Baze’s sudden absence allows more space forhimto fill.
Less air for me to breathe.
Rhordyn’s rifling through the bottles atop my bedside table, cursing as cork after cork is popped. “Is this all you have left?”
His sharp words gouge my temples, and I groan, wishing he’d judge me with his inside voice.
“Orlaith,where is the rest of it?”
My legs churn, bunching the blanket at my feet. “That’s all there is ...”
“Fuck.”
The atmosphere seems to squirm, trying to wriggle free from the crushing maw of his outrage.
My body is an inferno, every surge of blood shooting through my veins another lashing of liquid fire. I pull at my clothes, attempting to shred them, desperate for cool air to blot my sizzling skin.
If I rip, will flames spill out? Will my tower turn to ash?
The bed dips, and something cold slides beneath my knees, something else banding around my waist and gripping tight. I’m eased into a sitting position, perched against the glacial plains of Rhordyn’s body—a winter sea that lugs me into its icy pall.
I’m lava in his grip. There is no sizzling sound, but I feel it in my blood.
We rock, smooth and docile, so at odds with my fire.
Another cork pops, and the sound almost splits me down the middle.
The pain—
“I know. I need you to tip your head and open your mouth.”
No.
If I do that, my brain will bulge and burst.
A warm wetness dribbles from my nose, sluices over my mouth, and drips off my chin.
“I won’t ask again, Milaje.Now.”
The depthless command has my lips parting; a weak, pathetic sound gushing out with the motion. But I don’t have the power to tip my head.
He does it for me with a firm hand clamped around my jaw. A cool liquid splashes my tongue, and I choke it back.
“One more.”
When the next drop lands, my tousled mind unravels enough for me to register the cold eddy swelling inside me, tempering the fire in my veins.
My treasured ease. Myreleasefrom this ... this angry, swollen thing that’s trapped inside a layer of too-tight skin.
I leave my tongue out, waiting for more.
“Enough.”
It’s sofarfrom enough.
I need to drink until this volcanic hand no longer has my heart in its fiery fist. Until my brain no longer feels like it’s stuffed into a tiny space where it doesn’t belong.
I pop my eyes open, snatch the bottle, and tilt—mouth open, tongue lolling.
