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‘Jaina had given Thrall a magical talisman: a small stone carved in the shape of one of the old Tirisfallen runes. Jaina had its twin in her possession. Thrall needed only to hold it and think of her, and Jaina’s talisman would glow; the reverse also held true. If they wished to meet in secret to discuss issues that affected one or the other, or both, of their people away from the politics of their positions as leaders –or if they simply wished to talk as old friends and comrades– all they had to do was activate the talisman.’
– Cycle of Hatred by Keith R. A. DeCandido
Aggra wants to enjoy this –having her mate home, his presence filling their dwelling while he dotes on the children who have missed him dearly. She wants her smiles to be weightless and genuine when he casts his own her way; she wants to believe that it is only the Horde’s troubles on his mind when she catches the momentary falter in his joy.
Perhaps he’s lost to this faraway threat, preoccupied by the boy king that’s finally come out of hiding, or even distracted by his ever-present struggle to rebuild the broken bridge between his sweetgrass spirit and the elements that left him behind.
Aggra knows that there is plenty to plague her mate’s heart, and yet she cannot ignore the stones in her stomach that tell her Thrall’s passing thoughts linger on her –on Jaina Proudmoore.
The she-orc’s concerns would seem absurd to others, so she keeps them close to her frustrated heart. This jealousy is intermittent and fleeting, hardly worth speaking into existence when Thrall does not actively seek the woman out. It is Jaina who has sought his counsel and guidance since their time in the Shadowlands, sending magical notes that stain his green skin with the scent of salted ice or writing letters that keep Thrall reading into the early hours of the morn –if she does not directly summon him to her side. Once, he came in well after sunset by way of a portal, the sight of Proudmoore Keep shimmering into nothingness behind him. He swept into their home with profuse apologies, smelling of the ocean as he traced Aggra’s cheek with his tusks. It was enough to soften her aggravation, and she thought nothing more of his tardiness.
Of course, his tardiness is not always because of Jaina Proudmoore, but the chill in his furs tells Aggra each time the mage was involved. Even when he joined the fight for Amirdrassil, battling beside longtime enemies of the past for the sake of a brighter future, he came home with chips of ice in his braids. They had fought beside one another as they had years before, when their friendship was young and new; as they had during Baine’s rescue, with so much turmoil in their hearts for one another; as they had in the Shadowlands, when the comforts of their world were few and far between. Aggra believed they would fight beside each other for the rest of their days if life permitted, and some foolish piece of her hoped it did. No matter how it squeezed her heart, she believed Thrall and Jaina deserved at least that for all they had put one another through. For all the world had seen them suffer.
So even though Aggra felt sick when Thrall came back to her with the sun rising behind his great shoulders, she welcomed him with a smile. Always a smile. Even when she realized he always seemed to be leaving Jaina Proudmoore when he came home to her.
Because he was leaving her, after all. It was Aggra whom he came back to, and this space was theirs alone. He held her close, whispering lovely things in her ear while surrounded by the wonderful life they had built. In this house, he belonged only to her. Letters were nothing more than scribbles on parchment, their words inane. Politics hovered like clouds, but could not penetrate the shield of their stead. All the trouble in the world faded with howling winds and rustling grass when they were together in this space.
Aggra holds onto those thoughts until this day, when a small talisman with a rune she doesn’t recognize tumbles out of a small pouch that Thrall keeps on his hip during battles. The she-orc knows what this trinket is –has seen it before. He has told her about this item, how he and Jaina would use these pieces to call on one another during kinder days when their quiet friendship held strong like a rose on the tip of a cactus beneath the Durotar sun.
Still, perhaps hoping for a different answer, Aggra asks, “What is this?”
“A talisman from Jaina,” Thrall answers, smiling at what their son presents him. “When I’m ready to return to Khaz Algar, I can use it to signal her. She’ll send a portal for me.”
His response is reasonable, logical. So why is Aggra’s stomach churning? “How does it work?”
Something in her voice draws Thrall’s attention. He sends their children away with a gentle dismissal, then stands and comes to approach his mate with a raised brow. “Are you all right, my love?”
