Page 67 of Wench

Marian crosses the room slowly, afraid that if she rushes, the moment might collapse beneath the tangle of gratitude and guilt unravelling in her chest.

‘Thank you,’ she murmurs before sinking into the chair across from him. Her palms rest against her thighs, fingers twitching, when she notices the tiny fox made of stems beside the bowl.

‘The healers said you were at my bedside the whole night.’

Silence stretches between them.

‘I thought you were going to die,’ she eventually admits, her voice barely a whisper. ‘If you had—’ Her throat catches on the thought. She shakes her head, but it doesn’t clear anything. ‘I’d never have forgiven myself.’

Lox’s brow creases. ‘Why? This wasn’t your fault.’

‘Those nets. The combination of fae ore and iron . . . They were my designs.’ Her voice crackles.

Lox studies her for a long, aching moment, and the quiet needles under her skin. He leans forward and steeples his fingers together.

‘You’ve already atoned for what you did under your father’s roof.’

Marian doesn’t realize she’s shaking until his fingers brush hers.

‘It doesn’t matter what you’ve built with them before,’ he breathes. ‘What matters is what you build with those hands from here.’

She swallows hard, but the lump in her throat won’t budge. She stares at their joined hands and looks up at him tentatively, but his gaze drops to where her neckline has slipped to reveal the vine inked fresh over her sternum.

His eyes darken as his thumb traces the edge of the mark, the contact featherlight and unbearable all at once.

A pulse throbs between her thighs so sharp she nearly gasps.

Lox’s nostrils flare, his preternatural senses triggered. He rises from his chair and circles around the table to kneel before her, fingers never leaving her skin. He traces a little further down, leaving the vine behind and moving toward the curve of her breast. She arches into the touch.

‘Does it hurt?’ His voice is gruff with desire.

The memory of every unfinished moment between them surfaces. Of the way his body had felt beneath hers. Of the taste of his mouth, the weight of his hands, the rasp of his voice when he said her name.

And saints, she wants it. She wantshim.

‘Yes,’ she whispers, legs falling open around him.

His mouth curves into something sharp and feral. ‘Mind if I take a closer look?’ He tugs at the laces of her tunic.

All she can do is nod, lifting her arms above her as he slides the garment over her head and drops it onto the floor in a breathless hush. He takes his time, looking over every inch of exposed skin.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over the tattoo again. His touch drifts over the bud of her breast, the soft swell of her stomach, then the edge of her hip where skin pebbles beneath the pads of his thumb.

He leans forward and places a kiss at the centre of the ink.

A shaky breath leaves Marian. She cradles the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his hair, holding him to her.

His tongue follows the winding curve of the vine, teeth grazing where the thorns twist into her skin.

Marian’s head tips back, thighs quivering. A moan slips out of her and he groans in response.

‘I want you to remember today,’ he sighs, mouth hot against her belly, dragging lower. ‘Not for the pain you’ve endured, but for how good I made you feel after.’

Lox’s gaze is steady as she lifts her hips and tugs her skirt down. His eyes never leave her face, not even when her thighs part fully and he disappears between them like a penitent. He presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, then another higher up to the dimpled skin of her thigh.

Each kiss comes closer than the last, until Marian is trembling with anticipation. When his tongue finally brushes over her, a strangled gasp slips out of her, torn from someplace low and aching.

And Lox purrs at the sound like he’s starved.