Page 63

But the longer she watches, the tighter her jaw becomes. The girl grows closer, bolder, and Ryon does not fold to her, but he does not leave either. An urgency builds within Dawsyn. She imagines those hands, the same width as two of hers, over this stranger’s hips, and she tastes bile. She can see the way Ryon would press the woman to a wall, run his hands down her neck and Dawsyn’s teeth grind dangerously.

It is only an itch to scratch, she knows. Only the strange bonding of their shared survival that has deluded her into thinking she is entitled to him. If it weren’t for the proximity, she never would have noticed the quirk of his right eyebrow when he is amused. She wouldn’t know about the way he swivels his wrists back and forth when anxious. She wouldn’t be accustomed to his eyes finding hers, how she can feel them on her, travelling the length of her with something like fascination.

The evening has grown late, and the light has dimmed. Still, she can see the outline of them in the shadows, barely seen by any others in their private corner. But Dawsyn sees. She cannot look away as the woman stops the twisting of his wrist, and leans forward to whisper into his ear. The second the temptress’s fingers find Ryon’s jaw, Dawsyn is up and out of her seat, moving through the throngs of people until she is close enough for Ryon to see her approaching. She has not yet reached them before his eyes find hers, and he uses them to warn her away, a promise in them to turn back before she can’t.

He frowns, his fists clench, his head shakes imperceptibly, and she ignores it all because she knows the pulse that jumps along his throat is for her, whether it should be or not.

He stands as Dawsyn reaches them, and the woman’s fingers fall away.

“There you are,” she tells him, her words heavy. “Excuse us,” she throws to the woman, neglecting to look her way. “This man lost a bet and is due for repayment.”

The woman laughs with obvious annoyance. “Too bad, sweetheart. Try your luck elsewhere.”

Ryon hides a grin, his eyebrow lifting. He watches Dawsyn intently, waiting to learn what her reaction will be. Dawsyn turns her head and looks at the woman from beneath her eyebrows. Whether it is the heat that radiates from her skin or the intensity of her glare, it is enough to send the stranger on her way. The woman clears her throat and then makes a mumbled apology, her bare back retreating to the bar.

Dawsyn lays her eyes on Ryon, her glare no less intense.

He has backed himself into the wall, the darkness nearly swallowing him. “Go away, Dawsyn. You do not know what you’re do–”

Her lips capture his, silencing his warnings. The length of her leans into him, and she feels how tense he is, finding ways to hold himself away, to hold himself back.

He turns his mouth away. “Stop.”

“Tell me that you truly want me to, and I will.”

He looks away and down. Her hands slide over his chest, and she feels the muscles jump beneath her fingers.

He groans quietly. “Nothing good will come of it.”

“You sound scared,” Dawsyn says against his throat. “I will not hurt you, Ryon. I can vow not to love you, and you can vow the same.”

She watches his skin prickle with want – goose-pimpling from his Adam’s apple to his collar.

But he looks at her now. Those infinite eyes burning her. “Do not challenge me, girl.”

“I’ve told you before,” Dawsyn whispers into his parted lips, “don’t tell me what to do.”

With a fury, he snaps. His hands come over her wrists, and he hurls them away from his body. He lurches off the wall and strides with an untethered wrath around the crowd, dragging her along behind him. She lets him, lets his dominating size carve a path through the dining hall and out, up the stairwell, and onto the landing, where he can wait no longer.

And she is ready. Waiting.

He all but lifts her over the last step before crowding her onto the nearest wall. His lips press to hers, pushing her head to the wood.

Electricity sparks her to life. She gasps into his mouth as his lips mold with hers, devouring her. His hands leave her arms and take her sides instead, lifting her feet from the ground. He crushes his body to hers to keep her aloft, and she wraps her legs around him. He tastes of sweet ale and something much, much darker. His tongue moves along hers, and she splinters. She dissolves.

It is so unlike the haste in which she and Hector took from each other. Their rush had been borne from a lack of space, privacy. But this? This is true need. This is consumption.

She grinds herself to him, and each time his hands grip her harder. They overwhelm her. At first, they only seek to hold her in place, but with each press of her body, his hands move, too, finding her buttocks, her thighs, and then her breasts, his fingers gripping her like they have desires of their own. Dawsyn pushes her chest into them, seeking friction, and is rewarded when the fabric of her dress slips over her shoulder, his hand pushing it from her. His mouth finds her neck, and he explores her, maps her. She gasps into his neck as his roughened palm comes over her nipple.

There is a noise on the stairwell. The sound of someone stumbling from step to step.

Dawsyn and Ryon freeze. They exchange breaths for a moment, their hearts thundering. Then, Ryon comes to life, righting her dress and pulling her down the hallway. He finds Dawsyn’s door and opens it with so much force that the hinges rattle. He slams it shut behind them and whirls on her.

She expects him to consume her again, to push her back to the bed. She wants badly for him to, but instead, he scrubs both hands over his face, wiping the taste of her from his lips. Though his eyes still seem feral, he does not move toward her.

“My apologies,” he mumbles, hands now raking through his hair. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

The fire in her core sputters. “Why? Do you regret it?”