Aggra means to dismiss the beginnings of his concern with a pretty smile –always a smile. She means to wave his worry to the wind, to tell him she’s merely curious because arcane studies are unfamiliar to her at best. “Do you still think of her?” She whispers instead, raising her eyes to search the river blue of his.
Thrall’s great hand covers hers, the heart of his palm caressing her knuckles. His other hand cradles her cheek, his thumb trailing along its ridge. “Where does this come from?” He asks, his tone patient and loving. She wonders if he has an idea, or else why would he bother to ask? Does he choose not to deny because to do so would be dishonest?
Aggra thinks she may be spiraling. She contemplates pretending these thoughts are sudden and compulsive, but something tells her he will sense the dishonesty. “I knew things would change when you told me of Baine’s rescue. I expected old feelings–”
“Jaina is an old friend,” Thrall interrupts kindly, his palm a familiar comfort against her skin, “and a strong ally. Her companionship has been invaluable these past years.”
And it has. Aggra knows it has. It’s how admiration saturates her mate’s words when he says the mage’s name that has her heart tightening –that makes the warmth of his closeness feel cool. That makes her lean closer to him as she rasps, “You loved her once, at the wrong time. You loved her despite hatred and war, despite the weight of your positions. You loved her even when those things became too much, and then–”
“I met you,” he interrupts again. “You, my life mate and the mother of my children. You, my love. My Aggra.”
Aggra is not an uncertain or insecure female. She moves with confidence, determination, and unfailing strength. This worried mess full of questions, suspicious and jealous, is not who she is. I am worthy , she thinks, and understands that Thrall believes this also, or else he would not have asked her to share his life. Why should she worry about any female, then?
Because Jaina is not just any female –she never has been; she never will be. It’s why–
“You’ve never forgotten her,” Aggra says without thinking. She wishes she could take the words back as soon as they’re loose, for she sees how Thrall’s blue eyes darken.
“There are many I’ve never forgotten,” he rumbles, his hand falling from her face as the ghosts of his past begin to sway around him –between them– like a storm on the hilt of autumn. Aggra wonders if he sees Garrosh and Grommash, if Cairne or Taretha stand on either side of him. Does he hear the cries of Theramore’s fallen? Does Daelin Proudmoore’s anger follow his worst moments? How many of these ghosts can be traced back to Jaina, and the hurt Thrall feels his mistakes have caused her?
“I am lucky I was able to mend my relationship with Jaina before it was too late,” Thrall continues roughly. “Spirits know the same cannot be said for others.”
Aggra knows her mate has always carried great guilt over those he has wronged, and Jaina’s pain has always been especially heavy on his heart. He blames himself still for Theramore’s destruction, for every life lost to the mana bomb that rendered the city ruined; he also blames himself for Jaina’s actions following the ruination of her city –for the countless souls that met their end in the streets of Dalaran that day. The she-orc wonders what it would take for her mate to let this self-hatred go, and what it would mean for their life if he did. Could they finally move forward, unburdened by the heartache of another woman? Could he?
Would he want to if it meant leaving Jaina behind?
Aggra doesn’t think so.
“I am yours,” Thrall sighs, tucking his forehead into the curve of her neck. The ghosts fade, banished from between them as his arms curl around her. “You are my life mate. I will be yours until my last breath.”
For a moment, Aggra simply breathes her mate in. She inhales his scent of foliage and rushing water, finding an old solace in how his presence cradles her. “Be there for her,” she whispers. “Be her ally. Be her comrade. Be her confidant if you must. Just let there be nothing else. For my sake, for ours; let that be where it stops.”
Though he does not respond, his nearness embraces her, drawing her farther into the comfort of familiarity. She lets the feeling of his forehead against hers and how his hands hold her ease the tension in her shoulders. He draws her toward their room, into the space they shared always –be it moments of love, anger, or sadness– and she follows his soothing guidance. Her heart is still heavy, but she wants to let him take those feelings away.
Aggra tells herself Jaina Proudmoore is merely another ghost, corporeal and persistent. One day, she too will dissipate in the late winter breeze. The she-orc must simply be patient until then.
