Nightbane (Lightlark, #2)(107)
Her brows came together.
What did he think he knew? What did he think she was talking about?
“I know that the curses don’t apply to you,” he said. “I know that you have never wielded power.”
She stepped back. Time had been wounded; it wasn’t moving, it was dead—
Part of her wondered if she should run, or hide, or be afraid—
“I’ve known for a while.”
He’s known for a while. And he hadn’t tried to kill her. He hadn’t shared her secret. He’d continued to work with her. He knew how meaningless her life was, how weak she was, how in trouble her people were, and yet . . . he hadn’t used it to his advantage.
“Nightshades can sense curses. I didn’t realize it at first, but I couldn’t sense yours. Then, when the Wildlings were able to attack you in the forest, to try to get your heart . . .” Of course he would have questioned why Isla hadn’t fought back. Why she hadn’t used even a drop of power the entire time they were working together.
Tears fell freely now. “Grim . . . what—what is wrong with me?”
He took her face in both his hands. “Nothing, absolutely nothing, is wrong with you, heart.” He said it for the second time, and it directly contradicted everything she had ever thought about herself.
She went on her toes and kissed him. It was clumsy and too forceful and caught him by surprise. She fell on her heels, wondering why in the world she’d done that, but she didn’t wonder for long.
Hands still pressed to her face, he ducked and parted her lips with his own, kissing her like she might be leaving, like he might never get to do it again. His tongue swept across the roof of her mouth, and she groaned. This was impossible—it was impossible to feel this good.
She was a burning flame, and there were too many clothes, too many layers between them. She had always been told that her body didn’t belong to her, it belonged to the realm, but no, right now she wanted to feel everything that was possible. She wanted Grim to show her.
“I want you,” she said, breaking their kiss, breathing too quickly. “I want everything.”
Grim looked like he might be losing his mind. Like he couldn’t have possibly heard her correctly. His chest was heaving. He blinked. Again. Said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said, and she meant it more than she had ever meant anything else.
Grim swallowed. “I’m not gentle,” he said gruffly.
Isla opened her mouth. Closed it. The thought of him not being gentle . . . it unexplainably made her feel hot everywhere.
“Could—could you be?”
He hesitated. Then nodded.
The way he carried her to the bed . . . it was as if she were made of glass. He laid her on her sheets like she was mist and might just slip away if he wasn’t careful. Isla’s eyes darted to the closed door.
“We’re hidden,” he said. And Isla had never been so grateful for his illusions.
He was over her now, completely clothed. No. She didn’t want anything between them.
She yanked his shirt up, and it didn’t move at all. But Grim reached back and tore it over his head in one smooth movement, making his shoulders flex, and Isla couldn’t see enough of his body, couldn’t touch enough.
“You are perfect,” she said, and she couldn’t believe the thought had reached her lips. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know someone could look like this. It’s unfair, really.”
Grim only laughed. “You’re doing very little to discourage my magnificent ego.”
Her hands stroked down his hard chest. He radiated pure power, strength. She traced the scar just half an inch from his heart, and his eyes fell closed for a long moment. She could have sworn he shivered. The shadows in her room melted across the floor, puddling.
His gaze locked on her chest, prickled with need, aching like every part of her, and the silk of her dress did nothing to hide it. His hands went to the bodice, to rip it like before, and Isla made a sound of protest. “Demon,” she said. “I’m not going to have any dresses left if you keep destroying them.”
“I’ll buy you new ones. I’ll buy you a market. I’ll get you your own tailor.”
“Fine,” she said, and the dress didn’t stand a chance. It was ribbons in a second, and then his mouth was on her chest. He bit her, lightly, and she made a rasping noise, her back arching.
His hand trailed down her stomach, below her underthings, and when he touched her, he cursed. “Isla,” he said against her chest, “you are truly going to kill me.”
“I will,” she said, “if you don’t keep touching me.”
She was burning, aching, desperate for more.
“Please,” she said. “I want everything.”
Grim took the rest of his clothes off, and Isla went still. She had felt him before, but now . . .
He climbed over her again, his hips settling between her legs, and her breath hiked. He pressed his lips against her shoulder, her chest, her neck, her cheek. “I think you’ll find we fit perfectly,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.
Then he looked at her and asked one final time. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said, and he reached down between them.
For a while, there were just their shared breaths, his forehead pressed against hers. He was leaning on his arms, holding himself over her, shaking slightly as he exercised every ounce of control.