Chapter Text
"She barely left your side when you were unconscious."
Cullen sat back and looked up at Cassandra. He missed his armor's weight, but didn't have the strength for full plate. His replacement armor wasn't ready yet. Dagna put aside all other work to complete it, using the Inquisition's stock of dragon bone. It would be a masterwork, she assured him.
Cullen raised an eyebrow at the extravagant materials and re-assignment of the arcanist, but was told it was "Inquisitor's orders."
"I know," he said to Cassandra.
He escaped the Fade a week ago and spent several days weak and barely able to stay awake for the parade of well-wishers. Evelyn kept watch over him; when he woke, she was there, and when he had a nightmare, it was her voice that drew him from it. If he woke in pain or with a chill, it was her magic that surrounded him. He knew the touch of her power and could mistake it for no other.
Cullen was not left alone with Evelyn, between visitors, nurses, healers and the surgeon, much to his frustration in his brief waking hours. When it was clear he would recover sooner rather than later, he was moved into the refurbished guard tower next to his office and saw Evelyn even less.
She continued to check on him. Cullen knew when she had been there, even when she came and left while he slept; her perfume hung in the air.
She had her duties, and he had his -- once he could manage to stay up longer than an hour at a time. He was sure she wasn't avoiding him; on occasion, she looked at him with such a strange expression, as if she were caught between surprise and relief. It seemed she was on the verge of speaking several times, but thought better of it.
"I don't think you realize how shaken she was," Cassandra said. "We feared what would happen to her if you ..."
"If I died," he said evenly.
"Yes." Cassandra's dark eyes were somber. "I would have grieved as well if you died, Cullen."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. When Cassandra arrived in Kirkwall, he expected to be drummed out of the Order, and the prospect had been a relief.
Duty didn't allow him to give up, and Kirkwall had been chaos. The sheer cost of life after the chantry explosion was staggering. Cullen and his templars pulled men, women, children and infants of all races from the rubble. Lowtown, with its narrow streets and dilapidated buildings pressed cheek and jowl against one another, was especially hard hit.
They had to burn mountains of bodies and the choking, stinking smoke cast a pall over the city.
Healers were needed for the wounded, but the fighting at the Gallows killed many of them. The irony was bitter, and Cullen heard those suffering without hope of surcease screaming in his nightmares.
Some took advantage of the chaos to loot and riot. Many survivors were killed, raped and robbed as the city guard and templars struggled to rescue those trapped, tend to the injured, identify the dead and feed, shelter and clothe the displaced.
If Cassandra arrived in the immediate aftermath of the explosion, Cullen couldn't have left his post, but a semblance of order had been restored and the political games had begun …
He expected to be called to account for his failure to stop Meredith sooner. She was his commanding officer, but also his responsibility. That he followed orders was no shield. They were orders that perverted the Order's mission, and he knew it. His fear was overwhelming, but he could not admit to it, so it festered and tainted his interactions with mages.
He had been kind to Kinloch Hold's mages, and that kindness didn't save him from violations of body and mind. In the wake of what they did to his mind, the pleasure and horror they wrung from his body was nothing.
After he realized he hadn't retired and wed Solona, there was only horror and all that came before was tinged with revulsion and shame. He waited for love, but loved and was "loved" under a cruel guise; that his first experiences had been such … it still made him ill. The other templar survivors had seen; all his longings were laid bare. His secret was only kept with their deaths. The price of secrecy was not one Cullen would have willingly paid.
He never dreamed so many -- any -- Kinloch mages practiced blood magic. They hid it so well; Cullen couldn't trust any mage after that. Anyone helping mages exposed templars -- and worse, innocents without their training -- to the same torture Cullen endured. He would go to nearly any length to prevent that, and Hawke frequently had confronted him about his forays into brutality in his zealotry.
But instead of the punishment or exile he had earned, Cassandra brought him before the Divine, who offered him something absurdly rare: a second chance.
