Bay of Sighs by Nora Roberts

Because he pleased her, well enough, in bed, she knew she would use him there again.
    When he slept, she smiled into the dark.
    Men, of all worlds, of all natures, all species, were to her mind the simplest of creatures. They might spring to act, to violence more fiercely, more quickly than the female, but the female remained cannier and more clever.
    And the male? Sex would always rule them. The offer of it, the act, the need.
    She’d had only to offer this when he hesitated, and he had signed the contract, in his own blood. That blood now burned and bound him.
    He belonged to her now. And when he helped her take the stars, when she granted him his choice of immortality, he would belong to her—as ever she wished—for eternity.

    W hen Annika couldn’t sleep, she crept downstairs. She saw the light under the door of the room where Sawyer slept, and yearned to go in. Just to sit and talk to him, or better, to lie with him in the bed, quiet and warm.
    But she understood when doors were closed, those inside usually wanted alone.
    She slipped outside to stand and look out over the flowers, the steep road where the singing woman had pushed her baby in the stroller, and out to the sea.
    Here and there on the slope down, and along the land below, lights twinkled against the dark. Faintly, very faintly, she heard music and wondered if someone danced.
    Overhead, over the indigo sea, the moon turned toward its dark time. When she’d been a child, her mother had told her how the skyfaeries nibbled away at the light of the moon until they were full, then breathed the light back. And so the moon turned.
    A pretty story, she thought now, for a young one, to ease fears. She thought of her family—did they sleep? She knew she’d brought them pride when she’d been chosen for the quest. They believed in her, trusted her to succeed.
    So she could not, would not fail.
    Her mother would understand the dreaming part, the longing part, the loving, and would offer comfort when Annika returned home. But she wouldn’t weep long, Annika promised herself. She would have done what she was meant to do, preserve the stars, return them to the Island of Glass. And she would have had this time with her friends who were her family in this world.
    She would have her memories of them, of Sawyer, who was and would be her only love.
    But she could wish—wishes that caused no harm were never wrong. So she picked out the brightest star, and made one.
    Before her duty was done, before she returned home forever, she would know Sawyer’s love, and he would know hers. And from love would come joy for both.
    The wish slipped quietly into her heart and eased it. When it eased, she heard the sighs. Far-off, like the music. Hardly more than a breath on the air, yet it tingled along her skin.
    She stepped forward, as if to move toward that whisper of sound. And heard another.
    A footstep, a rustle in the shadows. She pivoted toward the sound, braced to fight.
    â€œRelax, Gorgeous. It’s Doyle.”
    â€œOh.” She straightened from her crouch, loosened her fists. “I thought you slept.”
    â€œJust taking a last circuit around the place.”
    She heard the sharp slither of his sword homing itself in its sheath before he stepped into the light.
    â€œCan’t sleep?” he asked as he walked up the steps toward her.
    â€œNot yet. Did you hear? Did you hear the sighs?”
    â€œNo.” His eyes sharpened like his sword on her face. “When?”
    â€œJust now, just a moment ago. Like when a breeze stirs leaves, but not. Not that. From the water, but . . . I don’t know.”
    â€œEverything means something.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’d wager you’ll hear them again.”
    Then he looked up as a door opened above. Annika looked up with him when she heard voices—Sasha and Bran.
    â€œI just need some air.”
    Concerned, Annika stepped