Page 46 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)
He grew hard beneath her, the press of his desire sending heat spiralling through her core. When he gasped against her lips, she stilled, snapping her eyes open. In the reflection of his heavy-lidded gaze, she saw herself shining.
Smiling, he pressed his lips against her jaw. ‘You’re glowing, Seraphine.’
And he was not afraid.
Nor was she. She was something else entirely – a lit flame, burning under his touch. Ripping off his waistcoat, she parted the buttons on his shirt, revealing the scarred planes of his broad, muscled chest. Every last inch marred with shadow-marks. A reminder of what he was. Dagger. Killer. Lover.
Mine .
The word throbbed like a second heartbeat.
Her hands moved, spanning the black whorls. All this irrefutable evidence of a killer, a blemished soul. She lowered her mouth to them, kissing the one on his left shoulder. He clutched her head, muttering unintelligibly as she used her tongue.
With his free hand, he deftly worked through the laces of her corset, tugging it free. It fell away, leaving them skin to skin.
Pressing his forehead against hers, he looked down. The marks on his chest were so dark against the soft glow of her own. She traced the darkest of them, following it down to the scar above his liver. The one she had given him.
With feather-light touches, she traced that too.
His voice was a throaty whisper now. ‘That one’s my favourite.’
How far they had come already. How far they would go.
‘Bastian,’ she whispered, as her hand inched lower. ‘ Bed .’
Springing up at her command, he lifted her from the windowsill and carried her to the bed. There, he took her mouth again. The world faded, leaving them alone in the hazy glow of her magic. She sighed, letting it flow through her.
Their kiss grew frenzied, as though time itself was running out.
Like there would never be enough of it. Greedy for friction, she ground herself against him.
His hands found the swell of her breasts and he thumbed her in lazy decadent circles.
Light erupted from her, the pureness of her pleasure burning away all inhibitions.
‘ Saints .’ He dipped his chin, replacing his deft fingers with his tongue.
She stifled a cry, her gaze rolling back to the ceiling. He murmured against her skin, his kisses punctuated by throaty gasps as she ground against him, chasing the swell of her pleasure.
‘ Yes , spitfire,’ he groaned, guiding her hips. ‘Just like that.’
It wasn’t enough. How could it ever be enough?
She was a flame, and he was burning for her. Begging for more. She pressed herself against him. ‘Bastian, I need more .’
Her skirt hit the floor, like a pile of discarded rose petals, his trousers following in quick order.
Then their underthings until there was only a slip of moonlight between them, and the glow of her magic and the dark shadow of his marks.
He manoeuvred her until she was beneath him, the silver light making a silver crown around his head.
With his jaw clenched and his lids heavy, he looked like a dark god drinking her in.
‘Saint or spitfire, let me worship you, Seraphine.’
With pleasure.
This time, when he kissed her, his fingers slipped between them, offering instant, unspeakable pleasure.
Crying out, she arched her hips, and he grinned as he found her ready for him.
His lids were low, her breath catching at the perfect pressure of his fingers, each masterful stroke making her heart gallop.
She shifted under him, until she could feel him too. They couldn’t go all the way, not without a tincture of herbs for protection, but they could have this pleasure – their hands moving feverishly against each other, their moans growing deep and frantic.
She quickened her pace, edging towards her own release.
His breath shallowed, chasing hers.
Words failed her. She couldn’t think beyond the thrum of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth moving on her. ‘Ransom, I’m going to…’
‘Look at me.’ He drew back, resting his forehead against hers. ‘I want to see you.’
She held his gaze, the pleasure climbing until it felt like a wave breaking under her skin. A cry built in her throat. His own breath stuttered, turning to a low animalistic moan.
‘ Seraphine .’ He cried her name like a prayer, his back bowing as they both crested the wave together.
Magic erupted from Sera’s chest, flooding the bedchamber like molten sunlight. The walls turned gold, a blanket of fresh heat falling over them. And with it – a perfect punishing bliss.
Aeons passed, the world slowly coming back together. He kissed her shoulder, murmuring soft words of adoration, before reluctantly drawing back and ducking into the adjacent bathroom.
Sera lay in a puddle of moonlight, her body and mind thoroughly sated. And yet, that heat inside her refused to recede. Somehow, it felt like her magic wanted more.