Second chances were unfamiliar territory. The idea he could fail in his appointed task, yet try again, was ... breathtaking. That a commanding officer -- his leader -- could offer understanding instead of exile or punishment was foreign. No one ever tried to put Cullen's broken pieces back together or heal his hurts before.
Cullen would have died for the Divine.
Instead, he failed her. That the knights-divine also failed was no comfort; they died with Justinia. His despair was deeper than in Kirkwall.
Then: Evelyn . He was taken by her beauty and felt such things as he had not since the Desire demon's illusion was broken. If raw want was all he felt, he would have ignored it. Cullen was accustomed to physical deprivation.
But she cared about the common people, about their soldiers, about his welfare. She shielded and sheltered, risked her life and staged rescues, and offered comfort and kindness.
Cullen hadn't thought he could have yet another chance; not in his wildest dreams.
Falling in love with her was as natural as dawn following night. That she would love him in return was something for which Cullen was woefully unprepared. There were many things he should have done differently ...
He glanced up at Cassandra. He had let the silence spin out too long. "I treasure your friendship, Cassandra."
"And I yours, Cullen. This is why I am telling you this. All saw how the Inquisitor cares for you. Except you." She studied him with such intensity that he wanted to squirm like a green recruit. "I thought you should know."
"Thank you."
"Don't be a fool," Cassandra said. "That is all I ask. We will confront Corypheus sooner rather than later, and you two have had enough mistakes and misunderstandings for a lifetime. Be plain with one another. You are my friends, and I want you to be happy, but you must communicate clearly.
“Tell her what is in your heart. You will not be surprised by what is in hers." She planted her hands on her hips and glared as if she expected an argument.
"You're right, Cassandra," he said. "I should have listened to you more times than I can count." He looked down at his ink-stained fingers. He had worn gauntlets for more than a decade, and he missed that protective barrier. "If you were to give up being Leliana's Right Hand, I imagine you could take up giving advice in the ... what is it called?" He frowned. "All the ladies are fond of it."
Cassandra stared blankly.
"They review the latest romances." Cullen shuffled through the papers on his desk. "The fluttered scarves?"
Stone-faced, Cassandra crossed her arms.
"They savaged the last chapter of that romantic rubbish of Varric's you wanted me to read." Cullen moved a stack of reports. "Ah, there it is -- the Randy Dowager."
"I don't read such things," Cassandra said coolly.
Cullen shrugged. "If you don't want it, I'll use it for kindling. Varric gave it to me, but I can't imagine why." Cullen raised an eyebrow. "He said he thought I could use some reading material while I was on the mend."
Cassandra fussed with her gauntlets. "They criticized Swords and Shields?"
"They said Varric inexplicably killed off the most compelling character and replaced him with a mustache-twirling subversion of a Tevinter stereotype."
Cassandra gasped. "Magister Pavolotti isn't a replacement for Captain Colin! Let me see that." She snatched the page out of his hand and scanned it. "Ridiculous! I will write a strongly worded letter," she muttered.
Cullen coughed, and Cassandra pinned him to the wall with a glance.
"Commander, we will not speak of this to anyone."
"Of course."
She huffed. "And Cullen?"
"Cassandra?"
"You will wipe that smug grin off your face."
"Yes, Seeker."
Cullen was exhausted. He tired easily now, and it dismayed him -- almost as much as his ravenous appetite did. He couldn’t get enough to eat or enough sleep. He needed to recoup his strength quickly. They would find Corypheus, and he needed to take the field with his Inquisitor.
He needed to talk to his Inquisitor. His fellow advisors and Cassandra had shouldered as much of the workload as they could manage -- both Cullen's and Evelyn's -- during his extended illness, but once they returned to their duties, the amount of work was overwhelming.
On three occasions, he had approached Evelyn and one or the other was pulled away. It was teeth-grindingly frustrating, almost as if some unseen power was intent on keeping them apart.
He sighed, shoulders drooping. Tiredness stole his concentration. It had been a fortnight since he awoke and less than a week since the resumed his duties. He pushed himself hard, but Evelyn did as well.
