Page 15 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood (Tales So Wicked #2)

Her small hands hover before me. The scent of blood hits my senses. Tracking the source, my eyes drop to her fingers. Her nails are torn and raw. I have the urge to pull them into my mouth, sucking each digit between my lips, licking her wounds until they’re clean.

Lenore takes another step toward me. She’s so close I can scent her. Alluring and dangerous, like a poisonous flower. Do I dare let someone, a mortal at that, touch my wings?

Her arms start to drop while I mull things over.

Fuck it. I’m reckless these days. It’s liberating.

Such responsibility crushes me day after day.

What’s the worst that can happen if I give in?

It’s only a touch. I turn, giving her my back.

When she doesn’t move closer, I stretch my wings just enough to nudge her open palms.

She gasps. Her hands press flat against my wings.

My whole body goes taut. The sensation rests somewhere between sheer terror and utter joy.

One hand moves, gliding up and around my wing in a long, arcing motion.

The steady stroke of her fingers has my back bending into the touch.

She runs the tips over each feather, strumming me like the strings of a harp.

The music it creates manifests as a moan that falls unbidden from my open mouth.

Lenore freezes at the sound. I expect her to back away, but instead, she repeats the motion, starting near my shoulder blade, arcing high and sliding her palm down almost to my wing tip. I moan again, hips shifting forward slightly. The sensation is disturbingly pleasurable.

Her fingertips are light as they explore the tops, tips, and edges of each feather. My muscles ripple beneath, purring in response to so intimate a touch. Only one other has touched my wings, and their cruel mark remains on my body and upon my soul.

My back arches in pleasure as Lenore runs both palms against the spots where my wings connect to my shoulder blades.

A string of soft, sensuous sounds pours steadily from my parted lips.

Her touch is all over me and suddenly I think I’ll cease existing if I don’t turn around and touch her right back.

Tucking my wings in, I spin to face her.

She squeaks in surprise at the abrupt action.

My hands reach behind her, one dipping into the small of her back, the other threading into her wild onyx hair.

Her breaths turn quick, matching my own.

The frilly scrap of fabric masks those glassy blue eyes from me.

She can’t see the way I’m staring. The way my eyes are fixed on the curve of her lips.

I pull her closer, lowering the hand in her hair to tilt her chin up.

Lenore’s arms wrap around my waist, and my wings unfold, spreading wide in anticipation of her touch.

That sweet, forbidden floral scent washes over me, hypnotizing my mind and heightening my senses.

Her fingers are greedy with their exploration of my wings. I’ve never felt so alive.

Her lips beckon me forward, parting further.

Sheer want riddles her delicate features.

It mirrors my own desire. I dip lower, breathing her in, consuming the air around her, losing myself to her poisoned essence.

Dark and light dance hand and hand within my little raven.

I want to devour both sides, fuse them until she’s the shining star and the pitch-black night, buried beneath my skin, swimming in my veins?—

Lenore’s hands skim my lower back and I go rigid.

Her movements slow as she discovers the twin lines of raised ragged flesh.

She slides a single finger across one and gasps at the realization of what it is.

With her touch upon that scarred skin, my darkest moments slam through my mind, shattering the chamber where I keep them so carefully locked away.

Pain, screaming, laughter. Searing, scorching heat enveloping me as I lose a part of myself that I’ll never recover from.

Darkness overtaking my vision as the sharp agony steals my poise, leaving me a slobbering, soul-stricken heap of blood and feathers.

A ruler brought to his knees by two unforgettable slices.

All my power, worthless in that moment. The flapping of my upper wings as they lament the loss, struggling to find balance among my now-bare lower back.

Two wings mourning their other halves as they’re dragged away.

Tragic is too simple a word for that level of devastation.

The Prince of Death should not cry. But I sobbed that day, tears enough to flood the mortal world and wash away all traces of humanity.

Such profound loss. Utter, unforgettable loss.

My wings snap closed. I move out of Lenore’s reach so quickly that she stumbles forward. Without another thought, I shoot skyward, leaving my little raven, hands outstretched.

How alone she looks from this high above.

Lenore

I leave the sting of my encounter with Harrow behind, wandering into the castle, only to be instantly summoned to a tea with my mother’s court. My fingers rub against each other with the memory of his soft feathers and two raised lines. Scars, I’m positive.