So, she gives herself to Thrall, claiming him with abandon because she knows no one else ever will. He belongs only to her forever. Always. He is hers.
He is hers.
A month or so later, after a particularly long day, Jaina Proudmoore decides to let herself go for the first time in far too long. She doesn’t want to think of politics or contemplate lurking danger, doesn’t want to worry about Anduin’s every step or fight the feelings that stir whenever she’s near a certain orc.
Thus, in the candlelit safety of her guest quarters in Khaz Algar, she pours herself a glass of Thalassian wine –one of the last bottles she purchased before Dalaran’s destruction. It’s dry on her tongue, but still pleasant when the warmth hits her stomach. It’s stronger than she expected, but its effects are welcome; she wants to ignore everything, at least for a while.
One glass turns into a second, and then a third. The bottle doesn’t last very long at all, but Jaina feels warm and fuzzy when it’s empty. It’s a good way to just exist for the night.
Amid her final drink, she realizes the light on her desk is not simply one of the candles she’s lit. A small talisman with a Tirisfallen rune glows up at her from the heart of a small trinket bowl, its light subtle but certain. It’s pretty.
She’s suddenly struck by the overwhelming urge to be near the sea. Let her be Just Jaina on the beach.
The teleportation is effective, but extremely clumsy because of her inebriation. She stumbles onto the shoreline, the hem of her long nightgown instantly claimed by the shallow waves at her feet. The wind twists through her loose hair, curling sea spray and salted air into the strands. She laughs when the tide swirls around her knees, tugging her toward the open ocean. It’s tempting to follow the water’s lead, to sink into its cool embrace and believe all will be well if she disappears.
At least for a while.
That same night, Thrall’s steps are slow as he walks along Bladefist Bay. He listens to the wind and water as they play against the earth, soft and soothing after his own absurdly long day. His mind drifts to Jaina, but that’s common whenever he’s near the sea. Its power, tragedy, and beauty are all traits he has seen from the mage many times throughout their long relationship; even more than that, he knows how she loves it so. That association alone would be enough.
Perhaps that is also why he’s sought quiet by the ocean. It’s shameful to admit, but the water calms him in ways he doesn’t care to explain or understand. Not in that moment, anyway.
Without thinking, he tucks his hand into the bag on his hip and finds Jaina’s talisman there. His fingers brush the stone, just for a moment. It’s cool against his skin, even though it’s been in a leather pouch throughout the day. For the first time since his talk with Aggra, he allows himself to wonder how the mage has been during their time apart. He hopes she’s well.
Fate answers Thrall’s question in a strange, unexpected show of magic. Reality splits a yard or so down the beach, spilling Jaina into the water with a rippling splash. He watches in stunned silence as she wades further into the waves, mindless of how inappropriate her nightgown is for a saltwater excursion. It may very well be ruined after this, and he thinks it’s worth it. Her abandon, hair loose in the wind while water sweeps against her legs, is nothing short of breathtaking. He forgets to wonder why she’s in Durotar.
But then the sound of clinking armor and low voices reaches his ears. He turns toward Orgrimmar to find a small patrol walking directly toward them.
“Jaina!”
A rumbling voice, like a river against tumbling rocks, sends a different warmth through her veins. She knows it like she knows the hum of magic in her blood. Turning, she sees Thrall down the way, standing where salt water meets red clay.
I’m in Durotar , she realizes. Orgrimmar’s spiked gates rising in the distance are a sobering sight. I’m so stupid , she inwardly curses. I teleported to Durotar.
“Light above,” she whispers as panic begins to settle. She’s so stupid, and of course, Thrall is the one who would happen upon her. Later , she will thank her lucky stars that it wasn’t someone else. In this moment, she contemplates drowning herself to avoid him. Of all the beaches in Azeroth, why this one?
Because of him , she knows. Her thoughts were with him when she cast the spell, and the spells that carry her to him are well known to her heart.
“Jaina, wait!” Thrall starts toward her, his hand outstretched as she scrambles back, trying to cast the spell that will take her to Khaz Algar. Or Stormwind. Or Kul Tiras. Somewhere or anywhere but here.
