Rhys let out a long breath. “I thought this day would never come.”

Meera turned to him with a smile. “I told you the formal feast was a marathon. And that wasn’t even the long feast, that was the short—”

“No.” Rhys took her hand in both of his and brought her knuckles to his lips. “I’m not talking about this week.”

He led her inside the tent, which had been outfitted like something out of a fantasy novel. Rugs and pillows covered the grass, tapestries hung on the walls, and banners covered the ceiling. A bed was raised on a platform near the center of the tent, and a washroom and bath had been built and partitioned off the back. There was no electric light, but skylights would illuminate the interior during the day and lamps glowed at night.

Meera had never seen anything like it, not even during her luxurious upbringing in Udaipur. “This is amazing.”

“Beautiful.” Rhys wasn’t looking around the tent. He was looking at her.

“Rhys—”

“I want to say something to you,” he said softly. He led her to the center of a tent where a round stove sat with a small glowing flame. It wasn’t cold, but Meera knew the fire was from the sacred flame burning in the ritual room of the haven. Rhys would need ashes from the fire to tattoo his talesm after their mating.

Meera sat on a low cushion near the stove. She couldn’t take her eyes off the tall man who was quickly becoming the steady center of her world. She held out her hands for Rhys’s as he sat across from her.

He took them and gripped them tightly. “I never thought this day would come for me. I wasn’t talking about the formalities this week. Those were… an honor. Truly, I consider all these guests, everything your parents have done, to be an enormous honor.” He stared at their joined hands but didn’t look at her.

“What are you trying to say, Rhys?”

“I remember those months. That horrible summer. I remember the Rending. The heartbreak and the terror. Though much of my family survived, not all did. More than that, I saw singers I’d grown up with, ones I’d cared for, killed during that time.” He looked up, raw emotion clear on his face. “I have been a cynic for most of my life because I didn’t think I had any reason to hope. I did my duty, but in my heart I thought our people were too broken to survive. Even as I watched my brothers find mates in the past few years, I doubted. And I honestly did not think I would ever have that same privilege.”

Meera squeezed his hands. “Why not?”

“I don’t know.” He smiled a little. “Maybe the Creator thought I was too contrary. Too much of a doubter.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“I know that now.” He cleared his throat. “What I’m saying, Meera Bai, is that you are the most unexpected and perfect gift I didn’t have the hope to imagine. I could not have imagined you. I wasn’t capable of it.” He finally looked up and met her eyes. “It has nothing to do with your role or your magic or your status in our world. None of those things matter to me. You are sha ne’ev reshon. My beloved. Your brilliant mind. Your open heart. Your wit and your optimism.”

Thank you, Uriel, for the gift of this man. Meera’s heart was too full to speak.

“You could have been anyone,” he continued. “A farmer or a healer or a tradeswoman, and you would still have been the most perfect gift I wasn’t capable of imagining.”

Meera leaned forward and captured his lips. She couldn’t take any more. Tears filled her eyes. Her heart overflowed with the desire to touch him, possess him, make him hers. She pulled away, tears wetting her cheeks. “Put your mark on me, Rhys of Glast, because you are my own perfect gift, a man who sees me. Not the role I have been given or the gifts I bear. I already love you. I wasn’t expecting that. I never could have imagined it. Thank the heavens the universe is wiser than we are.”

Rhys kissed her again, pressed his lips to her throat, and lifted his hands to the back of her neck where he began to unbutton the silk tunic she wore. His dexterous fingers made quick work of the fastening; he stood, drawing her up, and Meera let the tunic fall to the ground. Rhys knelt before her and pulled down the silk that covered her legs. He reached up and untied the linen undergarments that veiled her until she was bare before him.

“Goddess,” he murmured, kissing the top of her pubis.

She smiled. “I am no divinity.”

“You are to me.” He stayed on his knees, running his hands from her knees up to her hips and along the curve of her waist until he cupped her breasts in his hands.

“Mark me, Rhys.”

“I have to taste you first.” He lifted her leg and draped it over his shoulder. “I’m too hungry to think.”

