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“I do not fear the hunters any more than the stars fear the dark.” He pushes away from the doorway and gazes at the night sky. I want to know why my words cause a small v between his brow, why his shapely jaw is taut with tension, why his starry eyes are far away, not looking at something in Adelphi. “The mortal kings believe they can wield fear and strength like a blade, but they are nothing without the blood of their sacrifices.”

“And what of the innocent blood that stains your hands?” Lightning streaks above us, emphasizing my angered accusation. “Did you hurt Cress?”

“What…?” He shakes his head. “Last I saw Cress, she led you out of Carver’s. And for what it’s worth, I haven’t drawn innocent blood in over two centuries.” His hair absorbs the moonlight, making it bluer in color. He closes the canyon between us once more and holds his palm flat against the invisible pane separating us. “If you had no reservations, no barriers, what would you want, Rory? Tell me, and I will make it so.”

He speaks as if he’s a genie capable of granting three wishes, and I don’t have the slightest clue how to answer him. He stares at me expectantly as my mouth opens and closes.

My brow furrows. “I…”

I want so many things in this moment.

His safety and my own, for sure.

And the press of his lips on mine, the tickle of his face as it eases down the length of me, the delicious fullness of him deep inside me. Obscene thoughts surface and will not stop. I have to clamp my thighs together to relieve the throbbing between my legs, to soothe the desperate, unpleasant aching raging through me for his cock.

I cannot think beyond my heady desire, beyond my unorthodox craving for his body.

It’s nearly primal, this… need.

The barrier prevents our skin from touching, but it doesn’t stop heat from spreading across my cheeks, down my neck, along the dips and valleys of my collarbone as I press my hand flat against his.

Does he scent it? Scent the blood warming in my veins, singing to him, aching for him?

His nostrils flare, and my toes curl into his socks that are still on my feet.

Something about the idea of taking a vampire to bed in my family home—while hunters patrol the grounds, Viv the Great sleeps soundly in the room across the hall, and my father dreams of power downstairs—has the corners of my lips inching upward.

Quill is a secret rebellion. All I have to do is strike the match.

For the second time in less than a handful of hours, he’s a choice that’s all mine.

He rests his forehead against the barrier, staring down at me. “What do you want, Rory?”

“You,” I murmur. The logical voice raging in the back of my mind demands I put a stop to this nonsense. Years of King Joal’s political propaganda disguised as rallies, admonishes me with threats of endless war and burning in hell. Quill is a vampire, an assassin sent to Adelphi to kill me. But he hasn’t and he won’t. Certainty settles in the marrow of my bones. It twines with the fiber of my being. It’s unexplainable even to me, yet, I know he will not hurt me. “I want you.”

“I am yours.”

His words are a spark of kindling, needling the burning desire deep in my belly. Radiant eyes framed by a fringe of thick, dark lashes glow with need as they watch me, pleading with such intensity that I do the one thing a mortal should never do.

I invite him in.

As soon as the words leave my lips, his mouth crashes against mine. His tongue slips inside, massaging my own as he did the first time we kissed. He lifts me into his arms, and I wrap my legs around his taut waist. Sheepskin falls to the floor, the blanket immediately forgotten.

As he breaks away, his gaze rakes over me. There’s a low, possessive growl rumbling deep in his throat as he notes, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

I forgot about that. I thread my fingers through his silky hair. “You did say it looked better on me.”

He kisses me again, ravenous, as if he’s been starved of me for an eternity. And maybe he has been. Maybe some cruel twist of fate tangled our life threads like our limbs on the furry rug in his brother’s home.

Quill carries me to my bed and lays me down gently. His hands skim over one bare leg and rip a sock free before moving on to the other. Appearing satisfied with himself, he fingers the hem of his shirt and slips it over his head before doing the same with mine.

I admire his strong, muscular chest as he grins down at me.

“You are perfection incarnate.” He leans over me, kisses my collarbone. “A fever dream I never want to wake from.” Another kiss between my breasts. “Tell me I’m yours.” His eyes meet mine as his lips drag against my skin. Lower and lower. My breathing is embarrassingly fast. My hands dig into the quilt. “Tell me you feel this pull. Tell me it’s not all in my head. Tell me even if you have to lie.”

“I feel it,” I pant.

A wicked grin brightens his face as I push his head between my legs. He skims his tongue down my center, and I bite my fist, suppressing a moan. As he devours my sex with brutal efficiency, I roll my hips, needing more. He tsks and holds me down; I look down as he splays one hand across my stomach while the other palms the bulge in his pants.