Page 13 of The Faceless Queen

“I am.” The fire crackled in the fireplace behind him. The room grew warmer.

“What if you don’t tell me your surname, or title?”

“And what would that leave you with?” he asked, his brows furrowing together.

“Something more than I have now. Something I want.” I tilted my head and bit my lip. “What do your friends call you?”

His eyes crinkled. “You’re not my friend.”

“Ah,” I said. “If I cannot even know that, you must have an impressive title.”

“Maybe. But title or not, you have my word. What happens in this room remains only between you and me, not anyone downstairs. And I swear to you, if this is all there is to be between us, a few moments with you, talking to you, debating with you, it was worth every coin I carried.”

He leaned even closer. The air felt heavy. My skin began to hum, and more of his energy poured into me. More of his—not lust. Not even desire. Not quite. It was something else. Something more. Something pure.

Something that the Azete hungered for, thirsted after. But something that I coveted even more. Something I yearned for. It flowed into me with a startling intensity. He didn’t even realize. Didn’t know that for a second, his face slackened, his body registering the loss of his lifeforce even though his mind never would. He was giving me almost as much as a man might when he found his release.

“You do flatter me,” I said. “We haven’t even touched.”

“That’s not true. We have. Like this.” He took my hand again, squeezing it gently. And I had the sudden urge to pull him closer, to tug his body against mine. I wanted his hands on my body, and my hands on his. I wanted our clothes off, our mouths crashing together.

Suddenly, hunger burned inside me, one I hadn’t felt in years. Because it was mine, not the Demonos’s, not the Azete’s that needed to touch and drink to survive.

It was me who wanted him. Just me. And I didn’t want to feed off of him.

I wanted to devour him. See him lose control, give in to the desire I knew he kept at bay. Hear what sorts of things he’d whisper against my skin in the heat of passion.

His head tilted toward mine so our foreheads nearly touched. The curls of his hair tickled against my skin. His breath was the only sound I could hear, and the scent of his oil, mixed with the natural musk of his body, filled all of my senses. My lips could practically taste his against them. They hummed in anticipation. One inch, one deep breath was all it would take for our heads to move, our lips to touch. And I was losing the will to hold my place, to continue playing his game. I barely had it in me to maintain the distance between us. I felt as starved as the Azete did, a desire thrashing inside me unlike anything I’d ever felt before. I knew it wasn’t just me. I knew he felt it, too. He had to.

My thumb brushed over his hand, our fingers still clasped together.

“Is this truly all you plan to do with me?” I asked, my voice low and husky. And, for once, I hadn’t forced it to be.

“Yes,” he breathed into my mouth, his thumb stroking my skin in return. His eyes darkened as they lowered to my lips. “I won’t so much as kiss you.”

But Gods do I want to.

His thoughts rang in my mind. Fuck. The connection was deeper than I realized.

The air began to stagnate. The birds had stopped chirping outside, and the rushing roar of the wind ceased. Even the sound of the flames crackling in the fireplace began to fade. And there was nothing. Nothing in the entire world. Just him. Just me.

And for a second, his face seemed to change and transform right before my eyes. But not in the way mine could. His features remained exactly the same, their size, their structure, their coloring. But where I first saw memories of Jaron hidden in the shape of his curls, or whispering through the contour of his lips and eyes, I could no longer find him. Not a hint of the prince who shared his blood remained.

The nobleman was his own person to me now. Separate from his family. He was kind and caring, sweet and as heroic as the stories of Kavrir.

I was beyond caring what his kiss would give me. I just wanted to kiss him. Kiss him for the sake of kissing. Feel his body on top of mine. Under mine. Inside of mine. Not to feed. Not for power. But the pleasure of it, for the feel of him, for the quiet intimacy of being with another person. One I wanted.

“Samara,” he breathed my name, the sound urgent and desperate. Almost begging.

“Tell me what to call you,” I pleaded.

And finally, at last, he thought of his name, offering it to me before he spoke it aloud in a hushed whisper.

“Brennan. My friends call me Brennan.”

“Brennan,” I breathed, my heart pounding.

“Yes,” he said.