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Page 48 of The Deathless One (The Gravesinger #1)

They had finally figured out a way to teach her magic in that graveyard. After the first impressive task of bringing that angel to life, she blossomed under his touch. Every time he whispered a suggestion in her ear, his witch turned his magic into something magnificent.

He had a hard time thinking about anything else.

The way she arched her back into him, her lips parting on a gasp as she cast her spell.

The light panting in her breath as she tried to remember the chants even as he slid his hands along her ribs.

Touching her became as necessary as breathing.

The sound of her moans became the hymns with which he worshipped.

It was almost as good as being alive. Although he had the strange thrill of knowing that she was almost a puppet in his hands.

Every time he asked her to use his power, Jessamine did it without hesitation.

And though he had only asked her to do things he knew she would like so far, he also knew that wouldn’t last forever.

Soon enough, they would be forced to protect themselves again. Or perhaps it would be a stranger entering their graveyard. He would turn her toward that person, and he would whisper death in her ear.

Because she trusted him—and because that was what she secretly wanted as well—she would do it. His Jessamine would pull that magic so exquisitely from his chest and unleash it upon whatever unsuspecting fool stumbled into their training grounds.

He wasn’t sure she’d be able to forgive him after that.

He wasn’t sure she would even want to forgive him after all that he would ask.

Soon, he would bring up resurrection again.

Soon, she would tell him no, but maybe this time he had worn her down enough.

Maybe this was the time she would look at him with those somber eyes and whisper, “Yes.”

They’d discovered they created much stronger magic together if he was touching her. And oh, it was both a pleasure and a torment.

Every time she drew his magic out of him, he could feel it pulling and tugging and warming his bitter-cold bones.

He wanted to touch her more. Every time she cast a spell.

Every time he stood behind her, like he was now.

Lingering with his hands on her shoulders while his fingers longed to trail down her arms.

“Do you see that flower?” he said, his voice little more than a raspy whisper of desire and passion.

Jessamine turned her head, looking where he pointed. She was, without a doubt, very much aware of the electricity that crackled between them. He’d seen it in her eyes more times than he could count.

She wanted him.

And he’d never wanted a woman more than in this moment, feeling her use him while he directed her like his own personal weapon. Every time he wanted her to use magic, it was like she had wrapped her hand around his cock.

He had forgotten what lust felt like. All his centuries locked away in that realm of death and torment had stolen the memories from his mind. All he recalled of passion or sex was that it was a tool to be used at the right time.

But he didn’t want to use her. Not anymore. He could easily pluck out all her hidden desires and needs and then use them like a knife to flay her apart bit by bit, but she deserved so much more than a god who wanted to sway her mind.

But he found himself wanting to hear what she wanted. He wanted her to whimper and beg for him to do what she most needed. He needed to hear the moans in her throat and her little cries when he finally allowed her to get what she wanted.

His mind had frayed a bit. Shaking his head, he focused on her again. “Jessamine, the flower.”

“Yes, I see it.” Her breathless whisper made every muscle in his body tense.

“I want you to bring it back to life.”

It was a difficult spell. Not easy for any in his coven to do. After all, they worshipped a god who was directly linked to death itself—resurrection magic was in many ways counterintuitive.

But their connection deserved more than a simple reward for one who laid out sacrifices at his altar. Jessamine took the power of his godhood and wielded it like a sword. Or in this case, like a poisoned chalice handed to the right person.

“Is that even possible?” she asked. “I thought magic couldn’t bring things to life.”

Magic could, just not his, at least in theory. Leaning down, he breathed into her ear, “I brought you back, didn’t I?”

Goose bumps rose on her throat and trailed down the loose neck of her shirt. He watched them disappear underneath the fabric and nearly groaned at how desperately he wished to follow them.

The memory of her lips was seared into his brain. And now? Oh, he wanted far more than a kiss. He wanted to taste that hollow of her collarbone, wondering if she would be salty or sweet.

Elric wanted to indulge in life again. He wanted to devour her whole and come out on the other side, not as something haunted and rotten, but as something complete. A real man, not just the image of one.

Clearing his throat, he turned his attention back to the flower as she blushed and turned her gaze toward it as well.

She stammered, “I just… will it back to life?”

“What do you think I did when I found you in my realm?”

She licked her lips, a dart of a pink tongue that made the blood rush to his cock. He had to lean away from her slightly so she wouldn’t feel it pressing against the small of her back.

“I suppose,” she said, her voice low and throaty. “Perhaps you wanted me to wake up?”

“If that’s how you want to see it, then tell the flower to wake.”

“What if it doesn’t want to?”

“Do you think I cared?” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, his forearm dangerously close to her breasts as he drew her back against his chest. “Do you think I saw you lying in darkness and wondered if you wanted to wake? No, nightmare. I said to myself, look at this woman with hair black as midnight and the soul of a witch. I need her alive, and I don’t care if she wishes to rest. For me, she will rise. ”

A shuddering breath erupted from her lips, and then they both groaned as she pulled magic from him.

He could feel it coursing through her veins, through her very-much-alive body that felt so warm in his grip.

The magic coiled through them, wrapping tightly around their forms and then releasing to find the flower, which then went from dead to blooming so deep red that it looked like it was dripping blood.

It happened so quickly he could have blinked and missed it. It was… magic. In its purest and finest form.

He’d forgotten such magic was possible with his power. He tucked her closer against him, forgetting that he was hard and wanted to hide that from her.

“No one has used my magic for good in such a long time,” he murmured.

“It was always used for power and pain and torment. Every witch who has taken from me, sacrificed me, dug knives into my sides, did so in a bid to do terrible, awful things. But you, Jessamine. You give life to stone and make flowers bloom.”

