Six weeks. He had given them fair warning after his return from Orgrimmar that in a short time he would be returning to assist in keeping peace and occupation. Soon enough, the first four of rest were gone, and he bid Laevra and Lhysandra a brief farewell before returning to work with the Ascended and the other occupying forces within the city’s walls. He had not asked the redheaded woman to go with him, not because of her injury but because he assumed she did not wish to return there so soon. He understood without truly understanding her motivation.
Contact was kept however, both in written word to his daughter and the mental link between he and Lhysandra. Even so, his lack of presence was felt keenly in the large house. It was strange not to wake in the morning to the hammer of smithy hammer, to step within to see the forge cold, to not glimpse the large warrior sleeping in his well-worn recliner.
Six had passed, and the pale soldier returned via assistance of a particularly large proto-drake that did not seem to mind the smears of soot and dirt, the oil on too-fair skin and in silvered hair and the stink of the earlier day’s violent necessities.
Lhysandra was settled on the edge of a table cross-legged, testing the edge of a freshly sharpened kitchen knife with a ghostly touch of fingertip. The rest of the house was silent save the click of Gunther’s clawed toes on the second floor, but neither the warrior nor Zha’riin were quiet in their arrival—nor in the proto’s flight elsewhere. She carefully set the blade aside and uncurled a leg as Tethrien pushed the door open with a heaved sigh, dully glowing eyes falling easily on the familiar form. He paused for a moment as if he had not expected to find her there, then lifted his bearded chin and shut the door behind him. The rattle of scabbard and bulwark thrummed an aching chord in her chest—when had six weeks begun to feel so long?
She rose with a return of tilted chin, sharp eyes raking over him for signs of injury. He looked wild: pale skin smudged haphazardly, wind and little care throwing choppy silver locks askew in a messy lion’s mane, armor and weaponry dirtied and dented from heavy use. Her crooked grin was greeting enough.
Lhysandra at least allowed him to unbuckle his armor and set it aside for later cleaning, did not stop him as he unlaced the fitted jerkin to drop it nearby the pile of crafted steel. Was he intending on bathing?
Tethrien had meant to speak, but he could feel her closeness, feel her heat, and he leveled his dim gaze upon the woman’s countenance with a tight knot forming in his belly. When, indeed, had six weeks felt so long?
He was looking at her like she was a long drink after months in a desert, and she could see it as words dried and he resorted to his most familiar form of communication: silence. Her warm fingers touched the curve of a bicep, and she stepped close enough that even air had barely any room to pass between them. She could feel the tenseness in his frame, but as she glanced up to his squared features, she could easily tell it wasn’t from aggression, not from anger.
So she decided to play a game, to push back against her own pressing want to take his threads into her hands and slowly unravel him. He watched her with that hungry look, that savagery barely controlled, and she knew he could smell her just as she could him. Teasing pressure rolled keloidal scarring beneath her touch, and he grew rigid like a stone wall, gaze narrowing in something that from anyone else would have been dangerous. He was drawn taut like a bow, obvious in the straightness of his spine, and beneath the fitted leather of his trousers, she could see the bulk of thick thighs tighten. His jaw clenched, hands hanging at his sides fighting against the urge to fist, to grab and take as masculine want reared.
He wanted her. It was a plain and simple thing, a desire he did not dampen, did not try to hide. He, however, did not act upon it.
Not until she lifted herself up on her toes, retracting her touch just enough that he could feel her closeness by her heat and the rustle of pale hair on his flesh, not until full lips curved and parted in wicked, crooked smile, not until she whispered.
And then he was on her in an explosion of primal ferocity just as she wanted him to be, played like a harp and strung tight enough to snap. She did not protest the force with which he pinned her to the wall with his bulk, far larger frame hemming her in, and she in defiance curled her long legs around his waist to secure a hold, scoring lines of angry red across his back with the dig of nails. Her lips hovered an inch away from his own, teasing and taunting and tempting as ever, a wordless demand.