“You should fear me.” The warning rasps out, edged with something I don’t want her to hear.
“Should I?”
“I’ve killed more people than I can count. Most of them didn’t deserve it.”
“I know.”
“I enjoyed some of it.”
“I know that too.”
She doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t soften. Just sits there in the bone garden’s crimson glow and looks at me with eyes that hold no illusion about what I am.
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Does it bother you that I’ve sent people to their deaths? That I’ve conducted harvests I knew were murder? That I’ve stayed silent when speaking would have helped?” She lowers her voice. “I’m not innocent, Kharvek. I stopped being innocent before I had a choice in the matter. Whatever monster you think you are, I’ve met worse. I’ve been worse.”
My name on her lips. The first time she’s used it outside of formal address. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
“An alliance between us serves practical purposes. Anything more?—”
“Anything more is dangerous.” She finishes my sentence. Moves closer still. “I know. I’ve been telling myself that for three days. Since you cornered me in that storage alcove and asked why I lied. Since I looked at you and didn’t feel what I should feel.”
“And what should you feel?”
“Terror. Revulsion. The urge to run.” Her hand rises. Hovers near my scarred cheek without quite touching. “Instead I feel—” She stops. Jaw tight.
The moment stretches. Neither of us moves. The bone garden glows around us, dead eyes watching from arranged skulls, and all I can see is the shape of her mouth. The flutter at the base of her throat. The rise and fall of her chest beneath practical robes.
I don’t initiate. Don’t know how. Physical contact for me has only ever meant violence—hands that crush, fists that break, fingers that drain. The Matron never programmed me for tenderness. Never saw a use for it.
But Imara doesn’t need me to initiate.
She grabs the front of my shirt. Yanks me down. And presses her mouth to mine.
TWELVE
KHARVEK
The kiss isn’t gentle. Nothing about either of us is gentle.
She claims. Teeth and tongue and fierce intention. Her fingers twist in the fabric of my shirt, and I feel the thin material strain against my chest. I should pull back. Should consider the tactical implications of this development. Should?—
Thinking stops.
I pin her against the nearest bone pillar, and she makes a sound against my mouth—not fear, not protest. Satisfaction. My hands find her waist, grip hard enough to bruise, and she arches into the pressure instead of away.
She tastes of blood. The perpetual flavor of this place, inescapable even in kisses. But beneath that, more. A feeling that belongs only to her.
My back hits one of the skeletal monuments. Bones crack under the impact. Neither of us cares.
Her hands move from my shirt to my shoulders, nails digging into scarred muscle. I growl—an actual growl, the animal sound I usually reserve for combat—and her responding laugh vibrates against my lips.
“More,” she breathes.
