Anya swiped the sweat from her brow, the unusual heat of the spring day lingering into the evening. Her stomach grumbled its displeasure. Though she had not eaten since morning, Anya had felt compelled to exert herself, her body flowing through the Forms in stance after stance, her awareness stilling with each posture. But she couldn't completely erase the disquiet she felt.
Her mind shied away from memories of her dream, which had left its resonance even now. What the dream signified, she did not know. Its vividness had not faded with the day, and the years separating her from Raven's presence fell away. Which added to her uneasiness about the night's events.
Since she had broken with her House, Anya had moved very carefully, calculating each action to achieve her plans precisely. She had been driven to destroy Syril, removing the taint of Har'Boken House from this world. If it came to it, her life had been forfeit, well spent in exchange for the countless others who had been twisted and hurt by her father's dealings.
And yet now, she was acting defensively. She had always known she was tethered to Raven somehow, for his effect on her had been plain. But something in her had thrummed to learn of the rare Kujheel, and the bonding of another, the Kujheel'a'ta. Even as her mind had reeled with the implications, another piece of Anya's mind had settled, as if a long-standing puzzle had finally been resolved.
She had become fixated on the possibility of breaking the bond, inquiring discreetly for knowledge from those she had assisted. When she had learned of Valdine, of the woman's own history as a Kujheel'a'ta, she had reacted quickly, seeking the Sister out. Now, Anya wondered at her single-mindedness.
Her blood quickened at an unbidden memory, her last of Raven before she had abandoned her bloodlines. She had been a fortnight before her Rites, a Noble custom for daughters passing their eighteenth year. After a day of celebrations, daughters were prepared for their lives as women, schooled in the arts of love by select partners, ensuring their enthusiasm for marriage by initiating the young women into the pleasures of coupling.
Anya had been furious to find out her father's maneuverings, selecting Raven as her partner for the Rites. It was unheard of, for a family slave to participate, but then all of Syril's actions with Raven had been unorthodox. And when Syril had informed her of his choice, as was tradition for the father, there had been such a look in his eye, as of old machinations finally come to fruition, it had terrified her. Because she had been learning what miseries Syril could instigate for his own ends, and Anya did not feel protected from those miseries by the virtue of his blood in her veins.
She had hated the flush that came to her face when her father had told her, an image of Raven's body unwillingly forming in her thoughts. Syril had noted that as well, and been too pleased with himself. His eyes had roved over her body, and his face had turned ugly, also flushing.
Unable to bear his scrutiny, Anya had fled Syril's presence, turmoil pushing her legs faster until she had reached the far edges of the meadows, some two miles from the House. When her limbs had finally stopped, she had dropped down to the ground, chest heaving. She lay on her back, legs sprawled, eyes fixed on the night sky above her.
Her breathing had barely slowed when she felt him. Raven.
Her eyes drifted closed as a caress whispered over her skin, Raven closing in on her, though he was still some minutes away. Already her mind sensed the stillness that lay in his direction, the easing of the chaos her father had engendered. As her being reached for him, the tension in her body changed, warmth flushing the surface of her skin.
Anya opened her eyes, watching for his approach. What use in fighting it, her mind distantly thought. Have this night, without Syril's agenda.
When Raven came into view, her breath caught, the fire in his eyes scorching her splayed form. He stood over her, his eyes trailing fire along her legs, her breasts, her face.
She could only see half of his face in the moon's light, though his amber eyes caught and reflected the light so that they gleamed down upon her. His face was taut with unchecked desire, and her body pulsed in response with delicious heat. The connection between them blazed to life, fires rushing back and forth with each beat of her blood.
"Open your gown," Raven commanded huskily, no question of her obedience.
Night birds called softly around them as she studied him. Her hands came up slowly, pushing the buttons through their holes, one by one, from the top. Her wrists grazed her nipples as her hands passed over them, the peaked buds tightening under the caress. Raven's eyes followed her hands, until they came to a stop at the top of her legs, where the last button lay.
Of her own accord, Anya drifted her hands back up along the edges of her unbuttoned gown, laying it open as her fingers trailed up her torso. Her breasts stood proudly under his gaze, nipples pearled tightly in the balmy night air.
They watched each other silently, each drinking in the other, and Anya felt herself grow wet and swollen with anticipation.
