Page 112 of Hexbound

Dark eyes slid her way. "Practice, huh?"

"Or maybe that's just an excuse," she whispered, lowering her face and tracing her tongue along his lower lip.

Bishop's hand slid through her tangled hair as he drew her down against his mouth. This time it was sweet. Gentle. A kiss to steal her heart, not just her breath. Verity felt a bittersweet twinge in her chest as she broke away from him. Who would have guessed this taciturn, scowling assassin would be everything she'd ever turned out to want?

But he hadn't said a word about her in return, or about how he felt.

"Mmm," she said, drawing back and catching her breath. "I do think you're beginning to get the hang of it."

Bishop trailed the backs of his fingers down the slope of her naked breast and she shivered, then shook her head. "Not again. Not tonight. Or I swear I won't be able to sit at all tomorrow."

Instantly, he was all contrition. "You said I didn't hurt you."

Verity sank into his arms. "You didn't. But you have ridden a horse before, yes? It's like when you haven't ridden for months, then suddenly think you can handle eight hours in the saddle."

A faint smile traced his mouth. A somewhat smug smile that was infinitely male.

"Oh, shut up," she said, slapping his shoulder.

He caught her hand and dragged her around until she was curled in his embrace, his breath blowing over the back of her neck. "Tomorrow," he murmured, curving a hand around her breast and snuggling her in, "I am going to claim all of those kisses you're promising. Which means you should definitely get some more sleep."

I love you.Verity rested her head on the pillow and bit her lip as the blatant truth streaked through her.And I won't let you go. No matter what this prophecy says, or how much themaladroisepulls at you.

The world had tried to take everything she loved away from her: her father, when he walked out on them; her mother; her home; even Mercy....

This time, Verity was going to fight back.

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Chapter 27

'The hardest thing toaccept about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies...'

–Old proverb

SEBASTIAN WAITED.

Perhaps that was the worst part, for he'd truly begun to believe that the man who had sired him wanted to be his father.

"I'll return,"Drake had promised him."Tomorrow at the latest. Then we can begin to work out where you are, and get you out of there."

Hollow promises.Jesus.He should have known better, but even though Morgana had done her best to stamp hope out of him during his youth, that little boy inside him still remained.

Maybe Drake had tried? Maybe the fact that his mother had moved them in the middle of the night to another house had thwarted Drake's efforts?

"You idiot," he whispered to himself with dried, cracked lips. If Drake had Cleo at his side, then it wouldn't matter where Morgana moved them. All he had to do was follow that link between Cleo and Sebastian, that bond.

Even now it stretched away into the distance if Sebastian closed his eyes and imagined a golden rope tied between them. West. Cleo dwelled somewhere in the west.

He hoped she stayed there.

Cleo.He didn't know why the memory of her would haunt him so often. She might be his wife, but he'd only known her less than a week before all had gone to rack and ruin.

Still... those brief meetings had been more than enough to tell him that she came from a different world than the one he lived in.

Cleo.With her blonde, silky hair, and her endless kindnesses and soft voice. He couldn't forget the one night when they'd shared a bed for almost a half hour—their wedding night—before he'd fled from the bed in shame.

Sex held no interest for him. All it had ever been was forced and shameful. He was beautiful. He knew that. Women told him all the time, with their hungry eyes and their incessant need to own him for the night. His mother had allowed it, handing over the ring that controlled hissclavuscollar—and hence him—for the night to entertain them, in an effort to convince them to join her in her revenge schemes. He'd hated every second of it. Sometimes his body obeyed him, leaving them unfulfilled, but there had been some who had worked his body like a well-oiled machine until it no longer obeyed his command, but theirs. It left him feeling violently ill and desperate to scrub their perfume off him. If he had a choice, he never wanted to touch another woman again.