She’s in a nightgown, for Light’s sake! A wet nightgown, no less!
The waves churn, dragging him out to sea as she’s pushed back toward shore. Somewhere down the beach, a rough voice calls out to them. She hopes whoever it is cannot see who exactly she is. It will spell trouble for the Alliance if they can, especially after the disaster with Marran Trollbane.
The orc shouts again, closer now, but it doesn’t matter. Thrall and Jaina stumble into each other, falling as one into a portal that opens beneath them. His arms come around her, holding her tight against him. He hits the floor while she is safe in his embrace, her cheek pressed to his chest. Ocean rushes over them, soaking her nightgown so that her shape beneath it is more than a mere illusion.
For a long moment, they lay together in the crisp of their shock. His heart is like thunder in her ear, wild and demanding. She wonders if he can feel hers racing against his skin.
“I’m so sorry,” she finally whispers. “I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s all right,” he says roughly, “though I confess I didn’t expect to find you in Bladefist Bay.”
She rises to her feet, face burning hotter than it ever has. The room is cool, and the chill clings to her like a second skin. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats because there’s nothing else to say.
“Why were you there, Jaina?” He sits up, brushing wet hair from his face.
“I told you I wasn’t thinking. It was an accident,” she says, intending to dismiss him. “Are you cold? Can I get you a blanket–”
“An accident?” Thrall echoes, standing as well. He fills the small space with his broad shoulders, but she doesn’t mind. What she does mind is how intense his expression is as he approaches her, water dripping from his braids with each heavy step. “Do you know how dangerous this accident could have been for you?”
“Thrall-” She tries, but he continues as though she never spoke.
“There was a patrol nearby,” he tells her. His voice is hard, but not unkind. Their proximity is difficult to see past; it’s distracting to be so close to him. “What if I hadn’t been there? What if they attacked without asking questions first? What if they assumed the Alliance was attacking? What if–”
“It was you!” She finally snaps, stepping closer to him so they are nearly flush against each other. Her finger bends against his chest when she jabs it at him. “I cast a spell to take me to the ocean, but it brought me to the shore closest to you. Because after all these years, I know the way to your side better than–”
He tilts her chin up, searching her eyes with concern that makes her flush with anger. He has no right to be so worried about her, not when…
“I’m fine,” she forces out before childish, petulant thoughts have the chance to overtake her. He smells like the earth –like green growth and spring rain; it’s distracting and all encompassing. Perhaps the elements no longer answer his call, but he’s not so without them as he thinks.
“If I hadn’t been there,” he says softly, his hands shifting to hold her face, “you could have been…” She’s small in his grasp –deceptively delicate and precarious nonetheless. Belatedly, she realizes he’s trembling. All at once, her anger rushes away.
“It was an accident,” she tells him softly, her defense half-hearted. Weak. “I wasn’t… It was careless. I apologize.”
Thrall presses his forehead to hers. She knows his thoughts must be wild, for his heart races beneath her hands as she flattens them against his chest. Her own feels unsteady. He always makes her feel so unsteady.
“I’ve been trying to forget you for so long,” she confesses on an exhale. “I’ve been hoping to let you go, even hate you. When Theramore was destroyed, I thought that was it. Then, when I purged Dalaran, I hoped you would hate me in turn. For a long time, I assumed you did.”
“I couldn’t,” he rasped. “Spirits damn me, I couldn’t.”
They’re on the precipice of something foolish. She’s already said and done too much; what she’s doing isn’t fair to him. With a quiet sigh, she draws away from him. “You should go. I can portal you–”
He crushes his mouth to hers. It shatters her, bringing back long buried memories of gentler times when they thrived on stolen moments. Feelings that she’s been fighting against swell, breaking loose of constraints they’ve been trapped beneath since the days of her youth.
It’s a mistake. He’ll regret this moment of weakness, driven by misplaced fear.
He’ll regret her.
