Page 178 of A Court of Thralls and Thorns

His fingers stilled. “What?”

“I wanted to see the fae prisoner.”

He turned me slightly, just enough that I could see the concern darkening his lavender eyes. “Why?”

“Because…” I licked my lips, fighting to stay focused, but my body pressed closer to his, seeking relief I knew I wouldn’t get until the Lucorin burned out of my system—or until something far more dangerous happened. “Because I think... I think he’s my father.”

His hand slid to my arm, fingers tightening just enough to anchor me. “Are you sure it’s a man?”

“Cordelle thought so,” I managed. “But...it could be a woman.”

His expression darkened. “Why do you think this man—or woman—is your parent?”

“Kaelith told me I’m a true halfling. She wouldn’t have been able to bond with me otherwise.”

“That explains why you’re so powerful,” he muttered, almost to himself. “And from a lost bloodline…” He shook his head slightly.

“I suppose that makes sense, but...why are you so powerful?” I moved the water with my arm, then tilted my head back to look at him. “Cordelle said Dark Fire is a lost magic, too.”

Zander’s lips pressed into a grim line. “Some magics are recessive,” he said slowly. “They can pop back up later in a bloodline. That’s the case with Dark Fire. There have been other instances in the last six hundred years where powerful magics have reappeared.”

I tried to focus on his words, but my mind drifted. My skin felt too tight, like I was trapped in a body that couldn’t contain the heat building inside me.

“Why did the assassin dose me with Lucorin?” I asked, my voice cracking with frustration. “If it’s meant for dragons...why?”

Zander’s hand moved to the small of my back, steadying me. “Because,” he said, his voice low and rough, “the side effectis you’ll answer any question posed to you. It acts as a truth serum.”

My stomach twisted, and I swallowed hard. “It’s not working. The bath, I mean.” I whispered, the fire beneath my skin searing hotter, demanding more than just answers. “I need you.”

I turned in his arms before I could second-guess myself, my body molding to his. My hand slid up his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm. The tension in his muscles made him feel like solid stone, and his breathing hitched as I shifted closer.

“Ashe...” His voice was strangled, but his hand didn’t move from my waist.

“Please,” I whispered, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I need this.”

His eyes—darkened with flecks of black swirling in their lavender depths—locked on mine, and for a heartbeat, I thought he’d say no. That he’d pull away and leave me tangled in this impossible fire.

But then his hand slid up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair, and his mouth claimed mine.

The heat of his kiss ignited something even stronger—something deeper—and I pressed closer, desperate to lose myself in the storm we’d unleashed.

Zander’s lips pressed deftly against mine, fierce and unrelenting, like he was unraveling every ounce of control he’d spent the night clinging to. His fingers drawing me closer, and I gave in, pressing against him as the fire inside me roared louder. His mouth was warm and demanding, and I kissed him back with everything I had.

But then he stopped.

“Not here, Ashe,” he rasped, voice ragged and low. He pressed his forehead to mine, breath hot against my skin. “Not like this.”

Before I could argue, he stood, the water cascading down his sculpted chest in rivulets, tracing the ridges of muscle like the gods had chiseled him from stone. His fight-scarred skin gleamed, droplets clinging to him as if even the water didn’t want to leave. His arousal was impossible to miss, and heat coiled low in my stomach as my eyes drifted down the solid lines of his body.

He stepped out of the tub and reached for me, his hand warm and sure as he helped me to my feet. I wobbled slightly, still lightheaded from the poison—or maybe from him—but Zander steadied me, his fingers tightening around mine.

Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around my body with a gentleness that unraveled me further. He dragged the soft fabric slowly down my arms, across my stomach, and down my legs, fingers lingering far longer than they needed to. I trembled beneath his touch, aching for more.

Then he stepped back, drying himself off with quick, efficient movements. How I envied that towel.

Before I could voice my frustration, he scooped me into his arms, his bare chest pressing against mine as he carried me from the washroom. His muscles flexed beneath my fingers, and the scent of him—Dark Fire and rain—wrapped around me like a comfort I hadn’t realized I needed.

He lay me down on the bed, his body settling beside mine. For a heartbeat, I thought he might pull away, but instead, his hand cupped my face, his thumb brushing my cheek.