Page 6 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

TEMPTRESS

“You must have an heir.”

My hand clenches around the curve of my throne.

The councilman who just spoke has served in this court for eight hundred years. It’s only that tenure that allows him to keep the tongue in his mouth.

Tynan, a warrior I’ve wanted to kill for my entire reign, speaks up. “He’s right. These are uncertain times. Tradition must be continued.”

Tradition .

The tradition of a Nightshade ruler having dozens of heirs who fight to the death.

Tradition of lining up women to sleep with, then discarding them after they’ve given birth.

A sliver of emotion lances through the prison I keep around my feelings, an arrow spiraling through the gaps in my armor, and I catch it. Turn it to ash. Smother the memories.

This isn’t the first time my council has brought up the issue of succession. It’s happened every few decades, as more and more have died from the curses.

Now, a danger far worse for our realm than our curse has put it right in the forefront.

I faced that danger last night. I shift to the side, gritting my teeth against a flash of half-healed pain, skin still stinging where talons nearly shredded me.

I don’t want children. I never wanted to continue any of these twisted traditions. I never wanted to rule at all.

Still—I can’t postpone this conversation any longer. The scar across our land, keeping winged beasts called the dreks at bay, has begun to tear open in earnest. The curse has begun to affect my power. My lands are weaker and my people are dwindling.

The dreks could kill me at any moment, and then my entire line and people will be dead. Unless I have an heir ...

Sometimes, even that thought doesn’t move me to action. But if they all die ... if my realm is lost ... then everything that came before meant nothing.

Memories again, choking me. Blood spilling across those halls—

The ancient councilman is speaking again.

“Your father had thirty-two heirs. They were weak, of course, worthless other than you, but he—” His voice breaks off in a gurgle.

He claws at his neck, and I watch, bored, as he mouths voiceless pleas.

As his feet slowly leave the ground. As my shadows wrap around his neck.

I just stare at him, not feeling anything. No guilt. No pity. No remorse. Just an endless expanse of nothing.

Not even when I twist my finger and his neck breaks. His body falls to a heap on the ground. Eight hundred years of life, lost.

I can’t bring myself to summon even a shred of giving a shit.

The room is silent. Even my own guards have gone still.

“Fine,” I say, standing, then stepping over the body as I stride through the throne room, black cape curling behind me, shadows following. “I’ll have an heir.”

Sweet-poisoned envy radiates from my guards as I pass through the hall. It makes me scowl. Fools . They think I’m lucky to be heading toward a line of women ready to sleep with me, eager to be part of the ruling blood.

I would rather be at the scar, battling dreks, instead of this.

I’ve had many women, and it has been a pleasurable, yet fleeting distraction. This is different. This has a purpose.

I’ve never been with a woman more than once. It’s against our rules, to keep from getting attached.

As if I would.

Love . It almost makes me laugh. What fool would put themselves in that position? For what, a person to bed more than once? To be nagged at and fussed over for eternity?

Some men in my court have taken wives.

I pity them.

I reach the end of the hall and sigh.

A line of women awaits. I can feel their emotions on the other side of this door, melding together in one big vat of fluttering, dizzying excitement . It makes me want to turn on my heel and leave.

Duty is the only thing that keeps me rooted in place.

Let ’ s get this over with .

I open the door and go still.

Red .

People’s emotions have auras. Colors. They are usually similar. Dull. I’ve never seen this color before. It’s so saturated . It’s the shade of roses, of hearts, of blood—

Her.

Her .

A woman wearing the same scrap of fabric as everyone else, but somehow, she stands out. The room is full, but she has my full attention. It isn’t, I admit, just her peculiar aura.

She’s the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

The moment the thought is formed, I incinerate it. Beautiful? Ridiculous. Nothing in this ash-crusted world has earned the word in centuries.

Nothing , I think ... except her . My jaw works as I try to steady my thoughts. As I rush to bury the swell of emotion. But her red aura is like poison, seeping through the gaps in the fortresses I’ve built around myself.

The more I look at her, the worse it gets.

Her hair is brown, and long, curled at the ends. Every strand gleams. I imagine touching it. Pulling it ... A blush is spreading across her cheeks, highlighting a few freckles, and I have the strange urge to count them.

My thoughts horrify me.

I should not be thinking about her. I should not be staring at her.