Several times, he visited her apartments, only to find her asleep over a book -- in addition to trying to catch up on Inquisition business, she continued to research potential methods of rescue for Hawke, galavanized by her appearance to Cullen in the Fade. Cullen chose to leave quietly, letting her sleep.
If he were honest, he could have spoken to her privately. Self-doubt was as powerful and its hold as difficult to break as addiction.
She loved him, of that he had no doubt. And he loved her devotedly, desperately. But he also knew he was unworthy of her love. Did he dare rekindle their relationship when she would be better off without him?
There was a knock at the door and Cullen sighed, tossing his quill aside. He didn't have time for this incessant self-flagellation. He had work to accomplish.
"Come in," he called.
Cole entered, and Cullen was pleased he remembered to knock and enter through the door instead of coalescing out of shadow. Varric had been working with him.
"Good morning, Cole," he said.
Cole tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought. "Ah. Good morning, Cullen."
Evelyn took Cole to Redcliffe on some mysterious errand, and when they returned, Cole was different. Cullen could not explain exactly what the change was, except to say Cole was happier.
"I've brought you a new joke." Cole peered from beneath the wide brim of hat.
"I am ready to hear it, then." It was a small thing, but it proved a distraction at times Cullen desperately needed one, and he was grateful. He was able to hold his addiction at bay on occasion by considering what joke he would tell Cole when the boy next visited. Cullen couldn't fathom how Cole knew he needed something to focus on, but it was one of his talents.
"I walk on four legs at dawn, two legs at noon and three at dusk. What am I?"
"Cole, that's a riddle, not a joke," Cullen said, not unkindly.
"There's a difference?"
"A joke is meant to make you laugh, and a riddle to make you think," Cullen said. "The best of either do both."
Cole considered this for a moment. "They can do both?"
"It's confusing," Cullen agreed. "Would you like the answer to your riddle?"
"Yes."
"A person: a baby crawls, an adult walks and an elder hobbles with a cane."
Cole sat cross-legged on the floor, elbows braced against his knees and chin on his fists, and thought about it.
Cullen turned back to his reports, letting him mull in peace. He made a note to remind Ser Morris the ponchos no longer needed in Crestwood could be re-distributed in the Fallow Mire.
A moment passed, then: "Ah. Yes. Okay."
Cullen leaned forward so he could catch Cole's eye. Eye-contact was difficult for Cole and after a brief moment, Cole focused on the bookcase to the left. Cullen didn't press him.
"Would you like a riddle or a joke in return?" he asked.
Cole pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs, and considered the question. "A riddle," he said. "This time."
"I have no body, just a head; I do not sleep, but have a bed. I run, but never walk; have a mouth, but never talk. What am I?"
Cole pursed his lips. "Is it a spirit?"
"A very good guess, but no."
Cole nodded slowly. "Shall I come back with the answer?"
"Yes. If you can't figure it out, I'll give you the answer; it is supposed to be fun, not frustrating. If you find another joke, you needn't wait."
Cole clambered to his feet, all elbows and knees. He had that particular unfinished adolescent skinniness. Cullen wondered if he would grow out of it now, no longer bound to a dead boy's shape, but capable of change and growth.
Cole hovered, hesitating.
"Goodbye, Cole."
Cole nodded, pleased. "Goodbye, Cullen."
Cole was learning social conventions slowly but surely. It was likely he would never have a complete mastery, but he tried, and Cullen admired that.
It was the effort that mattered, not the result. No two recruits had the same result, anyway, and failing to tailor tactics to the strengths of your people was short-sighted.
Cullen hid a smile; he did not wish Cole to think Cullen was amused by Cole's attempts. Cullen started out regarding Cole as a dangerous spirit, but came to think of him as one of his own -- probably because of Cole's efforts to help him.
Cullen couldn't have done that even two years ago -- changed his opinion on someone so closely tied to magic and the Fade. He also was improving, slowly but surely.
