“But how good are we, Iome, if we are only good in public?”

Gaborn hugged her, pulled her back against his chest, but did not kiss her. Instead, it seemed an invitation to rest again, to try to sleep. But Iome could not rest now. She tried to relax.

She wondered if he meant it. Was he trying to be good, or did he secretly find her repulsive? Perhaps even in his own heart, he dared not admit the truth.

“Iome Sylvarresta,” Gaborn said, his voice distant, highly formal. “I have ridden far from my home in Mystarria to ask you a question. You told me two days ago that your answer would be no. But I wonder if you would reconsider?”

Iome’s heart pounded, and she thought furiously. She had nothing to offer him. Raj Ahten was still within the borders of her country, had taken her beauty, destroyed the heart of her army. Though Gaborn claimed to love her, she feared that if Raj Ahten lived, Gaborn would never see her natural face again, but would instead be forced to gaze on this ugly mask for as long as she lived.

She had nothing to give him, except her own devotion. How could that hold him? As a princess of the Runelords, she’d never have imagined herself in this position, where she would love a man and be loved, though she had nothing but herself to offer.

“Do not ask me that,” Iome said, lips trembling, heart racing. “I . . . cannot consider my own desires in this matter. But, if I were your wife, I’d try to live in such a way that you would never rue the bargain. I’d never kiss another the way I just kissed you now.”

Gaborn held her, comfortably, easily, so her back was cupped against his chest. “You are my lost half, you know,” Gaborn whispered.

Iome leaned back against him, luxuriating at his touch, while his sweet breath tickled her neck. She’d never believed in the old tales which said that each person was made of but half a soul, doomed to constantly seek its companion. She felt it now, felt truth in his words.

Playfully, Gaborn whispered into her ear. “And if you will someday have me as your husband, I’ll try to live in such a way that you will never think me too much a gentleman.” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, hugged her tightly and let her lean her head back against his chest. The inside of his left wrist rested on her breast, and though she felt aroused by his touch, she no longer felt wanton or embarrassed.

This is how it should be, she thought—him owning me, me owning him. This is how we would become one.