There it was. Her fingers brushed over the carved surface of it, feeling the symbol engraved in the silver. She felt it respond to her, like calling to like, the thrum of dark blood in her veins still. She sighed quietly, some strange feeling of homecoming singing in her veins. But she knew this, she realized. Knew she would feel this way with him.
Her eyes met Kell's, forehead to forehead, his fingers in her hair. She leaned into his touch, hungry for his affection. A shiver worked through her, the way he said her name - as if he said 'of course, of course I kept it' - and tipped her head back to meet his mouth once more, again and again. His lips fell from hers as he trailed down her throat, the promise of teeth skirting down her skin. She made a low sound, her fingers sliding over warm skin. "Please," she whispered, half-formed thoughts pressed to his own, wanting him to bite, wanting him to mark. Something terribly delighted settled in her chest that someone might see what he'd done and know--
So long as she was here, she was his and no one else's.
Her fingers worked over his body. Fire magic only whispered across his flesh, for he was warm without anything else she might offer, and she tugged at his tunic until she could coax it from him. And as his mouth traveled down, as he looked to expose her skin, she half-heartedly worked to help - to undo the beautiful blue outer coat she'd been given and the soft tunic beneath, exposing mostly unmarked skin. The scars that once lingered on both sides - from the werewolf Kell had saved her from and Immund's mechanical beast - were practically gone, save for very faint lines in her flesh that could have been from anything. All that remained, as he slowly unwrapped her from her clothes, were the scars on her back...and the brand on her shoulder, a furious outline of red around healed skin, and hints of silver in the mark, the same moonlit color Neria's eyes had been for but a moment the night prior.
It did not seem to trouble her in the moment. Or she was, perhaps, too distracted to care. As Kell paid homage to her throat, she worshiped the line of his body, the tone of his muscles, his soft skin. Her fingers glided down his spine with but a hint of nails, an offer, if he wanted friction.
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Her eyes met Kell's, forehead to forehead, his fingers in her hair. She leaned into his touch, hungry for his affection. A shiver worked through her, the way he said her name - as if he said 'of course, of course I kept it' - and tipped her head back to meet his mouth once more, again and again. His lips fell from hers as he trailed down her throat, the promise of teeth skirting down her skin. She made a low sound, her fingers sliding over warm skin. "Please," she whispered, half-formed thoughts pressed to his own, wanting him to bite, wanting him to mark. Something terribly delighted settled in her chest that someone might see what he'd done and know--
So long as she was here, she was his and no one else's.
Her fingers worked over his body. Fire magic only whispered across his flesh, for he was warm without anything else she might offer, and she tugged at his tunic until she could coax it from him. And as his mouth traveled down, as he looked to expose her skin, she half-heartedly worked to help - to undo the beautiful blue outer coat she'd been given and the soft tunic beneath, exposing mostly unmarked skin. The scars that once lingered on both sides - from the werewolf Kell had saved her from and Immund's mechanical beast - were practically gone, save for very faint lines in her flesh that could have been from anything. All that remained, as he slowly unwrapped her from her clothes, were the scars on her back...and the brand on her shoulder, a furious outline of red around healed skin, and hints of silver in the mark, the same moonlit color Neria's eyes had been for but a moment the night prior.
It did not seem to trouble her in the moment. Or she was, perhaps, too distracted to care. As Kell paid homage to her throat, she worshiped the line of his body, the tone of his muscles, his soft skin. Her fingers glided down his spine with but a hint of nails, an offer, if he wanted friction.