Cole had his own struggle, although his sins were not so great as Cullen's -- Cole believed he did mages a kindness, while Cullen knew he was in the wrong, despite his self-justifications -- but he still went out of his way to help Cullen. If Cullen smiled, it was because he was grateful for Cole's assistance and how far their friendship took him. He was grateful to see Cole as a friend and person, instead of a danger.
Cole was more worthy of Evelyn's esteem than Cullen. His progress was quicker and his obstacles greater.
Cole froze in the doorway, his back to Cullen. "Not unworthy," he said. "Beloved."
Cullen started. "What?" It was unnerving when Cole read his thoughts. A person should have privacy within their own skull, and Cullen was more sensitive than most to the loss of it.
Cole turned. "Not unworthy," he said again. "She never thinks that, not even when she's angry, and you are a stubborn, block-headed templar mired in Chantry propaganda."
Cullen choked back laughter.
"Beloved," Cole said. "Always beloved, her heart's safe harbor."
Cullen's own heart leapt, but Evelyn's private thoughts should be her own, no matter how tempting to hear. Besides, he knew her heart; Cullen didn't need outside confirmation.
"Cole, people's thoughts are private," he said gently. "I know you can't help hearing them --"
"Their hurts call to me," Cole murmured.
"But you shouldn't repeat them, especially not to anyone else," Cullen said. "People's thoughts should stay in their heads."
Cole cocked his head and met Cullen's eyes of his own accord. "If people's thoughts should stay in their own heads, why do you keep putting your thoughts in her head?"
##
Her face was serene. Evelyn was certain of it.
Skyhold roiled with turmoil, soldiers and servants scurrying around like a stomped-on anthill, but her face gave no clue to her feelings. They didn't show in her expression, not once, as she had walked from the war room through Josephine's office and through the great hall to her apartments. Everyone had watched her in silence, but she gave them nothing.
She gripped the balcony railing so tightly her knuckles were white. She was light-headed, and she hadn't fainted out of a sheer act of will. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird in a cage. She looked up at the emerald sky and swayed, despite herself.
The tear grew visibly by the hour. She watched it widen, like a hungry mouth, ready to swallow the world whole.
A wave of overwhelming exhaustion threatened to drag her down. All she had done, and there was more. Evelyn widened her eyes and looked up at the sky so tears wouldn't fall. She tasted coppery blood on her tongue; the insides of her cheeks bled freely.
She wasn't surprised by the footsteps on the stairs. Whoever it was crossed her chamber and paused at the doors between the room and the balcony. Evelyn half-turned, looking over her shoulder. Dorian stood with his arms crossed, his expression unusually pensive.
"Dorian." Her voice was husky, but it didn't tremble.
In two long strides, he crossed the balcony and gathered her in his arms. She shook and would have fallen if he hadn’t held her up. Dorian rocked her, rubbing her shoulders and holding her tight.
"I seem to be crying on your shoulder an awful lot of late," she said.
"Usually when I leave women weeping, it's because they're broken-hearted I can offer them nothing more than a flirtation," he said.
A mix of laughter and tears made her cough. It wasn't very funny or delivered with Dorian's usual panache, but she appreciated the effort.
"You'll be fine," Dorian said fiercely. "We will set things on fire until the problem is resolved."
She sighed. "I'm not worried about myself ... Dorian, if something should happen to you ... any of you ..." She gulped air, her stomach in knots.
"Come and sit down." With uncommon subtlety, Dorian supported her as they crossed -- well, she staggered -- to the chaise.
She sank down, fighting waves of nausea. Her legs were numb and her lips and fingers tingled. She leaned into the arm of the chaise, tiredness making her limbs heavy.
Dorian disappeared into the wine cellar for a moment, reappearing with a glass of watered wine. He handed it to her and she tipped her head back for a long drink; he had poured the water with a heavy hand.
Dorian pulled an Orlesian chair over and sat so he blocked her view outside. Still, the green glow cast an unholy light through the stained glass.
No matter what she or Dorian did, they couldn't escape the reminder, even temporarily.
"I had to practically wrestle Cullen to stop him from chasing after you," Dorian said. "I thought I'd seen him at his grimmest, but he managed to plumb new depths. I told him you needed your mood lightened and sent him packing to the chantry to work some of that black mood out in prayer."
