Page 6

Chapter Six

FELICITY FORREST

“I burn for you. I would burn my kingdom to ash and stay with you forever if I could, but I need you both to live more than I need your love.”

King Cú Chulainn Darkraven to Talora

I melt into him. Not like butter—oh no, nothing so soft and sweet. It’s more like wax under a blowtorch. Melting, yes, but with the distinct possibility of combustion. My hands clutch his shirt, my pulse hammering hard enough that I swear I can feel it in my teeth.

His scent wraps around me—earth, musk, and something rugged, like a storm rolling in over dark woods. It drags up memories I shouldn’t be thinking about. The dream. The púca. The heat of something wilder than I should want.

But it’s the cedar and smoke that does me in.

Not like woodsmoke, bonfire smoke, thick and clinging, laced with the promise of ruin. It’s the scent of temptation—a hand at your throat, a whisper against your ear, a flame licking too close to bare skin.

I breathe him in like I’ve already surrendered. And like in the dream, the fire isn’t the thing that scares me. It’s the fact that I want to burn.

But now? Now it’s less a dream and more like déjà vu .

My lips move against his, but my mind is racing—no, galloping —through fragments of memory. Wind tears through my hair. A sinfully dark mane beneath my fingers. A pounding heartbeat that isn’t mine.

It’s not possible. But damn if it doesn’t feel like it is. It feels like… magic , like the kiss has cracked open something inside me.

His hand tightens around my throat, fingers pressing—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to test me. To see if I’ll yield.

He kisses me like he already owns me. Like he knows I want to let him. And I do. Gods help me, I do.

Which is deeply concerning for someone who prides herself on independence, common sense, and the ability to walk away from things that cut too deep.

Apparently, I don’t have that ability anymore.

I gasp, and he takes full advantage, his tongue sweeping in like he’s conquering territory. He tastes like whiskey and sin—burning, intoxicating, and entirely too addictive.

Instinct takes over. I tilt my head, lips parting further, granting him exactly what he wants.

He devours the air in my lungs between stinging nips of his teeth.

This isn’t a kiss. It’s a claim. My knees buckle, but his arm snakes around my waist, pulling me closer. My body fits against his like we are made for this .

Maybe that’s the real danger. Because Niall isn’t the kind of man you walk away from unscathed. He’s the storm, and I’m the reckless thing standing in the eye of it. A raw, aching need coils low as he kisses me with the confidence of a man who never hears no.

Then it hits me.

A soul-deep tug that makes me wonder if this is more than chemistry. More than lust. Older than either of us. Inevitable.

I don’t want to name it. Because naming it makes it real .

I kiss him harder, like I can smother the thought between our lips, bury it under teeth and tongue and heat. Like if I let him take enough, I’ll forget I was ever foolish enough to think this was only a kiss.

But nothing about this is simple.

His hands grip me like he’s already made up his mind. Like he’d hunt me across this world and the next. Drag me back, kicking and screaming.

I’d let him.

Because with him, I don’t have to choose. I can be strong and soft, fearless and fragile, brutal and honest—and somehow, I know he wouldn’t see less of me for all the ways I never quite fit. I can take what I want. And want him without apology.

Because with him, I am not small. I’m powerful. Free. His. Darkness doesn’t just call to darkness. It sets the world on fire.

The raw, aching need? It should terrify the fuck out of me.

It doesn’t. I just want him to wreck me with it.

When he pulls away, it’s not for air but to glare at me like I’ve personally offended him. “You’re fucking torment, a stór ,” he says, his voice trembling like a drawn bowstring.

His fingers flex at my waist, like he’s debating whether to pull me back or push me away. His breath is ragged. Then his teeth graze my bottom lip. Sharp. Punishing.

I gasp. Heat floods through me so fast that I forget where I am. Forget who I am.

He pulls back, but the heat lingers. His chest heaves, his face shadowed by something darker than hunger. His eyes—those amber-flecked eyes—are almost completely onyx now, and they’re fixed on me like I’m something sacred and profane all at once.

“What are you?” His voice is barely a whisper.

“A monster, if that’s what you need me to be.” My fingers trail up his chest, a wicked smile curving my lips. “I don’t know what I am. But if you’re the darkness, then I was born in it. “And all I know—” I exhale, my voice featherlight, like a secret meant just for him “—is that you feel like home. And that should scare the hell out of you.”