But I can’t stop.

Something is wrong with me. Maybe I’ve been poisoned. I should leave. I should portal to the other side of this island.

Instead, I continue to stare like a fool.

She’s wearing red paint on her heart-shaped lips. I don’t kiss anyone , I don’t let anyone get that close to me, but right now ... right now I have the sudden urge to remove all that paint with my tongue. Because she doesn’t need anything— anything —extra to make her look beautiful.

She already is.

She is perfection. She is radiance.

She is dangerous.

Pick someone else , the voice in my head says. Anyone else .

“You.” The word is out of me, and it’s done.

Green. She’s looking at me with green eyes that I’m going to see in my head tonight, long after she’s gone.

What is wrong with me?

As I finally turn out of the room, ignoring the wave of disappointment from the women who were not chosen, I grind my teeth together.

I am not this weak. I am in complete control of my feelings.

I will prove it to myself.

Her aura flickers behind me, her emotions completely at odds with themselves, as if they are battling, just like mine.

As if she could possibly be in as much in turmoil as I am. I ignore my own ridiculous feelings and focus on her own.

She’s ... nervous. She’s ... thrilled.

More than anything, she’s shocked.

Shocked? Is she surprised that I chose her? I frown, not even remembering any of the other faces in that room.

She has to know what she looks like. She’s perfect. It’s just a fact. Yes. Factual. Logical . This ... this is clearly some momentary reaction to her appearance. Nothing more. Nothing meaningful.

We both know what we’re here for. This is my duty, but ... perhaps I could enjoy this. It wouldn’t be a crime to have a few moments of forgetting everything. Of working this stress out of my system.

I’ll be using her. She doesn’t matter.

I always take women to another room; the idea of them touching my things repulses me. But for some reason, this time I turn in the hall. I open my own door, surprised by my own actions.

It’s a curiosity , I assure myself. Nothing more .

The moment she’s inside of my room, the moment she’s within these walls where I have never taken another woman, an avalanche of want rocks me. Of possessiveness. Over a woman I don’t even know.

Something in my blood—unfamiliar, confounding—sharpens at her proximity. My feelings claw through my chest like a beast that’s been caged for centuries.

Reason has left.

All that remains is her. And me.

When the door clicks closed behind her, I can’t help it. I’m like a rabid animal. I’m on her in a moment, pressing her against the wall, and—

I wait. I wait, because I want to see her this close, I want to see if she could possibly want me even a fraction of how much I want her right now.

Usually, I have to feel around for emotions, work for them, but hers are searing through my skin. My hands curl around her bare arms, and her skin—her skin is warm, and soft. So soft . She’s so beautiful it hurts to look at her.

I have officially lost my mind.

Especially when her own emotions deepen, as she looks up at me, with searing green. And when those new feelings hit me—

I can’t just feel them.

I can taste them .

I can taste how much she wants this, and it’s nearly enough to bring me to my knees.

But I need to hear her say it.

“Is this okay?” I say, my body shaking with restraint.

“Yes,” she breathes in a voice carved from my darkest dreams, and the word is a key, unlocking a vault of feeling. Unleashing everything.

No sooner than the word is out of her mouth, my lips are on hers.

I’ve never kissed anyone. It always seemed useless. Disgusting, really. Too sentimental.

The second I taste her I know there’s no forgetting her. No. She is like a curse—impossible to get rid of.

She is a curse I never want to break.

I press her hand against the wall, thumb thrumming across her palm, and I feel her shiver beneath me.

She’s shaking too. As if she could possibly match this pull, this need, this roaring in my blood.

I don’t want to just taste her; I want to devour her. My lips trace her jaw, her neck.

Her hands are in my hair, pulling, and I’ve banished people for less, but it’s making a chill race down my spine.

She smells so good. She’s so responsive to my every touch. So responsive, and breathy, and the sound she makes when I drag my teeth across her pulse makes me want to do it again and again just so she never stops.

I’m unpracticed. I’m not used to feeling anything . I’ve never felt desire even close to this. I’m worried I’m too rough, too insistent, but she meets my every move with her own.

Her hands are on my chest now, unafraid, and no one has ever dared touch me this much. I don’t allow anyone to touch me like this.

I lick the hollow of her throat, and her moan goes right between my legs. I need her. I need her like I’ve never needed anyone or anything.