My reaction is immediate, intense. Some things ignite. Others melt. A deep, almost irresistible pull nearly rocks me toward him. I dread this power he holds over me. It makes me want to tell him all my secrets and see if he still wants me.
I swallow, banishing the thought. “Let me go.”
Griffin’s smoldering eyes lift to meet mine. “I’m not holding you.”
Oh.
Right.
Quite.
I could easily duck under his arm. I wet my lips instead. It’s impossible not to.
The rumble in his chest sets me alight. It’s predatory. Hungry. Griffin lowers his head until his mouth hovers over the curve of my neck. His warm breath curls lazily over my bare shoulder, and a spray of gooseflesh travels down my arm. Anticipation shivers through me, turning my heartbeat wild as a slow burn spreads through my middle, as languid and intoxicating as mulled wine.
His lips brush my shoulder and then skim lower, teasing the sensitive skin along the scooped neckline of my gown. The feathery touch makes me quiver. I plant my hands on the wall behind me, palms flat against the cool stone to keep from reaching for him. My nipples harden, straining against the thin material of my dress. He growls something low and fierce, and then his tongue flicks out.
I gasp, surprise and desire thundering through me. I know exactly where he licked. There’s a freckle high on the inside of my right breast. My breathing turns shallow, almost painful. Griffin’s hands slide down the wall to land on my hips, anchoring me as his mouth moves lower and his lips graze the concealed peak of one breast.
I draw in a sharp breath, feeling both crests stiffen even more. The mounting throb in my core echoes my galloping pulse. The beat of blood and want. My hands ache to touch him, to slip into his hair, to hold him to me for another hot, shocking touch. A moan rises in my throat, and I bite my lip to stifle it, shifting against the growing pressure, against the restless need to press my body into his.
Griffin’s tongue slides over the freckle again, and my knees nearly buckle. His husky voice vibrates against my skin. “I’ve been wanting to taste that for weeks.”
“What does it taste like?” The breathy murmur sounds nothing like me.
“Like a snowflake on my tongue. So cold it burns.” He lifts his head, his eyes searing. “It tastes like magic. And you.”
His hands rise to cup my jaw. Wings unfurl inside my rib cage, bigger and stronger than ever before.
“Don’t kiss me,” I whisper, and the wings stretch in protest.
His thumbs glide over my cheeks in a tender, sweeping caress that makes my chest ache. “Give me one good reason not to.”
When he looks at me like this, touches me, it’s hard to think at all. Part of me doesn’t even want to. But there are some things even I can’t ignore. “Alpha Fisa. She’ll kill anyone who gets in her way.”
“I’ll fight her with you.”
“You can’t. You’ll die.”
He shakes his head. “I won’t let her take you from me.”
I close my eyes, so tired of the fight. Unable to stop myself, I lean my forehead against Griffin’s solid chest. His arms come around me, and just for a moment, I let my body mold to his. “You don’t get it,” I say, my voice muffled by his tunic. “She won’t let anyone take me from her.”
“You don’t get it.” He sets me back enough to look me in the eyes. “You’re mine. Not Cat the Soothsayer. Not Cat the Kingmaker. Just Cat.”
I shiver at his words, the chills running both hot and cold.
“It’s inevitable,” Griffin says softly. His gray eyes are like anchors, weighing down my heart.
I shake my head. “It’s not.”
“You were made for me. I know it.”
I stare at him in stark fear. He believes that. I feel the crushing weight of his truth in my bones.
“You need time.” He reluctantly steps back, opening the space around me again. “In time, you’ll see. For now, just come with me.” Griffin takes my hand and doesn’t let go until we’re in the dining room. I skip the curtsy and sit in the chair he pulls out for me, too preoccupied to think about etiquette, especially when no one here cares.
“You’re pale,” Nerissa says, reaching over to pat my hand. “Are you all right?”
I stare at her plump fingers, resisting the urge to snatch my hand away. “I’m fine.” I look around. “Where’s Anatole?”
She sits back, worry creasing her brow. “Feeling poorly. He stayed upstairs.”