Page 84 of Mortdale

“His head was awfully small. And I know because I’ve sawed through my fair share of heads.”

So many questions were sitting at the tip of my tongue.

Would he get rid of me, too, if his king ordered it?

“You can have this one,” he said, dipping both his hands in the red water to wrap them around my waist as he hauled me out. He pulled me against his chest and lifted me out of the tub, not caring that I was dripping red water all over him. His arm was still banded around my naked waist as he threw a towel around my shoulder, only pulling back when all of me was covered.

“Get dressed,” he said, sticking a cigarette between his lips as he ran a tense hand over his eyes, slowly breathing in and out as he backed away from me. “If you still want a chance at seeing those tunnels.”

I could hear my heart beating a mile a minute, and probably so could he, considering how he ran his tongue over his fangs before hurrying out of the Basilica.

Did the thought of feeding on a witch disgust him so badly? Why didn’t it bother me at all? How could it not bother me at all?

The fabric of the dress stuck in all the wrong ways against my skin. Or maybe it was just my skin that felt unbearable against my bones.

I’d barely made it out of the narthex when Arthur barrelled through the gardens in my direction.

“Yer not going to like this,” he murmured under his breath, breathing hard.

Henry joined our side a moment later.

Arthur sent a look at the exarch who Logan had dragged as far away from us as possible, just as we’d planned. “They’ve set a fire to the tunnels. I don’t think it happened that long ago either. The air is filled with smoke; it could fucking choke you, that’s how bad it was. The ground was covered in pulpy soot,” he said, stomping his dirty boots on the ground. “They were trying to bury something down there with it. There’s nothing. Nothing but soot.”

Bending down, I picked some of the gunk on his boots off on my napkin and folded it.

He stumbled away. “What are ye doing, witch-woman?”

“Whatever they’ve burned is here,” I said, showing him the napkin. “What did it smell like down there?” I asked, leaning close to sniff his shirt.

My husband chose that very moment to show up. His hands gathered in fists at his side as he glanced between me and his friend.

“Logan,” Arthur carefully started, taking one small step back. “There’s nothing—”

My husband’s eyes returned to me. And they were the last thing I saw before the golden roof of the Basilica spun into a dark vortex.

I woke up surrounded by carriage walls, damp and tasting salt when I licked my dry lips. A feverish spell had overtaken me, but I was pressed against something strong and cold. Both carriage windows were pulled wide open, letting in choking dankness, and making the heat emanating from my skin even more impossible to ignore.

Arms were wrapped around me, holding me against his chest. “You have some way of distracting me,” he gruffly said, helping me stick my entire head out of the window when nausea crawled up my throat, trying to breathe the discomfort in and out in vain because of the choking humidity pushing against my lungs.

Only when I shifted did I feel the slickness that had gathered between my legs, and nothing seemed to relieve the pounding ache radiating from my belly down to my core. My nipples felt so sore against my dress I was close to ripping it off with my teeth. I’d never felt so uncomfortable in my own bones, wearing my own skin.

Goddess, what was happening to me?

He put a hand on my arm to pull me back, and I shivered, a mangled whimper slipping from my lips as nausea tickled my throat.

“Something is wrong with me,” I managed to murmur. I shook my head when he reached for me, shrinking away to the other corner of the carriage. “I don’t think you should touch me right now.”

I yelped when he lifted me to sit on his lap.

“There was epimedium in the drink,” he said against my temple. “They put it there to stimulate the feeling of real blood feeding. I thought you’d be fine until we got home.” He pressed his lips to my ear. It was fleeting, barely a kiss, barely anything, but I nearly choked because of how wound up I was. “I’m sorry.”

“This is so embarrassing.” I turned on his lap, pressing my face against his thick, muscled arm. Breathing in was assuaging as it was agonising. The throbbing between my thighs was growing more urgent, demanding. Before I’d even realised it, I was entirely plastered against his chest, grinding my hips against his thigh, and strung so tight I thought I might snap.

His hand cupped the back of my head, and I leaned on it, my body imploring for the tiniest bit of contact. “It will pass,” he murmured, lips resting against my brow in soft kisses. “It will pass.”

“Logan, please,” I begged.

Goddess, what was I even begging for?