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Dillon blinked at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted horns and he wasn’t sure whether or not it was polite to mention it. “I’m sorry?”
“That was impolite, wasn’t it? I meant, ‘will you dance with me’?”
“Are you… sure you have the right person?”
Dillon moved clumsily into place, arms slipping tentatively around her waist, as if unsure how to hold her. A rare, simple smile spread over Juliana’s face. “Imagine I’m a battleaxe,” she suggested. “If it helps.”
Dillon’s grip on her tightened. “I’m infinitely more familiar with battleaxes…”
“Not scared of me, are you?”
His throat throbbed. “Not scared, exactly, just…”
“Don’t be scared,” Juliana whispered, and slid her arms around his neck. Her fingers played with his coarse curls, trying not to think of darker, silkier ones.Don’t be scared.
Juliana had yet to meet a foe she couldn’t vanquish, and she felt like she was fighting against something tonight, although what it was she couldn’t name. Dillon’s breath brushed against her temple, his tight, broad muscles glistened through the shirt, and something stirred inside her, hot and deep.
She leant up and pressed their lips together.
He tasted of blackberry wine and woodsmoke and fresh hay, his mouth hot against hers. His hands trembled on her waist, as if steadying himself against her. His movements turned from clumsy to confident, fingers roaming upwards as her insides turned warm and bubbly. She wanted his hands elsewhere, in other, deeper places.
“Let’s skip the dance,” she said, parting from the kiss.
Dillon blinked at her as if debating whether or not to question this or do as he was told.
He chose the latter. “All right,” he said, a shy grin spreading across his face.
A part of Juliana’s haste came from the fact she knew Hawthorn would doubtlessly be shortly returning to his own chambers, and she refused to have him as any kind of audience.
But she also wanted this. Wanted pleasure and knowledge and skin.
They fumbled up the stairs, already unbuckling, dropping belts and weapons to the floor the second the door was closed.
“Are you sure—” Dillon started, as she heaved off her shirt. “Never mind.”
She yanked off his trousers, actions clumsy as they both stumbled towards the bed. Dillon was broad, all scars and calluses, velvet hairs over hard muscles. He was human, warm, ripe with sweat, a match for her. No need to be ashamed of her bumps or bruises, the imperfections of her obvious humanity.
His kisses were firm and strong, the rest of him even more so. “Sorry,” he said, as she groaned underneath. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t be gentle,” she warned, “don’t you dare.”
Hawthorn stayed far later at the revel than he intended to, but he made no move to choose a partner or head upstairs. He told himself he was just trying to be polite, giving Juliana privacy for what he was sure was probably her first time.
But it was more than that. Something strange had come over him when he’d seen her kiss Dillon, a vision that had soured the rest of the evening, turning all other kisses stale when they met his mouth.
He lost his appetite for the night, even the wine lacking the bite it usually had.
At last, he stumbled up to bed.
All was quiet on Juliana’s side of the door. Normally, when one of these moods hit him—a melancholy born of nothing—he’d go to her and tease her until he quite forgot there was anything wrong with the world.
Not tonight. He didn’t dare.
He sunk into a strange, distorted sleep, dreaming of everything and nothing. Black thorns and blood in the snow, lips on his, smears of gold paint on spider silk sheets, and mortal bodies that oozed with impossible warmth.
Things he had no right to dream of.
It was past dawn when he finally rose. Hot light drifted over the floorboards, banishing dark crevices. The vines slunk down his bedsheets, nudging him like a hungry cat. Purple buds sprouted when he reached out to pet them.
