The way was dark but for a sliver of moon. The town was not as small as Ta Glen, but it certainly seemed to button up tightly after nightfall. Very little light shone through curtain-drawn windows. Anton began to understand why the girl wished for an escort. Impenetrable shadows leered from every alleyway. She walked close to him, filling every breath of the surrounding silence with tales of travelers and childhood sights from her father's military tours with the Royal Army.
Anton felt Dickny's shoulder brush his forearm--she was a diminutive thing--and was grateful for the bath he'd taken in the river that afternoon.
"Have you encountered any Dark Walkers on the road?" she asked. Anton felt his skin crawl. A flash of horrifying images--the twins standing beside him one moment, ripped into the shadows the next; his mother's eyes when--he shook his head. Dickny looked up at him and must have seen the expression on his face. "Gods, I'm sorry."
"It's fine."
"No, look what you've done, Dickny." She patted Anton's arm before slipping her own beneath his cloak and around his waist. Her touch felt incredible, her body warm, the pressure of her breasts molding perfectly to his side. He craved nothing more than to melt into her. Instead, he let the quarterstaff fall from his hand. It clattered loudly and reminded him of its need for repair.
"Sorry," he muttered awkwardly, slipping away to fetch the stick. "I care not to think about that."
Dickny waggled her head and pulled her cloak more tightly. "I'm the one who should apologize. I let my mouth run away with me sometimes. All the time, actually." They reached the docks and the remnant Wharfman's Guild building. "Well, Anton of the noble Sahtozsman. I thank your courage for safe passage."
Anton gave his best bow. "And I thank you for good company, my lady."
Dickny curtsied and turned to go. Abruptly, she stopped. "You sure you have a place to bed down? I hate to see one of us wandering the night without a place to put his head."
Anton hesitated. "Where did you learn about the Sahtozsman?"
Dickny smiled. "My da used to read the Sahtozsman Diaries to me as a child."
Anton shook his head. Any girl who grew up to tales of the wandering storymakers had to be worth a measure of trust. "If it's not too much trouble, I think I will take you up on the offer of shelter."
Dickny wrinkled her nose. "Are you serious? Does everybody have to ask twelve times before the Great Anton hops to? Is that the lucky number? Come on, then! Pull up your hood. We aren't allowed male guests in the dormitory." Anton swallowed on a dry throat and obeyed.
The Guild was three stories of river stone and mortar. It had once held lavish apartments above a grand meeting hall. Now, it was something of a dormitory. If one considered coffin-sized wooden cubbies padded with straw to be housing. Still, the wealth of body heat made the place warm, and even with the snores and coughs and thickness of breath, Anton was grateful to be out of the elements.
"You'll get in first," Dickny whispered. "There's an extra blanket for you, so don't go stealing mine. Keep your back turned until I'm under my blanket. And gods honesty, you'll keep your hands to yourself or I'll scream until I'm blue and you're deaf."
Anton nodded, then realized Dickny likely couldn't see his nod. "Okay," he whispered softly, then crawled into the cubby where an oppressive sense of claustrophobia was waiting. His own breath seemed to rumble in his head. Turning to face the wall, he focused on the blessed softness of straw and the exhaustion that he'd only held at bay by sheer force of will. He heard a rustle of clothing, and a moment later Dickny's sweet breath filled the cubby.
"I will wake you before dawn," she whispered. "You will need to slip out before first light."
He started to nod again--he'd traveled alone, spoken seldom, keeping his own company for too long--and forced himself to whisper his thanks. Feeling his eyes grow leaden, Anton was drawn quickly toward his first untroubled slumber in ages.
The dream was effortless. Warmth, softness, and a gentle caress coaxing life into his loin. Drifting lazily on a pillow of sweet angel breath and delicate touch, Anton could just hear a small whisper over the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears.
Gently,
the whisper said.
He felt a wonderful strain as need caused his hips to move in a purposeful motion. Every motion suffused him with more heat, and when the kiss of soft pressure asserted itself against his abdomen he felt the urge to meet it. The pillow of firm warmth yielded to his thrust and he felt his imagination reach with his arms to draw the fantasy closer.
Anton drew deeply off the scent of freshly baked bread and sweet brown ale--a serving girl's hair. Liga Flang's hair had smelled that way. Her father's inn was the likely source. How often had he fantasized about finding her alone in one of the upstairs rooms? Coming upon her while she was changing bed linen...