Meera braced her hand and closed her eyes as Rhys feasted on her. He held her breast in one hand, teasing the nipple, and he gripped her bottom with his other hand, pressing her flesh to his mouth.

“Gabriel’s fist!” She gasped. The swiftly building climax was so intense she nearly lost her balance. “Rhys!” Her knees buckled, but he caught her around the waist.

“There.” He nibbled the inside of her thigh. “Now I can think.”

“I can’t.” Meera carefully lowered herself to the cushion before the fire. “Sorry. My brain has completely abandoned me, so we’ll have to finish this mating another time. I can’t remember my song.”

He chuckled and swatted her bottom playfully. “Turn around.”

“Are you staying clothed?” She turned on the pillow. “That seems very unfair.”

“If I don’t keep these clothes on, I’ll never finish your mating marks. If I don’t finish, I don’t get to hear your song.” He pulled her closer, his chest to her back, and whispered, “And I have been waiting hundreds of years to hear your song.”

She saw the henna pigment and brushes laid out by the fire. Rhys chose the finest sable brush and dipped it in the ink. Then he kissed the nape of her neck. “Are you ready?”

Meera closed her eyes. “Yes.”

As the brush slipped over her skin, she entered a meditative trance. She could feel the fine curls and intricate twists of his hand. The magic touched her skin and grew. She could smell it rising. Taste it in the air. Incense had been lit, and the heady fragrance mixed with the scent of magic.

Rhys hummed as he wrote, old songs and whispered melodies as ancient as the people whose line he continued. In her mind’s eye, Meera saw rolling green fields and dark crags of rock rising from cold seas. Grey skies and damp earth that smelled of salt and sea grass.

The brush slid down the center of her back and swept up to her left shoulder. She could feel the fine hairs lifting to follow Rhys’s hand. His lips touched her shoulder, a featherlight brush of fingertips on her arm. Meera lost all sense of time, staring intently into the blue and red flame as Rhys marked her.

The trappings of ceremony and pomp had been stripped away. They were male and female, two beings of angelic blood binding their magic in a ritual as old as time.

Meera felt Rhys’s magic lock hands with her own, a simple moment of clarity and understanding as the veil of self ripped in two. A surge of power lifted her mind to a new plane.

Complete.

Her magic flexed and flooded spaces previously unseen. She felt full. Redolent with power.

Rhys was whispering to her. “Sha ne’ev reshon. Eos ni danya. Sha nahiya. Ya le disha silaam.”

Meera’s head spun with his fervent demands. “Please,” she whispered.

“Almost, my love.” His teeth sank into her shoulder a second before he started writing on it. Rhys spun her around and captured her lips, his brush never leaving her skin. He pulled back and continued writing, his lips full and flushed red, his green eyes intent, his fingers quick and clever as they held the brush. The spells written in henna trailed down her arms then up, dipping across her breasts and over her heart. He marked her collar, her belly, her pubis and her thighs.

His spells were a delicate bouquet of potent magic, as beautiful as they were powerful. Spells for binding their magic. Spells for health and healing. Strength and longevity. As he wrote, Meera felt his magic wrap around her like an embrace. Tears welled up in Meera’s eyes. The need for him grew with every inch he marked.

“Rhys, please.”

“Breathe, my love.” He kissed her. “I’m writing my vow.”

“Before time was counted,” he whispered.

The ink was still wet on her skin when Rhys finished. Kneeling before her, he curled over her feet and gripped her ankles. Meera could tell he was both exhausted and exhilarated. His spells covered her in glowing gold talesm. After the henna faded, they would remain within her, bound to Meera through her life.

In that moment she was a living vessel of Rhys’s magic, and he was at his most vulnerable. In this state, loaning power to a ready and willing singer, a scribe bared his soul. It was the ultimate moment of trust.

Meera waited motionless for the last mating spell to dry on her skin. The air smelled of fire, incense, and living magic.

“My love.” She rose and held out her hand. He lifted his head and looked up. Vivid green eyes held hers, and Meera’s heart flipped in her chest.

Even in his weakness, he captured her.

