Graja accompanied Eloisa to the sovereign’s wide, circular bed. There were white sheets and heavy, padded blankets on it, and she wondered if he’d always slept under blankets, or if he’d had them put on the bed for her. Even if she’d been confident that Graja would understand the question, she wouldn’t have asked it. She was so anxious that she couldn’t trust her voice not to crack or croak.

As she pulled back the blankets, Graja spoke rapidly in Cal’derache, presumably to the sovereign. Eloisa couldn’t make out a word of it, but she could only assume that the maid was telling him what a horrible mess Eloisa had been when she’d found her.

“Wait you,” Graja said, squeezing Eloisa’s shoulders before going over to the sitting area.

Eloisa looked down at the bed, her stomach churning again. She didn’t have to be told to wait. She would have gladly stood at the bedside until her body turned to ice.

Graja returned a few seconds later, carrying a heavy pelt from an animal Eloisa thought might be a white bear. Graja wrapped it around her, securing it so tightly that Eloisa had the impression of being swaddled like an infant. Then, she instructed Eloisa to lean back onto the bed. Once Eloisa was sitting, Graja lifted her legs and had her rest her head on the pillow while she positioned Eloisa, and then covered her up.

She gave Graja a questioning look, but the maid just patted Eloisa’s chest and smiled. She exchanged a few more words with the sovereign, and then departed, closing the door behind her.

Warmth had returned to her cold limbs, but Eloisa was still trembling as the sovereign approached the bed from the other side. She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling as she heard his robe drop to the floor, and then felt the bed dip as he climbed inside.

Her heart was beating to burst by the time he settled his head on the pillow beside hers. She had a thought, that if she could just ignore him and keep staring at the ceiling, he might lose interest and fall asleep.

He began to talk to her, his voice soft and even. Even if Lidia had managed to teach her the whole of the Cal’derache language in an evening, she would not have been able to comprehend him for all of her anxiety.

Eventually, she did start to relax. It was difficult to remain in such a state of panic, particularly when all the sovereign was doing was talking to her. There was also something about his voice, or perhaps his tone, that was inherently soothing, and before long she couldn’t help but peel her gaze from the ceiling.

She turned to look at him, hoping to glean something from his aura. Given that her own thoughts and emotions were in a state of disarray, it seemed bizarre to see his aura so placid and uncolored. It also served to further calm her. If he’d had wicked intentions towards her, she would have been able to see them in his aura.

Wouldn’t she?

“Vysrshta ka fasyna,” he told her, as their eyes met.

Vysr—to look, to appear, to view, and to regard. Lidia had explained to her that while look and see were interchangeable in Atolian, they were two entirely different concepts in Cal’derache. To look at something was to regard it as it appeared. To see something was to know and understand it.

Vysrshta—you look.

Fasyna. Where had she heard that word before?

Eloisa wet her lips. “Fasyna?”

The sovereign’s lips tugged. He lifted his hand to wave it in front of Eloisa’s face, close enough that she could feel the air move and smell his rich scent more deeply, but not touching her.

“Fasyna,” he repeated.

It seemed like a compliment. Was he telling her that she looked pretty?

“Sashta,” she said, thanking him.

His smile widened. “Asashta ka pratre.”

Aside from ka, which could have meant anything, Eloisa didn’t recognize any of the words.

“Wysranesh ka cre,” she told him. I don’t understand.

Eloisa was sure she hadn’t said it right. She was cringing at the sound of her Atolian accent, which sounded so flat and dull compared the rolling, rumbling nuances of Cal’derache.

The sovereign did not seem to mind her horrid pronunciation, though he did chuckle. His aura sparkled with delight, and there was fondness in his eyes as he stared into hers.

“Meserkacre ka shta asakte.”

Eloisa was about to tell him again that she didn’t understand, but his hand came towards her face again. This time, she knew that he would touch her. He moved slowly, watching her face as he did so. Rather than trying to move away, Eloisa went still.

When he touched her, it was to hook a finger beneath her chin. He brushed his thumb along the space beneath her lips, and when she didn’t protest, he began to move it in slow circles.

