Page 51 of Of Blood and Banes (The Arterian #2)

BAIT

A fter spending most of the next day resting, I stalk into my room after dinner and find Darian already sitting with his head leaned back against the wall.

Stopping a few steps away from him, I toss out the wrapped canvas square I’ve brought toward him.

It lands on the ground with a soft thud a few inches from his right foot, ripping his attention away from me to it.

Watching me suspiciously the entire time, he drags the fabric package toward him and flicks open the top flap before looking up at me. “What’s this?”

I nod toward it. “Just open it.”

Earlier this morning, I made the request with Corvin, hoping he could find the materials without alerting Sethan since he seems to be his right-hand man.

I can’t take any questions from Sethan. Or even Marge.

While Corvin was quite confused as to why I was requesting paints, brushes, and several rolls of parchment, he didn’t press me on it.

Figures he probably thought due to the state of peril this realm is in, and how much pressure it puts on me as being the chosen one, I deserved the fulfillment of a small, easy ask.

Darian tilts his head to the side, his brown hair sweeping down into his eyes as he reveals the small set of brushes, simple coin-sized paint containers, and rolled sheets. “Why are you giving me this?”

“The morning I woke up in your room back in Windmere, I saw all the brushes and paints by your windows. I saw the night sky painting and the one of you, your mother, and your sister?—”

“That was private ,” he growls, finally looking up at me. “And you think I’m the one who painted those?”

I shrug, taking a small step back. “It was a guess.”

I thought such a gesture could instill some peace into our relationship— no, partnership.

If we have to tolerate each other and share a bed, perhaps we can at least be amicable.

And maybe, just maybe , it can lead to me learning more about all the secrets of Arterias.

Judging by the way he fails to deny it, it must be true he painted those back in Windmere.

With the tip of his boot, he pushes the canvas rucksack away from himself. “I don’t paint anymore.”

My jaw relaxes as I watch him. I need to get to him.

I have to figure out a way to crack his impossibly hard exterior.

Because trying to win against him in a fight is near impossible without magic.

Mentioning his sister is far too risky and sensitive of a topic.

Paints don’t work. I could try to get him really, really drunk and see if he slips.

But…he’s too cunning for that. And I can’t quite let him out of his manacles to do anything else.

What will it take to get an answer out of him?

Just a sliver ?

A thought strikes me. Perhaps I can seduce him…manipulate him into giving me the information we need. No, Gods, that’s a stupid fucking idea. I slink forward a few steps anyway, staring down at him as my pulse quickens and I swallow.

Don’t even fucking think about it, Kat…

He side-eyes me, glancing from my face down to my feet. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I drop into a crouch two feet away from him, regarding him through lowered lashes.

He leans forward and snags a paintbrush from the materials I brought him, flicking it expertly in his dexterous fingers before pointing it a few inches from my chest.

I scoff, and wordlessly, both of us slowly rise to our feet, my hands splayed out to the side as he stands half a foot over me.

Considering how well he fares with a sword, I imagine he can do plenty with even just the brush.

He could stab me in the eye with the blunt end, shove it down my throat, snap the wooden handle in half and slice my neck with the sharp, broken edges. He only has to want to.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he growls.

I flick my gaze from his lips up to his eyes. “Looking at you like what?”

“Don’t come any closer,” he warns quietly, pushing the paintbrush’s soft bristles to my chest to keep a few inches between us. “Or you might not like the outcome.”

I stare at him in challenge and step closer. “Are you seriously threatening me with a paintbrush right now?”

“There’s more to life than threatening, kitten.”

“I hope you don’t forget that…” I whisper.

Never faltering from breaking our eye contact, he slowly drags the brush up my chest between my breasts, and it glides over the surface of my shirt up to my naked collarbone. Good, he’s taking the bait.

“Can I ask you something?” he mutters and pulls the brush up my throat until I tilt my chin up to him.

I’m unable to keep myself from swallowing against it, a flash of heat creeping up my chest. This…this is easily becoming a mistake. I can see the flashing warning signs as bright as a strike of lighting. But I’m already struck.

Unable to move away from him, I whisper, “No.”