Rhys rose and took her hand. She led him to the bed and he sat. She took her time unbuttoning his tunic and opening it, baring his tattooed skin to her eyes. The intricacy of his familiar talesm was now echoed on her skin.

“We match,” she whispered.

“We always did.” He watched her, never taking his eyes from her face. “You undo me.”

Meera paused, then pushed the tunic from his shoulders. “And you have captured me. Like a fox tamed to eat from your hand.”

His hand hovered over her breast, but it did not touch. “Are you hungry now?”

She could feel the heat of his palm. “Yes.”

Rhys lifted his hips, and she slid silk trousers down his legs. She unwrapped his linen undergarment as he leaned back, watching as she undressed him.

His skin was pale, flecked with dark hair that lightly covered his chest and trailed down his belly. His musculature was firm and lean, not bulky like so many of the warriors she’d known in the past.

“When I first met you,” she said, “you reminded me of a leopard.”

“A leopard?”

“Powerful and lean.” She pushed him back on the bed. “Watchful. Dangerous.”

Rhys swung his legs over to lie flat, his erection jutting upward, drawing her touch. He hissed when she gripped him, then let out a long sigh of relief. “You reminded me of an imp, sent to torment me.”

Meera smiled. “Do you want me to torment you?”

“In any way you like.”

“Like this?”

“Heaven above.” He groaned when she squeezed him. “Yes and yes and yes again.”

She wanted to kiss over his whole body, but that pleasure could wait. He was vulnerable in this moment, and she found herself uncomfortable with the loan of his power. She was uneasy with it, her body shaking with magic.

Rhys scooted over to the center of the bed. “Come here.”

Meera went gratefully, the magic so full within her that her jaw clenched. “I need to sing.”

“I know.” The playful teasing was gone from his expression. “Meera, come here.”

Her skin ached all over. “I need—”

“I know what you need.” Rhys took hold of her hips and urged her to straddle him. He lifted her up and reached between her thighs.

“I’m ready.” Meera ached with need. “Rhys, please.”

He arched up as she slid down, and Meera nearly cried in relief. He filled her, body and soul. Rhys knit their hands together as Meera rocked over him. He urged her down and captured her lips.

“Sing,” he murmured against her mouth. “Sing to me.”

Meera began the S’adrasa Kasham, the ancient mating song of the Irina that would bind Meera’s magic to Rhys. As she began, she felt the mating marks Rhys had written come to life as his magic rose and the marks glowed silver in the dim light.

The torches had flickered out, and the only lights illuminating the tent were the low light of the sacred fire and the silver-and-gold radiance of their magic.

Meera sang verses composed by the Forgiven that bound Irin and Irina magic into one, completing the circular power of the heavens. Feminine and masculine. Spoken and written. The language of the heavens alive in perfect harmony. As she sang, Meera saw the fullness of Rhys’s soul and her own merge. Dark and light. Night and day. They were necessary to each other, incomplete alone, only perfect in union. He was the body, she the breath.

Meera’s song lasted for over an hour; their conjoined magic gave her strength. Rhys held her over him, their bodies linked, potent with magic.

Coming to the end of the song, Meera finally felt the effects of borrowing Rhys’s power. She was hungry and exhausted all at once.

He urged her on. “Only a little more.” Rhys had been revived as Meera gave him her magic. His skin was ruddy and his talesm shone vivid in the darkness. He sat up and wrapped his arms around her, their bodies locked together. “Sha ne’ev reshon.” He wiped the tears that fell down her cheeks. “Give me just a little more.”

Rhys began to rock gently, the length of him filling her up as her body grew needy and focused on pleasure. Love and desire burned in her breast.

“Just a little more,” he whispered. “Give me your song, reshon.”

Meera opened her heart and sang the last of her song, the vow that would rest over Rhys’s heart, the talesm that would shine every time they made love.

Meera gave in to the magic. It wrapped itself around them and bound them. Rhys gripped her hips, lifting her as the power of her voice and his touch grew more potent. Fire chased fire. Gold chased silver. The light grew and built until power rose and spilled over, cresting with her climax and pouring from Meera into Rhys. Rhys into Meera.

