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“My love! Flame of my heart, dance with me!”
Emmrich was drunk. Well, no, more appropriately — Emmrich was fucking drunk, and Rook winced when he practically shouted in her ear over the din of the tavern.
Cheeks handsomely flushed, hair artfully askew — he was somehow still the most beautiful man Rook ever had the honor to see. It was almost unfair, the way even drunkenness suited him, radiating an energetic charm he so rarely let free like this. She would have been jealous if not for that same charm wholly directed at her, Emmrich uncaring of everyone else around them, except to thank the barman, heaping compliments on the drinks — good Starkhaven whiskey! All the way this up north! How marvelous!
Rook had no more than two sips of it burning down her throat before deciding it wasn't for her. Maybe her tastes were just too plebeian — it wasn't like she could tell the difference between shitty Kirkwall swill and the sewage water — the nuances of Starkhaven malt were lost to her palate. But Emmrich had bought the entire bottle and was decidedly still very pleased.
“Darling.” He stood when she had gone too long without answering, taking her hand and intertwining her fingers with his, warm to the touch. “Come now. Dance with me before the band stops playing!”
She doubted the pair of bards, hardly a band, would stop anytime soon, but her cheeks reddened at the thought of pushing through the throng of bodies, their friends hooting and snickering behind them. She doubted they would let her live it down when she embarrassed herself.
“I don't know, Emmrich, I've got two left feet, maybe—”
“Nonsense!”
Emmrich pulled her, harder than he probably intended, and she stumbled to her feet and into his chest. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, skin and chest hair peeking through, and Rook had the delirious thought of biting him, right there at the base of his throat, before he was pulling her along, humming to himself. The other patrons gave them a wide berth.
“Hand on my shoulder, yes, just like that, dear heart.”
Rook felt her cheeks warm when Emmrich placed one hand on her waist, the other raised up, clutching hers, as if he were about to lead them into a waltz. And he did — somehow maintaining that elegant grace as he swept her across the floor as though they were in a grand ballroom instead of a hot, sweat slick tavern.
Faintly, she thought she heard Davrin whistle at them, Harding's laugh right behind. She nearly pulled away from embarrassment until Emmrich's hand was on her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“You are so lovely,” he murmured. “Greater than all the gold in Nevarra.” He pressed his forehead to hers, unheeding of the sounds coming from their friends. “My sweet girl, the things you do to me. I am struck with longing whenever you are near, night and day. I am eternally at your mercy. Won't you grant it to me?”
She blinked at him, dumbfounded, and before she could answer, the world tilted, Emmrich's arm around her waist, the other pressing her hand over his heart. He dipped her lower, with far more strength than she expected in his drunken state.
“Emmrich—” Her voice was breathless, unable to tear her eyes away from him.
In one breath to the next, he covered her lips with his, tasting like whiskey and affection in the middle of a tavern at the end of the world.