Her heart started beating faster, but it was not out of fear. She felt the same tingling sensation that she experienced while at the arena, when he’d leaned over to whisper into her ear. Only now, the sensation moved across her face, and then began to travel down her body. The longer his touch stretched on, the farther down it went.

“Tresunsre,” he murmured.

She wanted so badly to know what he meant. Though she recognized the perils of speaking his language, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to resist learning it as quickly as possible, if only so that she could know the things he whispered to her.

His touch moved from her chin and along the curve of her jaw. When it came back down, his thumb brushed against her bottom lip, and the brief contact made her stomach flip. Her lips parted of their own accord, perhaps to take in more air. The sovereign stared at her mouth, his aura flaring with desire.

“Ysan,” he said. He brought his fingers to his own lips and said again, “Ysan.”

“Ysan,” Eloisa breathed. “Lips.”

She earned another smile from him.

“Lips,” he said. His accent was so much more handsome than hers.

Wiggling a hand free from the wrapped fur, Eloisa touched a finger to her nose.

“Nose.”

“Nose,” he repeated, his lips quirking as if he found it funny. His hand moved to his own nose. “Ueta.”

His hand moved up to touch under his eyes, one, and then the other. “Sran.”

“Eyes.” Eloisa touched the space beneath her eyes and cringed, knowing she wouldn’t be able to imitate the strange way his tongue flicked as he spoke the word. She did her best. “Sran.”

His hand returned to her face, and to her shame, Eloisa found herself relishing the simple touch. He brushed his fingers beneath her eyes.

“Sran,” he said again. “Fasyna ka sran.”

Eloisa was blushing when his hand moved to her hair. He took one of her golden curls in his fingers.

“Pytan,” he said.

“Pytan,” she repeated. Eloisa swallowed a lump in her throat, and then gingerly reached out to touch the tip of her finger to one of his dark locks. “Hair.”

As she went to pull her hand back, the sovereign caught her wrist. Shock seized her body and she froze, not even breathing as she waited for what he would do next.

The sovereign brought her hand to his chest and pressed it flat against his cool, hard skin.

“Fresun,” he said. He moved her hand to rest against her cheek. “Tresun.”

He released her wrist, and Eloisa was able to think clearly again. She remembered the first word from earlier. Cold. Was he saying that she was warm?

Tentatively, she reached out to touch the side of his face.

“Fre-soon,” she said, sounding the word out. She brought her hand back to touch her neck. “Tre-soon.”

He smiled and gave her a nod.

Just as she’d let her guard down once more, his arms slipped around her, and he pulled her close to his body. The heavy fur separated them, but Eloisa knew he was naked beneath the covers.

She had already passed the point where she could feign indifference to him. She also couldn’t get away, at least not with any haste, given how tightly she’d been bundled.

And then, there was the other thing. The thing she didn’t want to address, but was most certainly influencing her judgment.

She didn’t want to get away from him.

Of course, she didn’t want him to defile her maidenhood, but she also didn’t mind him holding her. She liked the way he touched her, the way he smelled, and the way it made her body feel, to be so close to him. All of it was wrong, so wrong, she knew that, but she could barely stamp down her excitement as he held her and rested her head onto his pillow.

When she met his eyes again, their faces were less than a hand’s length apart. He spoke to her, speaking slowly for her benefit.

“Ketscre ysur ka shta ka ysan.”

Eloisa knew that he was saying something about her lips. Cal’derache was a language of context, from the context of his mouth so close to hers, she could guess at what he was saying.

For a moment, words failed her. She could think of nothing in the sacred texts that explicitly said she shouldn’t kiss a man, though it was understood that such a thing was forbidden. Men were not even supposed to look upon the face of a Maiden of Light, let alone be in a position where she might be kissed.

But Eloisa was no Maiden. She was a Daughter, and because it was assumed she’d spend her time sequestered in the tower, she’d taken no vows to hide her face. She’d been ten when she’d taken her vow of chastity, but none of the sisters had gone into much detail on what that meant, except that she was to remain a virgin.

Would it be so wrong to let him kiss her?

