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“Yes, what?” he asked, leaning closer to her.
Hot, wet blood gushed from the open wound in the corpse’s chest below them.
“Yes, I…Gods, don’t make me say it, Lucan,” she whimpered.
“Shh. You don’t have to hide yourself from me.”
Lucan’s fingertips traced the gentle curve of her long, pointed ears. Why was he doing this? Why did he entertain this fantasy that he could mold this elf—this killer—into something more than a mere weapon? She had done her job with ruthless efficiency. He tested her skills, just as he meant to, and now could rest easy knowing the rest of the traitorous courtiers eager to betray him to Aurelion would soon be dead.
Yet here he was.
Straddling a corpse.
Staring at the elf that had tried to kill him for nearly a century.
Utterly fucking besotted with the blood-spattered beauty before his eyes.
“What do you want, Elarian?” The question slipped from his lips before he knew what he was saying.
“I…You.”
The word thundered in Lucan’s ears.
You.
Not dead.
Simply him.
A deep, shuddering groan heaved from his chest. Lucan lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Elarian before she had a chance to think twice. His lips crashed into hers, desperate for her warmth. She stiffened for only a moment before surrendering to his kiss.
Blood, sweat, and that sharp sweetness lingering behind every word spilled from her lips wrapped around Lucan until he could hardly breathe. Twining his fingers through her hair, smearing crimson across her neck, they tumbled to the floor. The corpse twitched violently beneath them as they rolled to the side and into the pooling blood.
Neither seemed to notice amidst the maelstrom of lust and bloodthirst drowning their senses.
Elarian’s roving hands tore at Lucan’s tunic. Buttons flew across the room. Sharpened nails scraped across his chest, sending torrents of sparks racing over his skin.
“Th-this doesn’t mean—ah!”
The rest of her words dissolved into a broken cry as Lucan's fangs slowly grazed the vulnerable line of her throat. The ghostly touch of sharp fangs lingered against her skin, savoring each frantic beat of her pulse.
Heat pooled beneath his touch.
Lucan breathed her in as his lips lowered to her collarbone.
She smelled of rain-soaked stone, bloodwine, and something impossibly bright beneath it all, like the first breath of spring after an endless winter. It hollowed him. Undid centuries of discipline one ragged inhale at a time.
Drawn in by the taste of salt and her heat, he sucked hard against her flesh. A bruise bloomed beneath the pressure of his mouth, darkening her moon-pale skin as ink spilled across fresh parchment. Every tremor that ran through her body answered something ancient inside him.
Don’t.
Unable to control the need to consume her blood, thrumming with desire, his fangs sank into her soft flesh.
Warmth flooded his mouth, followed by a burning so intense, Lucan stilled. He had not pierced a vein—on purpose—but the taste of her flesh against his tongue was enough to set his soul alight. Lucan froze, every thought ripped from him by the impossible taste.
Fire.
Divine, unbearable, radiant fire.