Several things shifted after that encounter.

First, Harrow is real. So real I could touch him.

Second, he really does have wings. Which means, third, he truly isn’t human.

Harrow . My fingers flex with the desire to bury in his wings again.

The sounds he made as I touched him… The feeling of his hands on me…

My body heats. With my eyes covered, my hearing was heightened.

His moans and groans unlocked a part of me that has been swirling beneath my skin ever since.

A part of me that would much rather be in the bath, satiating that quivering place between my thighs, instead of socializing with people I don’t even like.

Honestly, having tea after such an otherworldly encounter seems trivial at best.

My mother and her court are fully immersed in their tea when I arrive.

Several of their daughters are present as well.

I’ve never been partial to the idea of having a court.

A court should be comprised of those closest and most trusted.

Instead, it’s a group of power-hungry social climbers, hoping the queen will use her many connections to help secure a match for their daughters.

Three of the girls are my age. We’ve never gotten on well. I don’t like sitting about, fanning myself and talking about how I’ll decorate my future home. These girls spend so much time lounging about looking pretty that I’m surprised their asses haven’t fused to their seats.

No one bothers to ask me questions. They’re probably tired of the strange things I always say.

Conversing eloquently is an art form that was not passed down from my mother to me.

Their gazes are all fixed on the queen. That’s fine by me.

I reach for a lemon cake, deciding I better grab two so I can stuff my face while no one is looking.

As is my luck, my elbow catches on my cup during my very unladylike reach across the table, knocking it over. Its contents empty down the front of my dress before it clatters onto the floor.

I am now the unfortunate subject of every gaze in the room.

There’s a flustered fuss of several women offering me napkins and muttering their condolences before a flurry of servants swoop in to clean it up.

It’s just some spilled tea, not the end of the world.

I have more clothes than I have time to wear.

“And it was such a lovely dress,” Penelope says with a pitying frown.

She’s the ringleader of the noble daughters.

And also the biggest ass-kisser and most annoying.

I see right through her fake facade. If I weren’t the princess, she would turn that dainty freckled nose up and pass by me without a word.

“My daughter is right,” her mother, Bess, chimes in. “Lovely, yet so modest, so you .” At my scowl, Bess adds, “A credit to true virtue, decency, and the crown, no doubt.”

These people . I wouldn’t have to dress so modestly if everyone here weren’t so judgmental. It’s because of people like Bess and Penelope that I have to hide my flaws. It would be so refreshing to be free of judgments. To bare my scar and not worry about the hushed remarks.

“You know why I dress so modestly, don’t you?

” I press. Across the table, my mother shifts in her seat.

“It’s because I’m a thousand-year-old witch.

Beneath these clothes, I’m wrinkly and haggard.

Every few years, I steal the face of a beautiful youth to hide my true nature.

You’d better watch out, Penelope, it could be your face next. ”

Bess clutches her daughter’s arm, pulling her close.

I slide my gaze around the room. My joke has fallen flat. They’re all gawking at me like I said I eat children and sacrifice goats. Why is comedic timing so hard to master?

“My daughter jests.” My mother smiles but her eyes are fixed on me in a what the hell was that kind of way.

On cue, everyone at the table releases a round of forced laughter. My own lips press into a thin line, my tight, mirthless smile the best I can offer by way of politeness toward all of these boring, stuck-up ninnies.

“Would you like to change out of those tea-stained clothes, my love?” An out. My mother is giving me an out. I stand, my chair screeching against the stone floor. Everyone cringes at the sound.

“Yes, I am a mess. Please excuse me while I freshen up.” I consider grabbing some snacks from the table before I leave. I’m still hungry. But I’d bet the princess stuffing cakes into a napkin would be frowned upon even more than spilling tea on myself. I’ll have Melly bring me some.

The ladies rise, giving their perfunctory farewells. I smile back, knowing they can tell it’s fake. Bye, bitches .

I don’t mind being excused from tea. The sky will turn to night soon and I can put the entirety of this strange day behind me. It’s a full moon tonight. My bone garden calls. I’d choose solitude or a visit with my animal friends over a stuffy, forced tea with sugar-coated strangers any day.