She cried out as their souls rose and merged. She did not know whose pleasure she felt. Theirs was only one pleasure. One heart. One soul together.

Rhys held her head in his hands, angling her mouth to his, swallowing their harsh cry of release. The climax was soul deep, holding them in a timeless place. Meera felt her mind’s eye open, and she wasn’t looking from her own perspective but from Rhys’s. In his vision she saw herself, head thrown back, body marked with magic, dark eyes gleaming with gold light behind them. Her hair was tangled around her body, the intricate halo taken apart by her mate’s hands. Her cheeks were red and flushed. Her lips swollen from his bite.

She felt him in that moment, felt his heart and his desire. Aching tenderness combined with a need so powerful it nearly destroyed her.

Goddess, his mind said.

Do not call me a goddess, her mind whispered back. A goddess cannot love you as I can. Here between us, we leave all roles behind. Call me a woman. Just a woman.

You are a woman. And you are mine.

Come with me, the voice of memory whispered to them. And I will show you what we can do. Meera recognized the power of the somasikara rise within her, flooding into Rhys as their bodies and souls remained linked.

* * *

They lounged on a silken pillow, Anamitra’s body swollen with child. Firoz held her hand.

“This child is not the keeper,” she whispered. “I can feel his mind.”

“Are you certain?”

“She must come from another of my blood.” Sorrow overwhelmed Anamitra. This son would be beloved, but he would not survive to adulthood, and she would have no other children. Vasu had whispered the news to her as she wept, but she could not tell Firoz. Her mate’s fierce heart would be broken. She would treasure every day of her child’s life, each one more precious for knowing the end before the beginning.

Meera felt the familiar weight of a newly revealed memory, because each one showed itself only at the time it was needed. She was expecting that. What she wasn’t expecting was the already-familiar touch of Rhys’s soul settled next to hers. He was Firoz. He was Rhys. He was within and of the memory just as she was.

She fell back into the plane of memory, taking him with her.

* * *

Kashvi arched her back, the sweet release Jargrav offered her a symphony of pleasure and sharp pain. The tiny bites he’d made with his teeth crossed her belly in an intricate geometric pattern designed to please his eyes as he drank his pleasure from between her thighs.

“Are you going to write this down?” she asked him with a panting laugh.

Jargrav stood from kneeling by the bed. “Of course I am.”

Her serious warrior looked grave; only she could see the teasing light he showed no other. As he scribbled notes on a scroll, she drew his erection toward her lips. “Shall I add to your new poem?”

His hand came down on her shoulder and held her in place. “You’ll have me singing my own song, lover mine.”

Meera pulled away from the intimate moment and felt Rhys with her, his hunger echoing the dark glint in Jargrav’s eyes. She forced herself to the surface of her mind, holding her hand out for her mate to come with her.

* * *

They woke together, their bodies still locked in place. He was erect within her, aroused from the stolen memory of Jargrav and Kashvi.

“What was that?” he asked with a gasp.

“I’ll explain later.” She pushed him back and braced herself over him, moving with an urgency born of magic and memory. “Again. I need you again.”

“Yes.” Rhys rose up, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and rolled them over, landing hard on top of Meera. He rose on his knees, hooking his hands around her thighs and dragging her closer.

“More!”

“This is me,” he said, his teeth clenched. “This is you.”

“Rhys.” She made sure to say his name. He stroked her with expert fingers, the pleasure of it forcing a cry to her lips.

“Come with me,” he said. “Meera—”

“Yes!” She came again, her mating marks bright gold in the darkness. He shouted her name when he climaxed. They reached their pleasure together, then Rhys fell to her side, gasping for breath.

Meera gave him a few moments, then she rolled toward him, ready to answer the inevitable questions.

She didn’t get far. “Rhys—”

“Quiet.” Rhys hooked her leg over his hip. “Jargrav wrote thirteen scrolls of magical congress.” His chest was heaving, but he had a familiar glint in his eye.

“I probably should have warned you that— Wait, thirteen? Most of them are anonymous. How do you know—”

“We can both explain later.” He entered her with aching slowness. “But trust me. Jargrav wrote thirteen scrolls of magical congress, and I remember them all.”