Lost.
I wade toward the throat of stairs that rise up from somewhere below the waterline and disappear into the gloom. An exit that probably leads through The Den.
My galloping heart betrays my nervousness.
His scent is everywhere—an intoxicating elixir that clings to me,fillsme ...
Will I smell someone else up there, too? Will Zali’s essence be thick and heady? Fresh?
... Will I smell their scents mixed together from the joining of their bodies?
Fuck.
I’m almost at the stairs when I’m struck from behind and shoved against the wall—chest first, cheek pressed to stone. Rhordyn’s fists nail either side of me, his granite body flush against my back.
He dips his face into the crook of my neck and my entire body trembles, the delicate flesh yearning for more abuse from his sandpaper stubble.Otherparts of me yearn for the same claiming cruelty—throbbing and desperate.
He draws deep, like he’s feeding from the inhale, but it’s blown back out like an unwelcome guest. A low rumble sets every one of my nerves on edge, as if they’re expecting somethingmore.
Three times, he sucks little breaths that sound like the seeds of words.
Three times, those seeds fail to sprout.
“What, Rhordyn?”
Another breath, this one sharp and intentional.
I wait for words that do not come, but rather a harsh huff that lands its blow and bathes me in the unwanted perfume of his scent.
“Exactly what I thought.” Prying myself from the cage of him, I drag my front across the stone until I can breathe without choking on his musk.
I’m over thirty paces up the stairs when he calls my name. It almost sends me tumbling back down where I’d no doubt end up in a crumpled heap at his feet again.
So, I run.
I run until I’m spat out in a room I refuse to take in. It’s not until I reach the door, hand wrapped around the handle, that my fire-breathing curiosity burns through her restraints.
I peep over my shoulder, eyes widening as I survey the panorama of his quarters.
Not what I expected.
The room is bigger than my personal space, sparsely furnished with a black four-poster bed. A side table carved from the same material nests beside it, topped with an unlit candelabra.
A crackling fire casts his space in a buttery glow, warming his scent so that it coats my throat and leaves my mind churning through molasses. But what really has me staggering, despite being anchored to the doorknob, is theeasel.
Almost as tall as Rhordyn and wide like the breadth of his shoulders, it’s set by the window, a table by its side heaped with bowls of coal.
The rest of the room loses its luster because all I can see is the canvas it’s boasting.
The half-finished sketch.
A delicate pair of hands are immortalized on the cloth. One is palm up, the other resting with the tips of four fingers perched in the cradle of it, like they’re drawing sips of comfort from an absent well.
They harbor a restful sort of peace that makes my heart feel far too heavy for my body to contain ...
He draws. Rhordyndraws.
But not just that.