And from the way his breath hitches, I know it does.

He thumbs my lip. Then the vow falls from his lips. “ Mo chríoch agus mo thús. Bás fillte sa dorchadas. Más ollphéist thú, is amhlaidh atá mise. Níl aon domhan ann nach roghnóinn tusa. ”

Gods, it sounds like poetry. And feels like a reckoning.

I shouldn’t understand him. I shouldn’t.

And yet the meaning sinks into my bones. I know these words. Not because I was taught them at university, but because they already live inside me.

My end and my beginning. Death wrapped in darkness. If you’re a monster, so am I. There is no world I wouldn’t choose you.

The translation isn’t conscious. It’s not thought—it’s memory.

But that’s… impossible .

He stiffens, like he’s just let something slip its chains and now it’s too late to shove it back in the dark.

I lift my chin. “I want this.”

His gaze sharpens, heat flickering behind the amber sparks. “You don’t know what this is.”

“Then show me.” I reach for him, but he stumbles back, like my touch might be the end of him.

He hesitates. He’s trying to wrestle down the inevitable, but the ragged edge of his breathing betrays him. “ Scriú é. I can’t fight this anymore. Not with you. I need you. Now .”

I tilt my head, eyes locked on his. Slowly, I peel off my gloves, letting the cool air kiss my skin. “Then what do you suggest we do about that ?”

He exhales sharply, like I’ve just tipped him over the edge. “I’ve got a few ideas. None of them involve you walking straight tomorrow.”

He drags me closer, and something shifts.

It feels like the world recalibrates around us. The breeze that had been stirring a moment ago? Gone. The sunlight filtering through the trees? Flickering, like the branches are moving, but they aren’t. Even the shadows at our feet seem longer than they should be, stretching toward each other, entwining like grasping fingers.

His breath ghosts over my lips. “I need to feel you. Taste you. Hear you beg while I tear you apart and put you back together again.”

I suck in air. His warm, spicy flavour still burns my lips. A shiver runs through me, a visceral response to a promise I didn’t know I was waiting for. No one has ever spoken to me like this, not as if they wanted me, but as if I were the only thing they’ve ever needed. It’s terrifying. It’s a freefall with no guarantee of landing.

“We should head back to Pier House.” My lie wobbles on shaky legs in a final, desperate stab at composure.

He groans, deep and guttural, and the sound does things to me. “No time. No need. My cottage is right here.”

Of course, it is. Fate knows how to screw a girl over. Or maybe just screw her.

I’m standing on the edge of something reckless. The crossroads between common sense and…well, him . He’s watching me, his gaze heavy enough to leave marks. His body is close enough that heat snakes beneath my skin. My heart pounds in my chest, my pulse racing like it’s trying to outrun me, but there’s nowhere to run.

“Yes.” I don’t look away or hesitate, even as his lips quirk into a smug smile that threatens to undo me.

“You sure about that, a stór ?” His voice is a slow drawl, like a blade dragged over silk. Like he’s giving me a chance to take it back.

I won’t. It’s too late.

“Don’t push your luck,” I snap, arching a brow. “I’m already breaking all my rules, so don’t make me regret it.”

His grin turns wicked. “Oh, mo chroí . You should know regret is the last thing I’ll leave you with.”

Fuck. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. He grabs my hand and pulls me through a wrought iron gate and up the stone path leading to his cottage. We’re lust-drunk, moving too fast for second thoughts.

Prickles of excitement and fear clash inside my head. He kicks the door shut behind us. We’re in a small, dimly lit foyer. A massive mirror framed in weathered driftwood hangs on the wall, its glass shimmering like water under moonlight. I catch a glimpse of us. Dishevelled, breathless, and tangled in each other’s gravity.

Before I can blink, he lifts me like I weigh nothing.

“I can walk, you know,” I protest, but there’s no heat in it.

“Mmm, doesn’t mean I’ll let you.” He carries me into the bedroom and sets me down, but his gaze pins me in place. The room falls silent except for our breathing.

