but he kissed her back hard. Like he was claiming her, claiming them.

He moved over her as Iryana wrapped her legs around his waist, her insides already tightening.

Impatiently, she pulled his sweater off, quickly unbuttoned his shirt, and tossed it all onto the floor. And then she ran her finger over the soft curling hair and the metal-forged tattoos that wrapped around his chest like chains.

Pyetar chuckled at her rush, but the sound turned into a groan as she raked her nails down his back. He settled his weight between her thighs, and Iryana gasped. She was already so desperate for his touch, her back arching into his chest.

“I want you now,” she begged. She didn’t have it in her to be patient.

“Tomorrow night, you’re coming to my room. And we’re taking our time,” he warned her before trailing his tongue up the side of her neck.

“Gods, yes.”

He quickly relieved them of the rest of their clothes, and then he was sinking deep inside her.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling out slowly and pressing back in even deeper.

“Faster,” she cried, eyes squeezed shut from the euphoria already racing through her body.

He moved fast, Iryana rocking her hips to meet each thrust. Then he kissed her, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth, sending waves of pleasure between her legs.

Soon she was falling into oblivion.

Afterward, Pyetar had her back in his arms, carrying her toward the kitchen. He held her against his chest with one arm, and dragged a chair away from the table, sitting it in front of the oven where a strong fire burned. Pyetar sat her in the chair, retrieving her brush from the table. He slowly brushed her hair in front of the fire until it was dry.

“I love you, Pyetar,” she said softly, as he braided her hair.

“I love you too.”

She could hear the smile in his voice.

The next morning, Iryana sought out Vaneshta to organize smaller patrols and watches. The dakii might be gone, but there were plenty of other threats to worry about.

She found her friend in the barracks parade yard, working with a group of initiates, demonstrating a series of cuts and thrusts with a wooden sword.

Iryana smiled, content to watch her for a moment. Vaneshta was exacting and hard, but she was also an amazing teacher and a brilliant swordswoman. The future soldiers looked at her with awe, like she was a goddess herself—a warrior goddess.