She smiled wanly. "I ... it is good to hear he is concerned."
"Concerned?" Dorian arched an impeccable eyebrow. "He is beside himself." He hesitated. "He loves you, you know. With unabashed devotion."
At that, tears did escape, rolling down her cheeks. She struggled to regain control, clenching her fists and breathing through her nose.
Dorian wiped the errant tears away with his thumb. "I won't tell you not to cry. If anyone deserves to shed a few tears, it's you."
"I won't ... I can't ..."
"You don't have to be in control all of the time, Evelyn." He took her hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze. "No one can control everything, not even the Inquisitor. And you shouldn't have to try."
"That's what I'm afraid of," she choked out. “That something will happen to one of you. I almost lost Cullen, I could lose any of you. It would kill me to lose you, Dorian.”
He brought her hands to his lips and pressed a brotherly kiss to her fingers. “We all knew what we were signing up for, and we knew the potential cost. If it costs my life -- any of our lives -- to save the world, then so be it.” His lips quirked into a smile. “Besides, I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of a martyr. And think of the tales and songs!”
“That’s not funny, Dorian,” she said quietly.
“I thought it was a solid effort.”
“I am going to leave you here if you insist on behaving this way.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Take it as you will.”
“You smiled, at least. That’s something.”
She was quiet for a long moment. “Thank you. I … I needed that.”
“I know. I’ve always said a smile looks good on you.”
She looked away. “I’m … afraid. To lose any of you. To fail the Inquisition. To be unable to stop Corypheus.”
“A tall order, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.”
“Maybe,” she said. “It might cost me my life.” She turned her left hand palm up and watched the play of light and shadow. “I don’t know what will happen, if I try to close the Breach again. If Corypheus tries to stop me. I’m afraid that it will cost one of your lives.”
“You’re not worried about yourself? Especially after you and Cullen have reconciled?”
She pulled her knees up to her chest. “We haven’t had a chance to speak, really …”
“You … what?” Dorian pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and flopped back in his chair, legs outstretched. “Are you telling me that you haven’t kissed and made up? After he spent months brooding and looking at you whenever he thought he wouldn’t be caught? And you spent days and days at his bedside, crying whenever you thought you wouldn’t be noticed? When the sexual tension between the two of you is stifling even when you’re so angry at one another, you aren’t speaking? What are you waiting for?”
Evelyn squirmed. “The right time.”
He sighed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on the verge of an apocalypse. Now’s not the right time for anything, but it may be the only time you have.”
“But what if --”
Dorian leaned forward. “What if you say nothing and, Maker forbid, you die? What do you think that would do to Cullen? The man is completely besotted with you, he’d go to his grave grieving -- and probably in a hurry. Don’t do this to him or to yourself, Evelyn. There isn’t a single reason why you shouldn’t tell him that you’ve been in love with him as long as I’ve known you and still are in love with him, despite every foolish thing the two of you have managed to do to keep yourselves apart.”
“The last thing I want to do is to hurt him,” she said. “But what if telling him I love him, then going off to die hurts him more?”
"Bull and I have spoken," Dorian said steadily. "If one of us should fall --"
"No!"
He smiled and it was gentle and sad. Dorian pressed a finger to her lips, and she lapsed into silence. "If one of us should fall, we know one another's hearts. You are at greater risk than any of us, Evelyn. Do not deny yourself the opportunity to set things right. Do not let uncertainty rob you."
His lips twitched with amusement. "And if I might offer one more suggestion? When you go to him ... don't bother with small clothes. I very much doubt you'll need them."
##
"A prayer for you?" Evelyn asked.
Cullen wasn't surprised. She stood in the doorway for several moments before she spoke. He heard her footsteps and smelled her perfume, but even without those things, he knew. He was finely attuned to her presence.
"For those we have lost." He hesitated. "And for those I am afraid to lose." He endured much and survived, but losing her was more than he could bear. Let her scorn him for the rest of her days, but let her live and he would be content.
