I may not always know what's right, but I know I want you here tonight.

If words were hard, eye contact was harder. Mallos couldn’t hold Croe’s gaze for longer than even a second, dropping it to her collarbone instead. His hands mirrored the movement, loosening and dipping down her back.

He had suspected. Maybe not this, but he’d suspected something when he’d first met Mordred. His son had been a mere child then, an orphan growing up within the oppressive boundaries of Gwythr’s kingdom of per-a’a nakht during the civil war. Mallos had been a prisoner in one of Gwythr’s cells, his magic restrained; Mordred had been the one to release him. That first meeting had felt like an invisible hand had run its fingers through his hair the wrong way. Mordred’s portrayal of a frightened young boy had been so excellent that his one slip-up had lingered in Mallos’ mind for years afterwards: he had executed a complex spell perfectly. Magic was reactive; it responded to emotions. If he’d really been scared, a boy his age should have had more difficulty in conjuring a block of ice to stand on.

Mallos had known that. He’d known something was wrong but he’d done nothing. Said nothing. He let the incident drift into a half-forgotten place and accepted Morgana’s assertion that Mordred was just shy when the latter had kept his distance thereafter.

Croe may not have had suspicions, but if Mallos had acted on his earlier, then she wouldn’t have needed saving.

She took a firmer hold of him and half-dragged him up into a standing position with her. Her skin was warm beneath her clothes – warmer than it had been a moment before. She made a black fist of his shirt, causing the fabric to tighten over his shoulders and around his back. Her tone, more than her words, let him meet her eyes at last. They blazed, unfocused, creating mental imagery of a hell he had no doubt she could – and would – execute. Barely restrained rage filtered through her deliberately calm voice, igniting the words with passion. He will wish he’d never touched the people we love.

The people we love.

His hands had fallen away when she released him; they stood separated by an invisible inferno. Mallos stepped into it, reclosing the gap, brought his hands to the back of her neck and kissed her hard. For the past two days it had felt like his heart had stopped; no he could feel it pounding furiously, the pulse racing through the tips of his fingers. Her skin was hot, lips yielding. He remembered his promise, given only hours before at his lowest point, and leant back a little so their lips were just brushing.

“I love you,” he breathed.

He kissed her again, and again, wanting it to last forever.

After several moments he forced himself to lean back again, a little further this time, his shoulders dropping a fraction. He kept his right hand around the back of her neck but moved his left down so that the cuffed wrist was resting against her shoulder, the metal glinting in the warm glow of dawn’s light seeping beneath the curtains.

“I have a feeling that might be difficult, for me.” His forehead creased as he tilted his wrist, watching the gleam of light slide down the cold bracelet. “The price of getting you back. Mordred was confident it would protect him long-term. I don’t know how it works.”

Mallos
I've learned enough to know I'm never letting go