I steady my fingers on the first button of my shirt. His gaze sharpens. I hear the faint hitch in his breath that sends a thrill racing down my spine. Slowly, I undo another button, then another, the fabric parting under my touch. His eyes follow every movement like I’m unwrapping a gift meant solely for him.

His lips part, his breath ragged. “Fuck. You’re wrecking me.”

And I believe him.

His eyes burn into mine, like I’m the answer to a question he’s never dared to ask. Like he’s holding his breath, waiting to see if I’ll break or bend.

And I do break—just a little.

Because wanting him isn’t enough.

I need him.

Like air. Like gravity. Like he’s the only thing keeping me from spinning straight into oblivion. We shouldn’t. Not when everything between us feels delicate, like lace stretched too thin over something sharp. But the stars don’t care about timing. Neither do I. There’s no going back. And maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I was always meant to fall.

I bite my lip to stop the breathy sigh threatening to slip free.

“Don’t.” He steps closer, his fingers trailing over my cheek before brushing my lips, easing my bitten lip free. “That’s mine .”

Heat pulses low in my belly. I could push back and make him work for it, but gods, I want to drag him under with me.

I meet his gaze, my pulse hammering in my throat. “Then take it.”

His thumb drags across my mouth, parting my lips just enough to tease before pulling away. “Cheana féin mianach, cibé acu a admhaíonn tú é nó nach admhaíonn.”

I don’t just understand the words. I feel them. Again.

Already mine, whether you admit it or not.

Heat slithers up my spine, like sin tracing its way to my throat. I should step back. But I demand more. “Take it off.”

“What, this?” He drags open the first button of his shirt—slow, teasing—making a show of each exposed inch of skin as his fingers move agonizingly down, button by button, revealing ink curling over muscle. “Or are you asking for everything?”

“Don’t tease me, Niall.” The demand slips out, breathless.

His fingers flex, like he’s resisting the urge to grab me. “Oh, love. I haven’t even started teasing you yet.”

The shirt hits the floor.

I exhale, raking my eyes down his chest and his stomach—all hard muscle, skin marked in wicked ink, and a body built for late nights and bad decisions. I should look away, get control. But my fingers twitch.

He notices.

“Go on,” he says, stepping closer until his bare skin brushes mine.

I drag my hands over him, fingers tracing each ridge of muscle, nails grazing over warm skin. His breath hitches when my hands slide lower. “You’re overdressed.”

His voice turns to smoke and sin. “Then fix it, a stór .”

Challenge accepted.

I reach for his belt. But before I can undo it, he catches my wrist and brings it to his mouth—pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of my wrist, a flick of his tongue over my skin.

His gaze flicks lower, tracking the way my thighs tighten in response. A wicked glint sparks in his eyes. He waits. Watches. Lets the tension build.

And then?

His hands slide down, grip my hips and turn me.

I barely have time to gasp before his knee slips between my thighs, pressing just enough to make me bite my lip.

Not rough. Not gentle. Just control.

Dark energy licks at my skin. A slow drag beneath the surface, curling deep in my ribs like a hand fisting tight. Shadows stretch, pooling at my feet, crawling up the walls like they’re alive.

They don’t belong to him…

But they reach for him.

A shiver prickles down my spine, but it’s not fear. It’s awareness. It pulls deep in my belly, as if the dark craves him the way I do. I inhale, my pulse thrumming. The heat between us thickens, sliding over my skin like a second touch. A second pair of hands.

I don’t move.

The shadows do.

His fingers brush my jaw, tilting my face toward his. His grip is steady, but his eyes? Dark, wild, knowing.

I try to speak. Fail. Try again. “Niall?—”

My voice barely makes it past my lips before his mouth ghosts over my ear.

“If you want to play dirty, love…”

A slight shift in his stance. That’s all it takes. His knee nudges higher, pressing right where I need it. Not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to wreck me with the lack of it. I inhale.

“…you’d better be ready to beg.”

And the shadows?

They rush forward, licking at the edges of the light, mirroring the need twisting inside me.

Niall watches me, eyes burning. “They know what you want.”

I lick my lips, throat dry. “And what’s that?”

His fingers tighten on my hips.

“Me,” he growls, dragging his teeth over my throat. “On your lips. Tasting your skin. Until you beg me to never stop.”