Her gaze went to his lips, her mind already wondering what it would be like to have them against hers. He was going to kiss her eventually. Better she got it over with. And maybe it would be for the best. Perhaps kissing her would dull his lusts and he would let her rest without trying to do anything more.

By that logic, it made sense that she should let him kiss her. In fact, it was the purest action she could take. She would offer up her lips in order to spare her virginity.

Eloisa gave a slow nod. “Vayt.”

The sovereign had been waiting patiently for her response, and no sooner did she give it was his mouth on hers.

When Eloisa had consented, she’d imagined his kiss to be as she imagined all kisses, a quick pecking of lips. It quickly became clear to her that the Cal’derache did not kiss as Atolians did.

What should have been a single kiss was at least a dozen, feather-soft at first, but lingering longer each time their lips connected. Once she got over the surprise of it, she began to kiss him back, not necessarily because she wanted to, but more as a reflex.

His kiss did not evoke the scorching flame of the goddess’s wrath, but it did create a burning sensation in the pit of her belly. By the time he pulled away, Eloisa was so thoroughly engrossed in kissing him that she whimpered for the lack of contact.

Lips curved and voice husky, he asked, “Reste?”

Eloisa searched his face, but could not discern his meaning. Was he asking if she enjoyed it? It was dangerous to answer a question one did not understand, but he was looking at her expectantly.

“Vayt?” she said.

The sovereign laughed, and then he kissed her again, slowly and deeply. Just as Eloisa was learning the new rhythm, he broke their kiss.

“Reste?” he said again.

Again. It meant 'again.'

Eloisa’s lips formed a quivering smile. “Reste.”

Their next kiss stretched on so long that Eloisa briefly forgot that she was a whole being, rather than just a piece of the sovereign, joined to him by their lips. His cool hand stroked the back of her head, while the other ran along her backside, pulling her as close to him as she could possibly be.

She knew that if not for the fur between them, it would have been easy for him to put his manhood inside of her. Instead of frightening her, the knowledge gave her a unique thrill, the sort that she hadn’t experienced since her younger years, when she’d taken pleasure in circumventing the rules.

Her hand crept up to touch his face, at first just her fingertips, and then she was cradling one side of his jaw. He made a low rumbling sound, and then the cadence of his breath accelerated. She felt his teeth graze her bottom lip and his tongue came out to brush against the seam of her mouth.

Eloisa didn’t know what to make of it, but after a few more swipes of his tongue, she parted her lips and allowed him to penetrate her. His tongue was cold, but not unpleasant, and any strangeness she might have felt was banished with the way he groaned into her mouth. His satisfaction at being inside of her was blatant, and she found that his pleasure heightened her own.

It felt as if they were devouring one another, and Eloisa had no doubts about which of them came out on top. She was so absorbed in him, to the extent that she thought she understood why she’d been made to take a vow of chastity. Nothing she’d ever felt during prayer or communion felt half so good as what he was doing to her.

She had the sense that she was melting into the bed, her insides turning to hot liquid. At the core of her pelvis an ache had begun to build, growing more insistent the longer they kissed.

When they finally came apart, Eloisa was panting. Lord Caleth’s aura burned with passion, the blazing red shooting all the way to the tips of his light.

“Eloisaja…” He was breathing heavily as well. “Sek hatekashta ka cuelldra ketscre ka shta.”

She didn’t know why he’d altered her name as he had, and he’d spoken far too many words for her to make sense of what he’d said, but she didn’t bother puzzling over any of it. He was staring at her with such fondness that it made her feel weak in every facet of her being.

He ran a finger down the bridge of her nose, and then gently pressed her eyelids closed.

“Senshuta,” he said.

He continued to hold her close, but made no effort to unwrap her from the fur. Eloisa told herself that this was a very good thing, because she hadn’t wanted him to defile her, but there was still that throbbing ache in the core of her pelvis, and it was now accompanied by a pang of disappointment in her belly.

What am I becoming?

It was strange to sleep so close to anyone, let alone someone so cold and so male, but she drifted off regardless, still wrapped in the sovereign’s arms.