Page 65 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

But I was not thinking logically anymore. Every instinct had realigned to a single gluttonous, carnal goal, which was to relish in Mische’s pleasure. Our minds were intertwined, her hunger and mine inextricable. I felt how much she wanted it.

I wanted it, too. More than anything.

So I kissed her throat, and as I thrust deep into her, I bit.

The first time I had tasted Mische, I had known I’d made a mistake. I would no longer be able to resist her. I had given myself a single taste of an addiction I would never again be able to satiate.

Now, as her blood flooded over my tongue, thick and sweet and rich, I was perfectly content to be ensnared.

I had barely felt hunger lately, disconnected from my mortal impulses. Now, faced with the exquisite taste of her, they were all that remained.

My fingers dug into Mische’s soft flesh, pulling her close, as I drank deeper. Whatever remained of finesse or self-control disintegrated. Mische writhed desperately against each thrust, curses and prayers tumbling from her lips.

She was everywhere. My tongue, my skin, my stomach, my cock, my heart. Everywhere.

“More,” she begged. “I need—I want?—”

She couldn’t get the sentence out. But she didn’t need to. We were beyond words now.

I rolled her over, pushing her between the bed and my body, offering myself the freedom to drive into her faster, frantic, desperate. My hand slid down her body, between her legs, circling her bud.

“Take, Mische,” I murmured in her ear, my voice rough. “All of it. All for you.”

Her fingers seized my free hand, like she wanted me with her as she hurled herself over the edge. I clutched her as she detonated—like the sunrise exploding over the horizon.

I had no choice but to go with her. I wrapped myself around her and pushed deep, her pussy clenching around me as we came together. Empires rose and fell as we held each other through the aftershocks.

And only three words cycled through me: It is her. It is her. It is her.

The world went silent save for our serrated, heaving breaths.

I kissed her hair, then the curve of her ear. When I reached her cheek, I tasted salt.

I slid from her and she rolled over in my arms, so we lay face to face. Her skin was flushed and hot. A tear streaked down her cheek.

I kissed it away. “What is it, Dawndrinker?”

“I just—” She drew in a ragged breath and let it out. “I feel so alive .”

My embrace tightened around her. Something sharp skewered my heart. I couldn’t quite identify whether it was pleasure or pain.

She did feel so alive. It was a gift so precious I didn’t even have words for it.

Yet, a warm body was one that could so easily go cold. A beating heart was one that could be pierced. Rushing blood could so easily be spilled.

“How?” she whispered. “Did you—did you resurrect me?”

How wonderful it would be, if the answer was yes.

But I knew it wasn’t that simple. She felt alive, looked alive, tasted alive. But I could still sense death clinging to her, ready to sink its claws into her, drag her back to the underworld. And Mische, I knew, from the disbelief on her face, could feel it too.

{She still belongs to the dead,} the eye said dismissively. {Soft skin or no.}

I flinched. The voice was gone so quick I hoped I had imagined it.

Mische frowned. “What?”

I shook my head. “I just— Nothing.” Then, after a moment, “Perhaps the mask and the eye were powerful enough to pull you closer to life, when I healed you.”

Closer. Not all the way.

Her brow furrowed. “But in the deadlands, I was already hurt before you healed me.”

Her hand moved to her abdomen. Together, we touched the gauze, and the beading blood beneath it.

A mortal’s wound.

I didn’t have an answer, which frustrated me. I hated unknowns at the best of times. Now, when the fate of something so precious sat between their teeth, I couldn’t tolerate them.

Mische flipped her hand to wind her fingers through mine, sensing my frustration. “Sometimes, magic is dancing to a tune that mortal ears can’t hear.”

“I’m not a mortal,” I grumbled.

Her thumb ran over my hand—tracing my scars.

“I like your mortality,” she said softly. “Don’t wish it away.”

Mische did not have to know that I had already signed away my mortality. And that price was nothing compared to hers.

{You will not miss it in the end,} the mask said dismissively, and I slammed my mental doors against it.

A wrinkle formed between Mische’s brows.

“We can’t stay here, Asar. I mean it. I know you came here to protect me, but?—”

“Frustrating, isn’t it, when someone forces help upon you against your will,” I said pointedly.

“That’s completely different.”

“Because you’re the missionary, so you’re the only one allowed to make everyone else accept your sacrifices and then leave?”

“That’s not f?—”

“I think it’s very fair. I know you.”

Those three words left my lips with more weight than I’d expected. I know you.

Her scowl was so charming that I couldn’t stop myself from kissing the wrinkle over her nose in an offering of penance.

“Forgive me,” I said. “I can’t help it.”

“Can’t help what?”

“Arguing with you so I can listen to you breathe.”

She made a face. “You are such a sap, Warden. Such a sap.”

But she was smiling, anyway.

“Shh.” I pressed a finger to her lips. Then replaced it with my kiss.

“Stop talking,” I whispered into her mouth, “and let me touch you.”

A man only has so much self-control.

Her tongue slipped against mine. Her limbs wound around me. We melted back into each other like two rivers converging.

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically, and I touched her, and touched her, and touched her.

And for a few more beautiful minutes, in my reverence, the voices were silent.