The tension flows out of him. His terrible urgency relents. His touch becomes gentle; almost tender.
Then, at last, he stops.
His warm tongue glides across the place where he bit me. His lips linger for a moment, exerting slight pressure.
My legs turn weak.
What was that?
He lets me go, withdrawing his big, warm body and his gentle hands, taking a step back so that I’m looking up at him as he wipes the blood from his lips with the back of his hand.
Slowly, intentionally, he licks the blood from his skin and stares back at me.
He wears a slightly glazed expression. The unearthly glow in his eyes has faded.
“Thank you, Finley,” he says quietly. “For not falling apart in the face of what must seem incomprehensible.” He gestures toward a nearby sofa; studded and made of richly patinaed brown leather. It looks worn and comfortable. “Please, sit. Oh, don’t look like that. I’m not going to bite you again.”
Warily, I glance around the room. We seem to be in a study or an office of sorts. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling. My eyes widen as I scan the spines. Some are beautifully bound and embossed with gilt lettering. Some are so ancient they’re falling apart.
Vast windows, crossed with black steel frames, look out onto yet another snow-blanketed courtyard. A grove of stately blue cedars stands in the center, drooping branches thickly laden with pure white snow. In front of the window is a huge, leather-topped wooden desk. Books and papers are neatly arranged on top, alongside ink-pots, pens, and a wooden box containing a brass wax seal.
It’s an office. A big, sumptuous one, filled with meticulously crafted furniture that’s been built for purpose, not show. It’s warm and comfortable and undeniably masculine.
My legs like jelly, I tip my head and walk across the floor, stepping on a woven rug of cerulean blue decorated with intricate cream-colored patterns of leaves and vines. I take a seat, sinking into leather cushions that are neither too soft nor too firm; just ridiculously comfortable.
He crosses the room, turning his back to me. I’m starting to feel a little giddy and lightheaded. I can’t help it if I take a moment to stare at his broad back; at the way he moves, his toned ass perfectly encased in those fitted trousers, his body sinuous, exuding raw power.
What is wrong with you, Finley Solisar?
Maybe the blood loss has me in a delirium.
He retrieves a guest chair from in front of his desk and returns with it, turning it so that the back is towards me.
Then he sits, legs wide, arms draped over the back of the chair.
His sleeves are rolled up, revealing broad, sinewy forearms. He has a few old scars—some tiny, some long and nasty. All as marble-pale as his skin.
Battle-scars, perhaps?
He regards me with an unfathomable expression, head cocked, one eyebrow slightly raised, eyes narrowed, his lips curving ever so slightly.
And they’re still faintly stained pink with my blood.
There’s no denying that he’s a spectacularly handsome man. But for all his chiseled alabaster beauty, there’s a certain rough edge to him; a hardness that reminds me of Kaithar and the soldiers I encountered down there in the courtyard.
The ones that detained my father.
On his orders.
That effortless authority.
That face of his… it’s not exactly the same, but the resemblance is there, on every damn coin in Rahava.
He looks like…
Oh, Eresus.
My mind pieces together all the evidence that my heart doesn’t want to believe.
He’s…
My thoughts become like treacle. My head is fuzzy. His unearthly face swims in my vision.
“Finley?” I hear his voice, quiet and oh-so-serious. Why does he sound so far away?
Why are you so serious, Your Highness?
His brow furrows in concern. His eyes are deep and dark, like wine.
It’s so warm in here.
I lean back into the luxurious sofa and catch sight of the logs glowing in the hearth. Golden orange and red, glowing brightly against the blackened fireplace.
“Finley…” He says my name again, and I like the way it sounds coming from his lips, shaped by his deep, rich baritone.
I close my eyes. My limbs are heavy, but my body feels like it’s floating.
The darkness engulfs me, both unsettling and comforting.
Unsettling, because I’m helpless against it.
Comforting, because it feels good and natural, and it makes me want to surrender.
Crimson and white swirl in my vision, like embers in the snow.
So… warm… in here.
I can’t fight it anymore.
18
CORVAN
She closes her eyes, sways a little, and promptly faints.
And although I’m quite satisfied, a small demon in my head taunts me.
She smells so good. And she’s helpless now. You could, you know… just take a little more. Nobody would know.
“Shit,” I growl.
Her face, smooth and golden-tan, has taken on a greyish pallor. Dark circles surround her eyes, cradling lashes that are long and dark brown, the same rich shade as her lush wavy hair.
Her jawline is strong yet delicate, and the elegant column of her neck tempts me even now, making me want to press my lips against her dewy skin.
I see the place where I bit her… twin pinpricks of crimson, so faint one could easily miss them.
You did this to her. Take some more…
Sooner or later, you’ll kill her.
A vision flashes through my mind, of her lying in my arms, languorous and intoxicating, her essence so sweet and vibrant as I drink my fill; as the life drains from her.
It’s like a drug.
This blood of hers… I’ve never known anything so divine. Taking from her is like transcending heaven and hell.
And considering all that’s happened, she’s handled it very well. I was just about to offer her an explanation of sorts. I owe her that, I suppose.
So much for our little chat.
I rise from my chair and sweep her into my arms—yet again.
This is becoming a habit, it seems.
She’s so light. So fragile. She smells delicious—and it isn’t only her blood. She carries a delicate fragrance that mingles with her skin-scent to cloud my senses with a sweetly intoxicating aroma.
She carries the scent of warm weather—of summer and spring, spiked with a hint of fresh citrus.
I look down at her features, so peaceful and exquisite. She has a perfectly oval-shaped face, with arched brows and a strong, elegant nose. Full cheeks, sharp cheekbones, lush dusky-rose lips.
I shake my head in disbelief as I carry her out of my office, heading for the tower. I will not succumb to temptation and drain her of every last drop of her heady essence.
As tempting as she is, it’s like grazing for delicious morsels of food on a full stomach. Now that my hunger is quenched, she’s a delight to the senses, nothing more.
I won’t ever lose control to that extent.
I’ve got brutal decades of military training beneath me. Unlike my brother, I’ve waged the grinding campaigns. I’ve bled and fought alongside my men. I’ve dug trenches and waded through the mud and the sludge and the corpses.
I’ve done it before—used my ability to kill men by tearing out their throats and draining their blood. I can be fast and savage and remorseless in the heat of battle. I’ve known what it’s like to overpower a mortal with my monstrous strength and hold him down; to feel his fear and desperation, quickly giving way to helplessness as I lull him into a thrall, until he understands that all he can do is submit.