Page 276

“Say please,” he murmured, his fingers idly circling that spot.

She wouldnot.

“Arrogant, highborn, bast—” His hips rolled, and her head hit the table, fingers clawing at the wood. He was picking back up his rhythm, hardening inside her.

“Say it.” His teeth grazed her neck as his hips kept rocking, and those wicked, wicked fingers kept circling. “Come on, Tink, you can do it.”

Then his aether sparked, a pulse so sharp it made her jerk, hips snapping up into his palm.

“Please,” she gasped. “Please, please, please, please, please—”

Her climax hit, and she screamed as her body seized around him, fluttering and trembling and coming undone. His breath hitched on a moan. Then his lips parted against her neck, and his teeth clamped down.

Pain folded into pleasure, too tangled to pull apart. She smelled blood, but she was too far gone to care. He was bucking inside her, riding out her release and chasing his own, snarling into the bite. Every thrust drove his teeth deeper.

And somewhere in the firestorm of sensation, she forgot to hold the door shut.

The bond didn’t ease open—it ruptured.

And she felt the flood of it slam into him. Felt his body jerk.

He came with a broken yell against her skin, still pumping, each hot spurt punching into her like another thrust. Until his weight fell on top of her as he collapsed against her back. One arm remained braced on the table, the other still between her legs.

Taly panted into the wood, wincing when he released the bite. Every place their skin met was damp with sweat.

“So that was…” She swallowed, still struggling to remember words. “Is that what you meant by the ‘making up’ part of the fight?”

Skye’s laugh was a huff of air against her neck. “Maybe.”

She gave a lazy, sated smile as his tongue dragged across the blood itching on her shoulder, reopening the wound that was already starting to zip closed. “We should fight more often.”

He shuddered, voice ragged. “We fight enough already. We don’t need to turn it into foreplay, unless your plan is to kill me.” She moved against him. He twitched deep inside her, a ragged growl catching in his throat. “You’re right. Living is overrated.”

She rocked into him a second time, and he rolled with her. “Upstairs?” she asked, shivering.

The door to the fifth floor had barely slammed closed before she shoved him up against it and sank her teeth into his shoulder, giving him a mark to match.

Chapter 55

She tasted like incense.

Like old books and the ticking of clocks from some faraway room.

She tasted liketime, like memory, and days later, Skye still couldn’t get enough of the perfect taste of her magic.

Standing in front of the mirror in his closet, he pulled back the collar of his black dress shirt, unable to keep the grin off his face at the fading bite mark. A souvenir from that morning. He’d shifted the blood flow to keep the wound fresh, but it was healing now, slipping away despite the effort.

He’d always known that Taly would end up killing him. With her temper—and his delight in provoking it—death was an inevitability. But after the sparring match, after seeing her fight, magic and skill so effortlessly aligned—after having the mighty warrior bent over the table screaming his name as the perfect taste of her aether bloomed in his mouth…

Well, at least now he knew how she would do it.

She’d ride him like a tornado, and he’d spin apart so completely there would be no hope of ever finding all the pieces. And he was okay with that. After all, how many people got to go their graves smiling?

He made quick work of his black silk tie, straightening his cuffs before pulling on a matching coat. Tonight, Ivain had called a town hall. The time had finally come to reveal the Curse to the public. He’d been nervously pacing the halls and practicing speeches under his breath all week. They’d seized the infected flour and started draining the cisterns, but the Curse was still spreading. This week alone, five more Fey had beenconfirmed to have the Shaking Fever, and the healers were already preparing for more.

Ivain needed to take drastic measures. He needed help from the other noble families to quell what could quickly become widespread panic. And while that flock of preening harpies rarely gave anything they didn’t have to, they’d agreed to meet—for the performance, if nothing else.

Giving his tie one final tug, Skye appraised himself in the mirror. He wore a full suit, well-cut and slim, made from expensive black fabric with silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar. A simple diadem made from braided gold and silver cut across his brow, a diamond starburst at its center.