But Jaina is a stupid woman, and she’s wanted him for too long. She kisses him desperately, grasping his hair as he lifts her onto the desk. Her empty wine bottle and the trinket dish with her talisman are swept away; she hears glass shatter, and doesn’t care.
Thrall is large in every way between her legs, but she knew he would be. Has craved it on many cold nights. His lips take hers greedily, the hands on her thighs surprisingly gentle, even as they hold her knees flush against his waist. A quiet growl rumbles through his chest when her tongue darts out to trace his mouth; it’s maddening… and grounding.
“We can’t,” she breathes. “I won’t have you resent me, especially not for a mistake we could have prevented. I can’t have that. Losing you–”
She can’t lose him again. She loves him too much to lose him again.
“You won’t,” he promises against her cheek, his breath warm against her ear. “The world has taken too much from us, including each other. It will take more still. Whatever comes next, I need you. I know that now, Jaina. I need you.”
“You have me.” Now her hands come to hold his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks gently. “You have me.”
This time, they surge together. Jaina arches into the orc, her nightgown a thin shield against his heat. Thrall shreds his armor quickly, but he takes time lifting the wet dress over her head. His knuckles trace her curves, lingering on nipples until they’re erect and demanding his attention. He delivers, careful with his tusks, even though she couldn’t care less if passion sees her skin nicked.
In the past, they might have spent hours teasing and exploring, but it's been too long.
Decades too long.
Thrall’s movements are slow as he presses in. He’s so large that, of course, there’s pain, but she welcomes it. She urges him deeper, coaxing abandon because that’s what she desires –him, unfiltered and raw. If she’s to have him, then she wants him .
But he never had any intention of denying her. As their arousal intensifies, his ministrations become more aggressive. His hips thrust quickly, almost violently, until she’s nearly screaming for him. Later, she’ll worry if anyone has heard. Now, she rakes her nails down his arms on either side of her. He takes her hand and guides it between them, demanding that she also lose herself entirely.
Her peak comes suddenly and all at once, his name on her tongue while the high takes her. His hips still momentarily, but it’s a brief instance. Before his completion, the orc draws several more climaxes from his mage. She’s boneless in his arms when he finally withdraws from her warmth.
Jaina has the wherewithal to clean herself before she collapses into bed. Rather than accepting a portal back to Orgrimmar, Thrall flees to his quarters in Dornogal on the other side of the city. He kisses her again before departing; it mostly lessens the sting of his leaving, but not completely.
And that’s fine. Some of the sting should remain, because she knew what this would be. She knew what this would mean.
He doesn’t belong to her. He never has, and he never will.
But she is a weak woman.
The next few weeks see Thrall in a state of anxiety and self-hatred. He thinks only of the ashen promises he failed to keep in Jaina’s quarters that night. Aggra’s letters are as they’ve always been in his absence –loving and encouraging. It’s much the same when they’re together, only serving to deepen the guilt of his betrayal.
Even worse is how nonchalantly Jaina accepts his distance as though this response is exactly what she expected. He deserves her indifference, yet it’s disheartening still.
He’s hurt them both, and he despises himself for it.
It will be best if he and Jaina can maintain a professional distance until their night together fades into time.
Except he can’t let her go. Damn him, he can’t let her go.
Thrall stands outside of Stonelight Rest with several others, Jaina included. While Thrall is focused on what Anduin is saying to Faerin, she is conversing with Alleria Windrunner and her husband, Turalyon. He glances her way once or twice, but she never returns the favor. Her attention is entirely on the couple in front of her.
Until an Artahi male with close-cut curls and skin like fresh soil approaches her. “Lord Admiral?” He’s a picture of respect when he bows before her, polite and infuriatingly present. “Forgive my impertinence, madam.”
“It’s no trouble, sir,” she says pleasantly, her smile a diplomatic expression that Thrall knows well. “What can I help you with?”
“I was hoping–” he pauses, clearing his throat. “That is… could I interest you in– in a walk around the city? They tell me it’s lovely in the evening.”
Jaina’s smile shifts into something kinder, as though she’s charmed by his hesitant bravado. “What’s your name?”
“Lamplighter Kaerter, my lady,” he answers cheerfully.