Maker , keened that ancient rippling voice.
Now is the time .
Frowning, she sat up. Behave . She tugged the bedsheet around her, dampening the eerie glow of her skin while she waited for Ransom to return.
She could hear him humming to himself in the bathroom.
Spotting a notebook and pen on the bedside table, she had the sudden urge to write him a note.
Something funny and sweet, and absent of their usual overt hostility.
She reached for the journal, meaning only to tear a page out but it fell open on the centrefold, revealing a spread of tortured drawings.
It was a corral of terrifying beasts inked in black.
There were wolves with scythe-like fangs and blood-soaked curling claws.
Snakes with jackal heads and winged monsters plucked of all their feathers.
Sera couldn’t tear her gaze away. Turning page after page, she stared in silent horror at Ransom’s innermost nightmares, the wretched things that haunted him whenever he closed his eyes.
The monsters that snapped at his heels. Was this the work of his Shade-ravaged mind, or an artist’s imagination that had been honed in the catacombs of Fantome?
Fed on terror and bloodshed, and given no freedom to thrive?
‘Enjoying the hidden reaches of my mangled soul, Seraphine?’
A whole new wave of horror gripped her as she snapped her head up. There was no greater embarrassment than to be caught snooping, but to look upon something so personal… so haunting … it was an unforgivable intrusion.
Ransom stood over her. His chest and feet were bare, and he was dressed in loose trousers. His hair was dripping wet, water beads sliding down his cheeks and pooling in the hollow of his collarbones.
She slammed the journal shut. ‘I’m sorry. I was looking for a piece of paper. I wanted to write you a note.’
His brows lifted, the tension seeping from his jaw. ‘Of what sort?’
All thought left her. ‘Um, the nice sort?’
‘I find that hard to believe.’ A corner of his mouth ticked up. He was teasing her, not angry but perhaps embarrassed. As she stared up at him, like a deer caught on the hunt, she noticed the smooth expanse of his olive chest, and a new realization struck.
The words came on a gasp. ‘Your shadow-marks. They’re gone.’
He was smiling now. Of course he had noticed already. Even her shameless snooping couldn’t banish the relief on his face, the fact that her magic had healed him.
And still it purred in her chest.
What more could you possibly want?
Maker , it crooned.
She shook it off, a new thought belatedly occurring to her. ‘Did I hurt you?’
He shook his head. ‘How could you hurt me, Seraphine? You are my antidote.’
Flopping backwards, she grinned up at him.
For the first time in months, she didn’t resent her magic.
She was grateful for it, wonderstruck by its restorative power.
Maybe it was Marvale, or her meeting with another saint, or her growing feelings for Ransom, but she was starting to feel excited about her power. Hopeful about what else it could do.
Ransom set his journal back on the nightstand. ‘And these… my nightmares… they didn’t frighten you?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, quickly. ‘I’m just sorry you have to see those monsters whenever you fall asleep.’
‘It helps to draw them. Gets them out of my head.’ His smile was rueful. ‘Makes room for more, I suppose.’
‘Maybe that will change now,’ she said, softly.
‘Maybe.’
He lay down beside her, and she turned into him, thinking of her life far beyond this night.
He gazed down at her. ‘A kingdom for your thoughts.’
They had been here once before. Now they were here again.
‘Run away with me, Bastian.’ The imploring look on her face said the rest, the enormity of the plea too heavy to voice. Leave your old life behind – the skulls and the catacombs, the marks and the guilt, and the pain of the past. Run away with me, and be the man you were always meant to be .
His reply came at once. ‘I’m already running, spitfire. Tell me where to go.’
Giddiness suffused her, a laugh pealing through her chest.
He tugged her against him, enfolding her in the warmth of his strong arms. ‘Marvale. Halbracht. The frozen tundra of Borea. Just name the destination.’
‘You’ll have to win Pippin over.’
‘I’ll bring treats.’ She heard the smile in his voice. ‘Whatever it takes. Wherever you choose.’
‘You,’ she whispered, as her lids drooped. ‘Wherever you are, is where I want to be.’
‘Then we’ll work out the rest.’ She heard the smile in his voice as she dropped off. ‘So long as we’re together.’