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She crossed around to the front of him, trying not to look at the brand on his chest or the scars on his arm or the sprig of holly between his ribs, and kissed him again, deeper now that the angle was right, his tongue darting against hers like an invitation.

All thoughts of crypts and corpses vanished from her head.

If that made her a bad person, so be it.

She was driven once more by that deep nihilism, a sense of reckless abandon, the feeling that they both might die at any moment, all the fear and danger and pain coalescing into something wholly intoxicating.

As she kissed him beneath his ear, along the hard ridge of his shoulder, over the puckered skin of the brand, the frantic pattering of his heart sounded like victory, that she could coax some kind of reaction from this stoic, closed-off mage.

Running a palm over his chest, his bare stomach, the V of his hips, she tucked a thumb into his loose waistband, behind the stiff leather of his belt, and an involuntary moan tore itself from his lips.

“We can’t,” he muttered, swallowing hard. “The power dynamic—it’s wrong.” Saff thought he meant because he was held prisoner, but then he added, “You’re here against your will.”

Their faces were inches apart. Her eyes searched his, finding nothing but desire behind them. “And yet you’re the one pinned in place, and I’m the one who could hurt you if I so wanted to.”

His pupils flared dangerously. “Hurt me, then.”

Saints.

There was a hitching feeling in her chest as she worked the buckle of his belt free. He shimmied in the chair so she could tug down his trousers and his underwear, leaving him naked beneath her.

When she took him in her hand—palms still soft and slick with citrus oil—he inhaled sharply.

She started slowly, questioningly, feeling him throb against her palm; when he gave her a strained nod, she went faster, digging the nails of her free hand into the back of his neck, their lips almost but not quite touching.

For a moment he hung his head back, letting his eyes flutter closed. When they reopened, something fierce and bright had awoken in them.

His unpinned hand lifted the fabric of her tunic, caressing her rounded hips, the soft dip of her waist, going higher until he found the low teardrop of her breast. His deft fingers found the silver bar piercing her nipple, tweaking the metal sharply enough to send a lance of pain-pleasure through her.

Magic collected at the bottom of an empty well, rich and golden and pulsing.

Heat pooled between her legs—or rather a kind of clashing of warmth and coolness.

Letting go of him, she kissed his cheekbone, his jaw, the ridges of his throat, as his hand traveled toward her own waistband and then underneath.

She couldn’t suppress the moan as his fingertips found the throbbing point of her, stroking in soft circles, the heel of his hand pressed into her lower stomach.

The residual citrus oil built into a tingle, then a pleasant kind of burn, so at odds with the gentle stroke of his fingertips. Her pale curls fell around his face as she stood over him, and the air between their mouths was hot, wanting.

Magic surged inside her, something sentient, alive.

Levan’s eyes stared up at her as though she were the most beautiful woman in Ascenfall, as though she was a savior sent from the Saints, as though she held his heart in her very palm, and the vulnerability of the gaze undid something in her.

His hand pushed lower, deeper, until his fingers were inside her, slowly rotating, finding the pulsing spot and pressing against it over and over.

The tingle of the citrus oil, the way he cupped her and caressed her, the blazing intensity on his face …

it all built into something rich and pure and all-consuming .

She gave herself over to it, a surrender, a card game, a long drink of blackcherry, all the things she should not crave but did.

The curling pleasure swelled and pulsed until it was a towering, peaking thing, magic filling her well until it spilled over, and then there was the shuddering cascade, a tidal wave, a soft whimper into Levan’s neck.

The tingling spread to her fingers and toes, and she shivered as the wave ebbed against the shore.

Drawing away from him, she kicked off her boots and lowered her trousers, pausing before dropping her underwear.

“Do you want to?” she asked softly. “Or do you have too much power ?”

“The power is all yours, Silver. Do with it what you please.”

It was a stirring thought.

She could unmake the world …

… and she could unmake the kingpin’s son.

So often in the last few weeks she had felt utterly powerless, tugged along on the Bloodmoons’ vicious undercurrent, collared by the cruel kingpin, forced to do heinous things to save her own life.

And so it was little wonder she felt ignited now, now that she wielded control, now that it had been willingly given to her.

In her experience, the best sex was born from the gaining or relinquishing of power.

Glad she’d remembered to take the contraceptive tincture amidst all the chaos, she tugged off her tunic and then watched as his eyes roved over her naked body with something like worship.

Gripping the back of the chair with one hand, she straddled his lap and slowly lowered herself onto him. He let out a sharp exhale, and she worked up and down, feeling the citrus oil tingling, a throb bing inside her like a second heartbeat, the fullness so complete that it ached.

His eyes burned with … something . That shared fate, that mirrored pain. The protectiveness, the unexpected tenderness. He moved slowly, so as not to tear his hand against the shard, his breathing frayed, uneven.

Hurt me, then.

Heeding his command, she moved faster, up and down, her thighs burning from the effort, and with her free hand she grabbed her wand and aimed it at the base of him.

“ Et aflan ,” she whispered, and a raw spark of magic shot out to meet tender skin.

Levan jolted, and finally a moan tore from his throat.

She arched her back, and he took her piercing in his teeth, sharply enough to send a similar spark of pain-pleasure coursing through her.

At her own gasp, she felt his thighs shudder, and he rolled his head back, eyes fluttered closed, unmoored.

His whole body jerked involuntarily, and his eyes flew open, wincing at his hand.

“Sorry,” whispered Saffron, pressing her sweat-slicked forehead again his.

“Don’t be.” He laced his free hand through her hair, planting a kiss so tenderly on her cheek that she thought she might come apart at the seams. “If that was my last time … well.”

“Don’t say that,” Saff said, firmly but still softly. “It’s not going to be your last time.”

He swallowed hard, still breathless. “I’m dying, Silver.”

Levan’s eyes went to his impaled hand, and Saff’s followed. She soon wished she hadn’t.

The small circle of ash gray around the wound had spread over his whole palm, devoured his fingertips, and was now lapping at the shore of his wrist.

The shard was a bright poppy red from all the blood it had consumed.