“Brave of him,” Alleria hums to Turalyon beside her. Anduin hardly notices, sparing his aunt only a glance while listening to Faerin. “Though if anyone deserves it, it’s her.”
Turalyon nods his agreement. Thrall’s vexation surpasses reason when the lamplighter holds his arm out for Jaina to take. She glances back, waiting for a nod from Anduin before letting her companion lead her away. Those ocean eyes never glance his way.
Is it because she would lose her nerve if she did? He hopes so.
“Thrall?” Anduin calls his name, drawing him back into their conversation. He refuses to decipher the young king’s expression as they talk. Of course, if anyone knows what passed between them, it would be Anduin.
Against all odds, Thrall manages to distract himself throughout the evening. His thoughts drift to her, but he's able to distract himself with politics and letters from Aggra and his children. He’s even content when he goes to sleep that night, his mind filled with the words from his family.
But then the next end of day is very similar to the previous. As the sun begins to sink, setting the sky ablaze with twisting shades of orange and pink, Lamplighter Kaerter nears Jaina as she’s walking out of Foundation Hall alongside Khadgar and another human mage Thrall doesn’t immediately recognize. He walks behind the group with Geya’rah, listening intently to her report on the training programs she and Turalyon have implemented.
And then he sees the Arathi male approach Jaina again, bowing as he did the evening before. She takes his arm with a brief farewell to her companions, and then Thrall watches as they vanish into the crowd. There are no letters from Aggra to distract him that night, making it much more frustrating when his head hits the pillow.
The following evening is much the same, as is the one after that. And then the next one. After nearly a week of watching Jaina and her lamplighter walk arm in arm into the sunset, Thrall is at his wits' end.
That sunset, he makes an early exit from his colleagues so that he won’t have to see Kaerter sweep her away on his arm like the perfect gentleman she deserves.
“Excuse me,” Thrall says to the group, already walking away without knowing where he’s going. He contemplates leaving the city to clear his mind, perhaps walking along the highlands or the beach until nightfall. In the end, that isn’t what he wants.
After a week of watching Jaina with another man, Thrall wants her.
It’s no surprise that his feet carry him to her quarters as the world turns dark. He expected she wouldn’t be back yet, but her empty room is still frustrating nonetheless.
So he waits. And waits.
Over an hour later, he finally hears her voice down the hall.
Thrall turns to see the lamplighter guiding Jaina down the corridor, each with a smile in place. He raises her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of her knuckles like a prince in a child’s story.
“It was a pleasure, my lady. Thank you again for lending me your company,” Kaerter beams. “As always, it was a lovely evening.”
“It was,” Jaina tells him. They pause beside each other, his brown eyes staring down into the blue of hers. Thrall doesn’t manage to look away before the lamplighter bends down and places a gentle kiss on Jaina’s smiling lips. It’s brief, respectful, and leaves the orc seething.
Then Jaina sees Thrall waiting beside her door, and her sweet smile falls.
“Thrall,” she gasps quietly, looking far more surprised than he imagined she would.
“Lady Proudmoore,” he returns tersely.
The lamplighter, apparently ignorant of Thrall’s foul mood, grins widely at the orc. “Good evening, sir. Please forgive my lady’s delay; it wasn’t her doing.”
The phrase ‘my lady’ sets Thrall’s blood on fire. He contemplates many responses, none of them reasonable or productive. Jaina, well aware of his rising fury, steps in between the males so that she’s facing Kaerter and not him. He resists the urge to step closer to her, knowing it will not be appreciated as it has been in the past.
“Thank you for this evening.” She says carefully, politically, knowing he is hanging on her every word. “I had a lovely time.”
Kaerter takes her hand, kissing the hills of her knuckles once again. It’s thankfully much less intimate than what Thrall witnessed minutes ago. “Until next time, my lady.” Then, with a nod to Thrall, he’s on his way.
Jaina turns slowly toward Thrall, her expression guarded. “What are you doing here, Thrall?”
He should say he needs her or tell her how badly he’s missed her. He should be honest about how her absence affects him, even in small doses. He’s an imbecile and says none of these things.
