And I wanted it. I wanted to press my fingers against the evidence of him and thrill in the throb of pain.
An echo accompanied every beat of my pounding heart, a hollow sound in the cacophony. We had done something terrible to each other. Unraveled the core of a shared monster.
Cursed knowledge, Raya would say. How could I walk away after knowing how he felt in my arms? My name whispered in his wrecked voice—how could I allow anyone else to say my name after him?
I scrambled at the lacings of Arin’s vest, cursing against his lips. I finally managed to loosen the laces and shove up his tunic. I traced the ridges of his stomach, digging my nails into his hip when he shuddered. Heat spiraled through me at the strangeness of him. This unreadable man, who never reacted to my insults or my temper, yet so responsive under my touch. I needed more of him. More of this. Needed to drive the unshakeable Commander to madness under my fingers and lips and skin. To stop picking through the debris in my head and lose myself in him.
“Do you have the faintest clue how you frustrate me?” His mouth found the pulse jumping at my throat. The solid contours of his body pressed me to the wardrobe, pinning me in place. “How you fascinate me?”
My magic thrilled when leather palms skimmed higher up my thighs, tumbling alongside the heat bolting in my veins. “Bed. Now.”
The feral glint in Arin’s smile sent anticipation shuddering through me. I would never feel fully secure with him. He would never be completely safe with me. “Is that an order, Suraira?”
I tightened my legs around his waist in response.
The world flipped as Arin wrapped an arm around my waist and turned. I hit the bed with an oomph. Arin braced a knee against the bed. He gazed down at me with hunger and something quieter. A far more dangerous emotion.
The way he looks you at sometimes. Like you are a cliff with a fatal fall, and each day you move him closer to its edge.
I reached for Arin and drew him down to the bed. I cradled his face between my hands. I ensured I had his full attention before brushing my lips over his forehead. He caught my wrists, holding tight. He didn’t pull away.
I wanted to peel him open and memorize him from the inside out. I’d had it so wrong. Arin was not a coil without a spring. Pressure had compressed Arin into the sharpest, coldest parts of himself. The parts most likely to withstand the pressure. Under an identical force, I broke. I tore myself to pieces to avoid it, knowing I might never be able to build myself back the same way again. But I wanted to hope what we’d lost could still be saved. That despite what we’d become, we could learn to be soft again.
I kissed his left eye, then his right. The corner of his mouth. The bolt of his jaw. Arin began to shake. “Sylvia.” It was half plea, half pain.
Vaida’s voice found its way through the fog of want. He withholds his heart out of self-preservation.
“I despise you.” I brushed my fingers over his hair, relishing the weight of his body against mine. He was holding himself carefully, as though he might crush me if he lost focus. Silly man. I kicked his ankle out and huffed a laugh as he caught himself, rolling me on top.
I followed the sharp line of his nose. “I dream of killing you.”
Arin pulled my fingers away. Worry lashed me. Had I gone too far?
Eyes dark with amusement searched mine. He smoothed the furrow forming in my brow with his thumb. “My demented Suraira, we have much to discuss about seduction.”
A knock against the door startled a yelp out of me. Arin covered my mouth.
“Victor Sylvia? Are you in need of any assistance?”
I bit his glove. He withdrew with a smirk. “No, thank you!”
His lips sealed over mine in a sensual slide. I cupped the back of his neck, winding myself around him like a snake trapping its hunt. I hooked my thumb into his waistband, tracing the curve of his hip.
The sudden loss of Arin’s heat whipped me to awareness. He had turned his head to the side, jaw tight.
“I need a moment,” he forced out. “Your magic…”
“What does it feel like?”
“I can’t trust my own hands. It feels like I might reach to caress your lovely neck and snap it instead.”
I should have been afraid. I was, in truth, but I was always afraid. The emotion formed a central cornerstone of our relationship.
He was telling the truth about the musrira—or the truth as he believed it to be. A thwarted curse had rendered him so sensitive to magic that my very touch could pain him. It was as good an explanation as any other.
But I wondered.