Page 13 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons (Empire of Vengeance #4)
T he taste of her tears on my lips should have been a warning to stop, to pull back, to think about what this meant. Instead, it only made me kiss her harder, deeper, as if I could somehow absorb her pain and make it my own.
I love you too.
The words echoed in my mind, drowning out every rational thought, every careful consideration that had been warring in my chest since she'd started speaking.
She loved me. This woman who had survived horrors I couldn't even imagine, who had clawed her way out of slavery and built herself a new life from nothing—she loved me.
My hands tangled in her hair, marvelling at the silky texture I'd missed so desperately these past weeks. God, how had I survived without this? Without her scent filling my lungs, without the way she melted against me like she was coming home?
"Livia," I breathed against her mouth, and even her name felt different now. Not the carefully constructed identity of a noble lady, but something raw and real and entirely hers.
She made a sound that was half-sob, half-sigh, her fingers clutching at my shirt as if she was afraid I might disappear. The desperation in her touch matched my own—we were both drowning, both grasping for something solid in the chaos of everything that had just been revealed.
I should have been thinking about the implications.
About what it meant that she was a fugitive slave, a member of the resistance, someone who had killed for her freedom.
I should have been calculating the risks, weighing the consequences of being involved with someone who could destroy everything I'd worked for.
Instead, all I could think about was how perfectly she fit in my arms, how her body curved into mine like it had been made for this moment.
How the woman I'd fallen in love with—the fierce, brilliant, impossibly brave woman—was exactly who I'd thought she was, just wrapped in circumstances I'd never imagined.
"I missed you," I confessed against her throat, pressing kisses to the pulse point that fluttered like a trapped bird. "These past weeks, I felt like I was dying without you."
Her breath hitched, and she pulled back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, her face blotchy and raw with emotion, and she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"You sent Valeria away," she said, and I could hear the wonder in her voice, as if she couldn't quite believe it.
"Of course I did." I cupped her face again, unable to stop touching her now that I had her back. "How could you think I'd want anyone else? Even when I was furious with you, even when I thought you'd used me—I couldn't bear the thought of being with someone who wasn't you."
Fresh tears spilled over, and I kissed them away, tasting salt and sorrow and something that might have been hope.
"I'm so angry with you," I whispered against her cheek. "For lying, for not trusting me enough to tell me the truth. For making me fall in love with you when you knew it was impossible."
"I know," she whispered back. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"And I don't care." The admission came out fierce, desperate. "I should care. I should walk away right now and never look back. But I can't. I love you too much."
I kissed her again, pouring all of my confusion and anger and overwhelming relief into the contact. She responded immediately, her mouth opening under mine, her tongue meeting mine with an urgency that set my blood on fire.
This was madness. She was everything I couldn't afford to want—dangerous, illegal, a threat to everything I'd built here. But as her hands slid up my chest and into my hair, as she pressed closer until there was no space left between us, I found I didn't care about any of it.
"Tell me again," I demanded against her lips. "Tell me you love me."
"I love you," she breathed, and the words hit me like a physical blow. "I love you, Jalend. I've loved you for months, and I've been dying without you."
Something broke open in my chest at her confession, something that had been locked away and guarded since the moment she'd told me about the other men.
The jealousy, the hurt, the sense of betrayal—none of it mattered now.
She loved me. She had chosen to tell me the truth, had risked everything to give me honesty, and she loved me.
That was all I needed to hear. The words were a brand on my soul, burning away the last vestiges of reason.
I backed her against the door, my body pressing hers into the hard wood, needing to feel every inch of her, to erase the weeks of cold distance between us.
The kiss became a battle, a desperate, frantic attempt to devour her, to absorb her into my very being so I could never lose her again.
My hands moved from her face, down her neck, to the collar of her torn training tunic.
I needed to see. To touch the truth of her.
With a guttural growl, I ripped the rough fabric, tearing it away to bare her shoulder and the top of her chest. The network of silvery scars stood out against her skin, a map of the hell she had endured.
They weren't ugly. They were beautiful. They were her.
I lowered my head, my lips tracing the raised line of a particularly vicious-looking scar just above her collarbone.
She shuddered, a sob catching in her throat, but she didn’t pull away.
I kissed each mark I could reach, each one a testament to her strength, a story of survival that humbled me to my core.
This was the woman I loved. Not in spite of these wounds, but because of them.
I tore at the laces of her torn training leathers, needing to feel her skin against mine, to erase the memory of the weeks we'd been apart with the reality of her here, now.
I pushed her clothing aside, cupping her breasts in my hands as I kissed her again.
Her skin was soft beneath my hands, a stark contrast to the hardened ridges of scar tissue that crossed her ribs.
She was all contradictions—unyielding warrior and yielding woman, broken and yet more whole than anyone I had ever known.
My thumbs brushed over her nipples, and they hardened instantly, a silent, willing response that sent a fresh wave of heat through my veins.
Her breath hitched, a soft, broken sound. "Jalend..."
I silenced her with my mouth, moving from her lips to her throat, then lower, tasting the salt of her skin.
I licked a path down her sternum, my tongue tracing the faint, silvery lines of her past. When I took one hardened peak into my mouth, she cried out, her fingers tightening in my hair, her hips arching against mine in a desperate, involuntary rhythm.
I slid my hands up her bare legs, finding her undergarments under her leather tunic and dragging them down and off, before dropping to my knees in front of her.
Lifting her leather skirt, I slipped my arm under her leg, lifting it over my shoulder.
The position was one of utter vulnerability for her, and complete devotion for me.
Her dark curls clung to her flushed skin, her lips parted on a silent gasp.
My gaze was fixed on the soft, dark hair between her thighs, and the delicate folds of skin that I had only dreamed of seeing, of tasting.
This was the core of her, the part of her that had been violated and used, and I would worship it until she forgot any touch but mine.
I leaned in, breathing in her scent.
My tongue traced the soft inner skin of her thigh, and she gasped, her leg trembling on my shoulder. Then I found her, the heart of her heat, and tasted her for the first time.
She was salt and sorrow and a desperate sweetness that was all her own.
A flavour of survival. A raw cry tore from her throat as my tongue delved deeper, learning the slick, wet secrets of her body.
Her hands came down to fist in my hair, not to push me away, but to pull me closer, her hips beginning to move in a frantic, searching rhythm against my mouth.
This was not about sex. This was worship.
I was memorizing her, branding the taste of her onto my soul so that I could never mistake it for another, so I could never again forget who she truly was.
I devoured her, my mouth and tongue working with a desperate, frantic rhythm.
I licked and sucked, tracing the slick folds of her, learning every ridge and valley.
I wanted to erase every memory of pain she had ever known, to replace it with this—with a pleasure so overwhelming it left no room for anything else.
She was sobbing my name, the words incoherent, broken.
Her release came with a strangled shriek, her inner muscles clenching around my tongue as her body convulsed.
I held her tight, swallowing every drop of her, tasting her victory.
When the tremors finally subsided, she sagged against the door, her legs shaking so badly I wasn't sure they could hold her.
Slowly, I rose, pulling her into my arms. She was a wreck, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her release, her face streaked with tears.
She looked undone, utterly vulnerable, and my heart cracked open for her.
With a low groan, I swept her into my arms and carried her to the bed. The bed was only a few steps away, and I fell onto it with her, landing half on top of her, our limbs tangling in the rumpled sheets.
I pinned her beneath me, my hands on either side of her head, and looked down into her eyes. They were dark pools of want and fear and a desperate, dawning hope that mirrored my own.
“I want all of you, Livia,” I growled, my voice rough with an emotion I couldn't name. “Every broken piece. Every scar.”