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Alina could tell a lot about Aleksander by his kisses.
Her dear husband’s moods were as changeable and unpredictable as the wind but his affection for her was constant and unfailing, and Alina liked his kisses best of all.
Their natural chemistry and continued mutual attraction made every brush of his lips on her skin feel electric. Alina imagined that even if neither of them were Grisha at all it would be that way. But as they were Grisha, her body’s response to the amplifier in his was as arresting as it was instantaneous—every time.
Still, there were some kisses she liked better than others.
A kiss on the forehead was routine. A goodnight before bed, a good morning before he took his seat across from her at breakfast. A greeting as he came to join her out by the lake after a long afternoon of work.
Kisses on the cheek were for group settings, state dinners, public appearances. Aleksander would announce her to some Shu or Kerch emissary, and when he called her "moya tsaritsa," sometimes she’d swear that he was the one who could summon light, pride beaming out from his rare smile. He’d always seal the introduction with a kiss to her cheek, his lips just a whisper of contact.
Kissing her lips was less habitual yet more common. He’d interrupt her while reading or painting, a cool hand tipping her chin up to receive his mouth. Sometimes gentle, others laced with need depending on the day. Alina was naturally partial to such kisses—the way they stole her breath, how their lips slotted together, the glide of his tongue on hers when they got swept up in it.
And then there were kisses on the neck. Alina thought that these might be her weakness, for every time Aleksander placed his lips just so—a tease of pressure just below the collar, where her neck curved delicately to her shoulder—it was like she could feel it everywhere. He’d appear behind her at the most inappropriate moments, using their bond so that only she could sense him there. Important meetings, tea with Zoya, lunch with Genya and David, even while she was training young Grisha students. Aleksander’s lips would ghost along her neck, sending a shiver of potent sensation right to her core. The proximity to her ear was all too convenient, and he often used the opportunity to whisper filthy, tempting things that she alone could hear, knowing that the moment she was free she’d find him and make him pay for his insolence with the sweetest of punishment.
But her favorite by far were kisses to the palm of her hand. These were reserved only for moments of tenderness and intimacy.
The first time had been after their elopement, standing hand-in-hand. Aleksander had lifted their joined hands to his face, unlacing their fingers and pressing his lips to her scarred right palm. “Thank you, solnishka,” he’d whispered, his brimming grey eyes meeting hers.
After that, the palm kisses became something of a custom, always when they were alone. A wet kiss given through panted breaths when they were making love. A rueful apology after they’d argued or a welcome after they’d been apart. And though years had passed since the war, nightmares still plagued them both, and Alina’s regret and loss was matched only by her husband’s guilt. She’d wake him some nights, trembling and sweat-sodden, mumbling in his troubled sleep. Only her hand caressing his cheek, her voice reassuring him in dulcet tones, could call him back to the present. And on many such nights he’d turn his head into her touch, his lips finding the ridges of her scar, his kiss lingering there.
These she liked best of all. Her scar had once been a source of pain, a reminder of Mal and a life she’d left behind. But with every touch Aleksander infused her scars with new memories and significance, replacing sorrow and loneliness with devotion and love.
Each one just for her, a promise shared between them: I’m yours.