Page 123 of Turncloak

What did it say about him, that the thought of surrendering—to Saffron, to the oblivion of loxlure—was so appealing? What did it say about him, that his body found the relinquishing of control so intoxicating?

Control yourself, he thought darkly, knowing this woman could be the end of him, knowing his life was at the mercy of her desires, and yet he was so tired of controlling himself. He was using all his restraint to fend off the lure of lox, and there was little left to temper his traitorous vock.

Only it wasn’t just his vock. It was his heart too. And that was infinitely more troubling.

He focused on the hard ground beneath him, on the smoky incense, on the dim sounds of the tavern below, but it was no use. His whole body was screaming at him, but now it was not for nightpoppy.

And if he was going to cave into either vice, better it was this.

He discarded the blanket and rose to his feet, swaying slightly from lightheadedness—he hadn’t eaten since arriving in Flarence, so strong was the smell of nightpoppy.

At his approach, a light flared behind Saffron’s eyes. She stilled, and as he lay down beside her, there was a crackle of anticipation, both of them fighting too hard to control their bodies. Saffron rolled flat onto her back, the full peaks of her breasts rising and falling with shortened breaths. Levan cupped her jaw in his golden palm, running a thumb over the petal-smooth skin of her face. She tilted her head to face him, pupils blown wide and black, her teeth subtly biting into her lower lip.

“Thank you, Silver.”

“For what?” she breathed.

He nodded to the incense, hating how ragged his own voice sounded. “It’s been a long time since anyone…”

Cared.

Dropping his hand from her jaw, he pressed his forehead against her upper arm, the curve of her shoulder, and let his eyes flutter closed, feeling both exhausted to his bones and entirely awake. Saffron laced her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, so gently it almost unraveled him, and he lay there for several moments, letting the want in his body swell and pulse until he could no longer bear it at all.

Once it felt like his lungs—or his vock—might explode from the pressure, Levan traced his cold fingertips down the side of her throat, across the ridge of her collarbone, around the pear-shaped curve of her breast. Her body shivered involuntarily, and she closed her eyes, but did not move to touch him in return. She simply let him rove and wander, a palm splayed over her flared ribs, a thumb stroking the swell of her hip.

He planted the smallest kiss on her temple, her cheekbone, the side of her mouth. Now she was the one trembling, but she kept her hands at her sides, fingers curled into tight fists.

Did she still carry the embarrassment of his rejection all those weeks ago, when he’d left her sitting on the trunk at the foot of her bed, just moments from taking his vock between her lips? The memory was so fresh he could practically still feel her warm breath against his tenderest skin.

Levan traced a finger back down her jawbone as he whispered, “Touch me, Silver.”

She shook her head slowly, this stubborn mule of a woman. “You’re not yourself right now—you’re struggling.”

He gave a rueful laugh. “I’m always struggling.”

Saffron pressed her palm against her ribs, clawing her nails into the fabric of her tunic as though trying to create a sensation other than desire. Levan was familiar with the tactic. “I don’t want to take advantage. Last time—it was ill-judged. I got caught up in the moment.”

“Do you really think I turned you down because I didn’t want you?” Levan said roughly. “Silver, what you said all those weeks ago about my compelling, my will bleeding into yours…causing you to slip, make careless mistakes, bend to my subconscious command. That terrified me. The only thing that kept me from spiraling entirely was the knowledge that the first time we…well, I was pinned in place with deminite. It couldn’t have just been my desire seeping into you. But the time after—I made such a show of being the one in control. Tying you, silencing you.”

“Levan.” To his immense surprise, Saffron laughed, bright and clear as a church bell. “I have wanted you most seconds of most days since the moment you re-enchanted my necklace. Even when you’re nowhere near me, and so could not possibly be compelling me. Even when your mind is so clearly on other things. I promise my desire is entirely my own.”

Though the laughter lightened the atmosphere, these words did little to assuage Levan’s concerns—he did not understand, in any real sense, why anyone would want him at all. An addict, a killer, someone who came across so cold and callous despite (or perhaps because of) his deep inner turmoil. Subliminal compelling was the only feasible explanation.

Saffron turned to face him, peering at the harsh lines of his face through her soft, fluffy lashes.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, as though reading his self-loathing thoughts.

His stomach flipped. “What? No.”

“You are.” She traced the very tip of her forefinger over his cheeks, his brows, his chin dimple. “The most beautiful mage I’ve ever seen.”

He had to look away. It was so patently untrue. Whenever he looked in a mirror—which he tried very hard not to do—he saw only a monster.

“If it’s deminite you need to feel certain I genuinely want you…” Her voice dipped into a breathy, devilish tone. “You brought manacles in your backpack, did you not? Just in case the apothecary’s grandson turned on you.”

The air caught in Levan’s throat.

Saffron retrieved the cuffs, moving slowly through the room as though wading through treacle. The feeling of imminent implosion only intensified in Levan, and as she clamped the cuffs around his wrists, the deminite cool and hard against his belly, the blood rushed to his head so hard and fast the room stippled black.