"You're afraid?" She stepped closer, looking up at him. She was so close, yet he couldn't touch her.
"Of course I am. Corypheus possessed that Grey Warden at Mithal. What more is he capable of? It is only a matter of time before he retaliates. We must draw strength wherever we can." Anything she needed, anything she wanted, he would give her gladly and damn the consequences.
"When the time comes, you will be thrown into his path again," he said. She accomplished much, and they asked her to do more. He asked her to do more. There was no limit to what their cause demanded. It could take everything, even her life. "Andraste preserve me, I must send you to him."
"What if I can't ... Cullen, if I don't ..." So much vulnerability and such a thin veneer to hide it.
"Maker, no." He gathered her into his arms, and, needing comfort, she didn't pull away. Stopping his heart from beating through an effort of will would be easier than releasing her. She was in his arms again and it felt like something missing found, like coming home again after a long journey.
"Whatever happens, you will come back." Anything else was unthinkable.
"I certainly hope so." The words were measured, but she held onto him like she was drowning. If only he could bear this burden for her.
"The thought of losing you ... I can't." This might be the last time he held her. He committed the moment to memory: her arms around his shoulders and her breath on his neck, the candlelight warring with the shadows and the shafts of golden, late-afternoon sunlight spread across the floor, bird song mingling with someone singing the Chant, the smell of her hair, and the statue of Andraste, arms raised in praise or benediction or supplication, watching over it all.
"Did need for prayer bring you here?" he asked.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "No. Fear of a fate worse than death: Never seeing you again."
"I would not allow death to keep us apart." Without her, the future would be a joyless life of cold duty.
"I am a heretic, so the Chantry said. And a templar is surely welcome by the Maker's side."
He brushed her hair back. "If that were so, I would seek you across the Void for however long it took."
"For a blood mage?" Her tone was light, but her body was tense and trembling.
"For you who have forgiven me much."
She traced his jawline. "So serious." She looked up at him, and now her smile lit her eyes as well. "Don't you know it is bad for your health?"
"So I have been told."
She brushed her thumb over his lower lip.
He closed his eyes. "Evelyn," he breathed. "If you want ..." Whatever she wanted of him, she could have: devotion, freedom, both.
"I want everything you are, Cullen Stanton Rutherford." She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss the scar above his mouth. "I want your laughter and your scowls. I want you to beat me at chess, tell me I'm wrong, share your days with me and wake up beside me. I want you. And if I don't come back ..."
He shook his head.
"If I don't come back, I don't want there to be anything unsaid between us. I thought I would die at Haven. I had many regrets, and foremost was that we parted with harsh words for one another. Then, the Arbor Wilds … “ She closed her eyes, pain written across her face. “I thought you would die. And I had not told you … Again, we face something that seems insurmountable. I would not leave you with any uncertainty." She hesitated, looking up at him, and her eyes shimmered with tears she didn't let fall. "I forgive you. For everything. I ask you for your forgiveness in return. And … " She swallowed. “And I love you.”
Cullen would never ask for anything again if the Maker would allow her to return safely.
It was the most natural thing in the world to kiss her, and he didn't hesitate. He kissed her and prayed, and, somewhere amidst it, the kiss itself became a prayer for forgiveness.
Cullen handled her roughly, but she didn't complain as he backed her against the wall. For the first time since he woke, he was glad he couldn’t yet wear his armor. He didn’t want it between them, preventing him from feeling the soft press of her breasts. His hands were under her tunic, ghosting over her smooth flesh, and Maker, how he loved the feel of her, so fine and soft.
She closed her eyes and parted her lips in invitation, and he bent to kiss her, swallowing her sighs like wine.
"Not here," he said against her mouth. "Someone could find us." Despite his own warning, he palmed her breast, brushing a thumb over a hardening peak. She came to him without underclothes. It couldn't have been deliberate …
She unbuttoned her tunic, and he could see his hands on her, rough and calloused against silk. "Not if you're quick," she said. "Even if they did, they would just turn around and leave." She pulled him down for another kiss, running her tongue over his lower lip. "If they were quiet, we might not even notice them."