He leans toward me, his nose brushing a few strands of hair off my ear as his warm breath tickles at the corner of my jaw. “Well, I’m going to ask you anyway.”

As if against my own will, I lean my head away from him to angle my ear into his lips.

His voice lowers to a whisper dripping in seduction, “Is the only reason you decided to let me live because you wanted answers?”

“Yes,” I breathe, only able to get out single words as I struggle to contain myself. My eyelids become heavy.

His laugh chuffs against my ear, and my eyes flutter completely closed.

I need that vibration. Need it surrounding me, touching me, inside of me.

Gods, all the places his mouth could be other than sitting near my ear.

Like between my legs, where I dreamt he’d be.

The memory of his sensual threat flickers in the back of my mind: I fuck as well as I fight.

He drags his thumb across my lower lip. “Liar. You know you want more than that.”

The accusation makes my eyes flash open, ripping me out of my moment of delirium. I push him away from me, my breath abnormally heavy in my chest as he snickers. Snide, arrogant, pompous ? —

My glare flicks down to his lips. For a moment.

A fucking moment.

I don’t know who moves first. And quite frankly, I can’t be bothered to care.

We crash into each other like the sea against a rock, my lips on his feverish and torrid.

I grab the collar of his shirt, throwing my weight half-haphazardly into him to get closer as I swipe my tongue across his lips, and he groans.

Groans with a sensuality that heats every fiber in my body.

We clamber back until his body shudders as I slam him up against the wall.

The paintbrush in his hand falls to the ground.

The rush of adrenaline from the battle in Arterias, in Blackfell, and against the wild dragons in Vathstone is no comparison to this.

I chase after the same thrill with each kiss, each grab of his hair, and each roll of my hips into him.

Despite knowing he can’t kill me, I can’t help but feel danger with each touch.

With each kiss, as if it may destroy something even more precious than my life.

Don’t I deserve this? Don’t I deserve something to make me feel good, even if for a moment, while I hold the weight of the world on my shoulders?

I just need a moment to forget about it all—to be lost in something else.

Any desire I have for Cole is selfish. Painful.

But this? This is nothing but lust. Right?

It doesn’t matter.

Because Darian’s holding me, touching me, kissing me, and matching my own ferocity and desire.

Every caress clears the thoughts straight out of my head and brushes them off into the wind.

His lips explore me more frantically, as if he’s slipping into an abyss of his own desires, and I’m his only tether to reality.

He holds the sides of my face in his hands, like I may disappear if he lets go.

My desire chases away all my sanity and replaces it with desperation.

With a hunger for him to demolish me until I’ve crumbled and rebuild me back with each kiss.

Foolishness. This is all so foolish and yet…I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. Fuck him for being such a godsdamned good kisser.

He pulls his mouth off mine, the absence of his warmth a shock of cold air. I gasp as I realize I haven’t been breathing.

“Don’t touch me like that if you don’t intend on letting me fuck you senseless,” he growls.

I glance down, and my hand is wrapped around his cock straining against his pants.

I should be racing back across the room or, shit , out of the room at this point to stop myself from touching him.

But I can’t. Slowly, I shuttle my hand up and down his length.

His eyes explode into full dilation with shock, adrenaline, and arousal.

His hand flies to the nape of my neck, capturing my hair at the base of my skull. Ripping my head back, he grazes my throat with his teeth as he growls, “Normally, I wouldn’t be the one in handcuffs. But I suppose for you I’m willing to make an exception.”

He latches his mouth onto the column of my neck, sucking and licking his way up to my ear.

He gravitates toward that sweet spot between my ear and the corner of my jaw, as if he’s done it a million times before.

As if he knows what makes me melt. His hot breath warms my skin, dragging his tongue across and behind my ear until he sucks my earlobe into his mouth and nibbles.

I flinch forward, closer into him. My hand around his length quivers as I fight to regain my composure.

His mouth moves over my jaw, my cheekbone, down to my lips.

He kisses me. Claims me. Taking me as his own and whispering to some wild, untamed part of me that he’s in control.

His hands grip me steady, fisted tight in my hair, as I work my hand up and down his length until I need more.

I need him to moan. To need me as much as I need him. My mouth waters, begging to taste him.