“Don’t think I’m perfect. I also killed a man with that power.”

Oh, he remembered, and it still made him bare his teeth in pleasure.

“Yes, you feral witch. You killed a man who betrayed you. A man who you trusted with the life of your family, and who took that life and stomped it beneath his unworthy heel. You were his reckoning, and you were glorious in your ruthlessness.”

She shook her head against his shoulder. “Glorious or terrifying?”

“They are the same.”

“The longer I am with you, the more I wish to be that avenging creature who steals this kingdom back.” Her voice turned low, guttural with promise and something that sounded eerily close to desire.

“I was once afraid of blood and gore, but now I fear I have seen so much of it that I no longer care.”

He squeezed her a little tighter, drawing her ever more against him. “No war was ever won without blood being spilled. You do not have to kill them all, Jessamine, but you may have to make them all bleed.”

And the thought of her making someone bleed made him ache .

She was beautiful in her anger. The rage made her eyes flare with dark promises and her chest heave with righteous breath.

That version of her gave him visions of him on his knees before her, worshipping his way between her thighs.

He loved the part of her that came out only when she felt attacked.

She mused for a few moments, silent in his arms as they both stared at the flower she’d brought back to life. Then finally she whispered, “I’ve been thinking about the men who killed me.”

“Have you?”

“I could feel how afraid they were. Most of them had been told witches were terrifying creatures who would harm them. They thought if they didn’t hurt me, that I would hurt them. And I knew it.”

“Yes, so you said.” He still didn’t like the thought, but compassion was part of who she was.

Without compassion, Jessamine would have been like every other witch he’d met.

An ambitious woman who would get what she wanted no matter what the cost was.

But she saw the world through a different lens, whether because of her upbringing, or perhaps it was simply embedded in her soul to care about others.

“It’s just…” She blew out a long breath.

“One of them wasn’t afraid of me. He hit me because he wanted to.

I had seen him before, in an alleyway when I was trying to summon you.

He saw the bowls I carried in my bag, and he knew what I was.

He gave me a warning and then left, but when he saw me again, it wasn’t a warning. It was like he knew me.”

“He recognized a witch. He’s probably seen many of your kind before. Probably killed more than we wish to know.”

“No.” She twisted to look at him over her shoulder. “He knew me, Elric. Like he knew who I was, and he just stood there, watching the others. He was the one who suggested using the knife. He wanted me dead, and I don’t know why.”

He hummed low under his breath. “Perhaps all those messages you’ve been leaving are becoming a problem.”

“It wasn’t the messages on the walls.” That furrow appeared between her eyes again, as it always did when she was thinking. “He knew me. Like someone had told him to look out for me. He wanted me dead, not just a witch. Me.”

That was concerning.

Elric had little patience for those who wanted to hurt her, and even less patience for situations like this. The man who had knifed her had caused a wrinkle in his very specific plan.

Only weeks ago, he had known exactly what he was going to do.

He would seduce the gravesinger, sway her to his cause, get her to raise him out of the ashes so he could destroy this world for what they had done to him.

His revenge would be even sweeter knowing that a witch had brought about the ruin of her own people.

But now, his priorities had changed. He still wanted to be resurrected. He still wanted to return to the land of the living, but that was no longer enough.

He wanted her.

He wanted her body, mind, and soul. He wanted to consume her like some monstrous being out of the depths of madness. Every bit of her that he could lick up, he wanted it. Jessamine Harmsworth didn’t realize it yet, but he owned her body and soul.

She turned and slid her hand along his ticking jaw. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t like that you’ve been hurt by anyone other than me,” he murmured, perhaps revealing too much. “I understand why they did what they did. And I know we will find this man who threatened you twice. We will teach him why people feared me then, and still fear me now.”

“You want us to kill him?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The flash of approval in her gaze was so quick he almost didn’t see it. But he did. Of course he did.

Jessamine breathed out a long sigh. It fanned across his lips as she drew closer. He didn’t think she noticed that she’d moved. “I don’t know what we’re doing right now.”

“You’re learning how magic works, and how to protect yourself.”

“Is that so?” She leaned a little closer, and he thought maybe she was going to kiss him again before she stopped. Just out of his reach. “I can feel you, Elric. You’re pressed against me from shoulder to thigh, and you think I believe this is entirely about magic?”

“Where did this confidence come from?”

“From days on end of you teasing me until I forget I am a highborn lady and I’m not supposed to feel like this.”

Again, she feathered her lips so close to his that he could feel the heat of her. A hand slipped between them, her palm stroking down his chest. He couldn’t take it. Not like this, not when he was so confused about what she wanted or how she felt.

Growling, he spun her in his arms again, pressing her spine to his front. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her. With a rough hand, he palmed her breast, the weight of it so slight and yet exactly what he had wanted.

“Stop tempting me, witch,” he growled into her ear. “I can hold myself back only so long.”

But he couldn’t resist burying his face in her neck and breathing in her scent so deeply he thought it might be embedded in him. That grave scent was so tantalizing. He wanted to keep her with him forever.

“What if I don’t want you to hold yourself back any longer?”

The words seared through him.

A low growl rumbled through him, and he snarled in her ear, “Then I will lay you out on these gravestones and fuck you until you can’t walk straight for days on end, nightmare.”

Her moan shot right through him. She wanted this. He could taste her desire in the air. The perfume of her need was a call he longed to answer.

Until he felt that awful tug from his realm.

From the memories and the darkness and the black abyss that never wanted him to be happy.

The claws of gravesingers sank into his sides, promising that he would suffer just as they had suffered in their sacrifice for their people.

They had murdered him for his power and it hadn’t worked, but somehow it was still his fault.

Before he could stop himself, he dissolved from the living realm and was summoned back to his own personal hell.