“Did you intend to lie with him?”
Her eyes harden, turning glacial as they pierce him. “Go away, Thrall,” she snaps, and he detests the hurt beneath those words. Even more, he hates that he’s done this to her. To them.
“That was out of line.” He mutters, stepping closer as she pulls a key from her sleeve to unlock her room. “I apologize.”
“Thank you,” she sighs, tossing the key into a trinket bowl on her desk. Her talisman sits in it, the Tirisfallen rune bright in the dim light. The bowl is new –he broke her last one.
“Come in.” She beckons him with a small gesture; he thinks she wishes she had the strength to send him away. He wishes he had the strength to leave her alone.
Thrall shuts the door behind them, turning the lock while Jaina sheds the weight of her cloak. She’s beautiful –truly she is. He can’t blame the lamplighter for his infatuation.
“Why are you here?” She asks again.
He should say he's here to apologize for that night, and for how it's affected them. But that wasn’t what guided his steps to her door.
I need you , he thinks, but fears saying so aloud. He doesn’t want to hurt her again. Instead, he approaches her and listens to how her breath catches when he lifts the anchor pendant around her throat between his index finger and thumb; the delicate piece shines against his green skin. He contemplates how easy it would and should be to walk away. All he eventually manages to say is, “You.”
“Thrall–”
“I’m a selfish male,” he whispers. “I can’t let you go. I wish I were honorable enough to let someone like him have you. You deserve that. But I’m not, and I can’t let you go.”
“I never asked you to,” she answers angrily. “I told you I needed you and was scared of losing you. That I–”
He draws her closer, inhaling her scent of sea water and magical ink. He presses his forehead to hers, listening to her breathe through her frustration and heartache. Can he tell her she’s not lost him when he isn’t hers to begin with? He is Aggra’s; his life belongs to her.
And yet, he thinks his heart may be Jaina’s. He’s damned, because perhaps it always has been. He loves his life mate –she is good and strong and everything a male should want. She is the earth, sturdy and lovely as the foundation of life itself.
Jaina… She is magic in the air, simultaneously intangible and corporeal. He always preferred the raw feel of Azeroth’s elements, but she makes him want to understand the significance of their world’s power. He wants to understand her. He wants her.
He’s a wretch, and he wants her.
“I never wanted you to let me go,” she says softly, then whispers closer to his lips, “I wanted you. Whatever part or piece of you I could have, I wanted.” Her eyes shine with drifting sadness as she confesses, “I still do.”
There is so little they can have. What’s between them is self-serving, complicated, and short-sighted; they will never belong to one another. Yet, they come together slowly. The kiss is intentional, building as he folds her into his arms. He sheds his armor with ease, then sheds hers piece by piece. While he takes time now, she knows it won’t take long before he is well-versed in seeing her disrobed. He was quite adept once upon a time.
Her body responds to the growing intensity of his kisses, arching into his touch with sharp breaths that make his head spin. While one hand cradles the back of her head, holding her in place as he devours every nook of her mouth, his other hand goes to stroke between her legs. Her first orgasm is on his fingers, and he swallows her cries with gentle kisses against her mouth.
Jaina might be satisfied, but she isn’t done with him. She pushes him back onto the bed and straddles him with a delicious ease. He holds her hips, rubbing circles into her skin while he waits for her to adjust to his size. She doesn’t wait long before moving down against him; he wonders if she feels any pain above him, but her second climax dissipates such concerns. By her third, he’s hardly able to think at all.
He rises above her after she collapses across his chest, the strength in her legs spent, and loses what’s left of his sanity to her heat. They spill over the edge together, his forehead against hers, his breaths heavy beneath her moans. He kisses her hard one last time.
Unlike their last tryst, he does not run away this time. The sun rises in the window as he tucks her against his side, drawing a green and gold blanket over them. Her breathing tilts into a deeper rhythm, signaling that she’s fallen into what he hopes is blissful sleep.
“I love you,” he confesses into her hair before following her into dreams. For a little while, all is well. It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.
He’s sleeping when she whispers that she loves him, too.