The Final Strife

“Will we?” She thought about what Hassa had said at the armorsmith’s. They’re all masters to me, even you.

Jond didn’t answer, and Sylah wondered if he knew the answer. His hand slipped out of hers, and he changed the subject.

“Anoor has a good eye for strategy.”

Sylah snorted. “I’m just a good teacher.”

He nodded, his lips quirking. He ran a hand over the shadow of his beard.

“Have you got anything to drink?” she asked, just to break his stare.

“Last time you were drunk here, you passed out and snuck out before I woke up.” He laughed.

Sylah looked at his armor now standing up in the corner of his flat. The desert fox helmet was terrifying up close. The teeth looked sharp enough to cut skin.

“Nice design by the way.”

“You think?” He went over to it and detached the gauntlet. He brought it over to her.

It was even more exquisite up close, the gold detailing of a fox’s claw carefully embossed onto each finger.

“Turn it over,” Jond said.

Sylah frowned but did as he asked. It was like seeing the inside of a skeleton, the rough inner workings of the body of metal. She moved the fingers up and down. Then she saw it, the engraving on the inside of the wrist. She ran her fingers over it.

“For my Akoma,” she whispered. It was what he had called her, all that time ago and then again here, in this house. She looked into his eyes, the usual arrogance softened to tenderness in his gaze.

He kissed her. Tentatively at first, a stumbling, wet, mashing together of lips. He drew away, looked for something in her eyes.

“Is this what you want?” His breath was hot.

“Yes.” The assent from Sylah came out as a growl and he leaned in again, stealing her breath.

This time the kiss was surer. Basil and jasmine and urgency. An urgency she matched with each nip of her teeth. His mouth teased open her lips, his tongue stroking hers lazily. His hands roamed her body, over her breasts and the curves of her back.

He pulled her up onto the kitchen counter, the coldness of the stone underneath a balm on her blazing skin. He parted her legs and moved into the space between them, removing her clothes with sure, steady hands.

She ripped off his shirt with a growl, and he matched her sentiment as he grasped for her undergarments, leaving them in heaps around the room. His fingers found the apex of her thighs, circling her, making her ready. But she was ready, she’d been ready for him for a long time.

He grasped her waist and lifted her off the counter, the length of him inside her in moments. He held them together with the strength of his arms, her legs wrapped around his broad back, her nails sliding along his shoulder blades.

Then he was moving within her.

“Jond.” Her voice was sandpaper rough. He leaned into her lips as she murmured his name again. Their bodies moved in rhythm, a drumbeat of lust thrumming through their muscles. Her breasts were beaded with sweat, and he licked them, teased them, with his tongue.

“I love you,” he murmured into her ear. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The words shivered down her veins toward her heart—her Akoma.

Sylah groaned at the deepness of her pleasure as he moved to a steady beat, faster than her heart but slower than her need. She wanted all of him.

And he gave it to her.

—

They lay entwined in each other, their limbs sticky with sweat. Jond’s nose rested in the sensitive area below her ear, and she delighted in his warm, even breaths on her skin. She felt them lengthen into sleep.

A small smile lingered on her lips. She’d needed this. It had been two mooncycles since she’d bedded anyone, and the release had been satisfying, if brief.