He wanted to argue with her, but she slid a leg up his thigh and wrapped it around his waist. She rolled her hips, drawing herself over him, and she was soft and warm. She tilted her face toward him, offering her mouth.
Cullen took what was offered, pressing her against the wall, clutching her hips hard enough to bruise, grinding into her and muffling her cries with his mouth. She wrapped her other leg around his waist, hooking her foot around his calf, arching her back and bracing her arms against the wall to push back against him, hips winding in frottage.
Cullen grunted as his stitches pulled and the strain of lifting her during his convalescence made his ribs ache.
She froze. "Cullen? Is this hurting you?"
He pushed her shirt off her shoulders, baring her breasts, and kissed along her collarbone. "I only have been able to do this in my dreams for months," he growled against her skin. "I'm not about to stop."
“Cullen ... “ she breathed, and her pulse jumped at the base of her throat.
He leaned back for a better angle and to watch the flush spread across her breasts and throat as she panted, lips parted, and chanted his name.
"Quickly," he reminded her.
"As you please." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
He returned her kiss, rolling his hips against her as she moaned. They shouldn't be doing this, someone might come in at any moment, and they would be the source of even more scandalized gossip than they were now. However, Cullen could not deny her when she looked like this -- eyes heavy-lidded with passion, lips parted and swollen with kisses and skin flushed with excitement. Not when she said his name so sweetly.
She was close. Her kisses were fervent, her whimpers urgent and she alternated between threading her fingers in his hair, tugging at his shirt and sinking fingers into his biceps.
It was as if all these lonely months never happened. They only needed to be on the precipitous of death to find one another again. Even as she cried out into his mouth, straining, twisting and writhing against his body and he held her as she shuddered in the aftermath, limp and dazed, Cullen knew even his sincere regret was not enough, not when she might never return.
Evelyn stroked the back of his neck, her face pressed against his shoulder. "I told you no one would catch us," she said.
"Are you so sure no one caught us? Perhaps they turned around and quietly left."
"Careful, people might start thinking you have a sense of humor." Arms still around his neck, she stood tentatively, as if she wasn't sure she could support her own weight.
"Unlikely," he said. "They would think it an aberration."
"It's a credit to the effort you've put into that grim and foreboding facade." Her mouth was swollen, her cheeks flushed and her hair tousled. Maker, anyone who saw her would know exactly what they did. At least they needn't straighten their clothes.
He kissed that swollen mouth. She was sated, but it would take him a few minutes to calm down and alleviate his discomfort. Longer, if he couldn't keep his hands off her. He craved the touch of her skin after so long denied.
She kissed the corner of his mouth, then sank to her knees before him. For a confused moment, he thought she meant to pray. Then she undid his belt.
"Evelyn, no," he hissed. His heart pounded and his flesh leapt under her touch. "We will be caught."
She pressed her cheek against his hip and ran her hands soothingly up and down the back of his legs. "It adds spice, don't you think?"
"No." His breath whistled between his teeth. He could feel every stitch, every lacing in his breeches.
She pressed an oddly chaste kiss to his hip, and he jerked under her touch.
"Do you want me to beg?" she asked.
"Evelyn ..."
"Cullen."
They did not speak for a long moment, only the sound of his labored breathing breaking the silence.
"Did you think I don't know?" Her voice was gentle, even tender. "That it is easier for you when permission is sought and given?"
His heart stuttered in his chest, and he felt exposed, although he was fully dressed.
She knelt at his feet like a penitent, despite her armies and allies, her head bowed, her hair brushing his thighs. "I want nothing that is not freely given, Cullen. Not your forgiveness. Not this."
"I know." His voice was strangled. He felt many things: lust, shame, relief, despair, wonderment, embarrassment, love.
"Please, Cullen?"
He swallowed and closed his eyes, secure in her assurances: Nothing without his consent. He could decide. Perhaps, even here, he could relax, shed command and follow.
"Yes."