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I barely notice when Atticus hoists me and sets me down on the altar, the stone cold and hard against my backside. Our mouths are still frantic against each other as he slides his hands over my thighs, and the hemline of my dress begins to hike.
“Wait!” I manage between kisses, my hands finding his chest. “Wait.”
He peels away, his breathing ragged. “What is it?”
My own breathing is also uneven. “This is the nymphaeum. Is this okay? I mean, nothing will happen?” I look to him knowingly.
A grin slowly emerges. It’s downright devilish. “I know I’m good, Gracen, but I’m not that good. It’s not Hudem. And you’re mortal. And this is just a kiss.” He leans in to trace my bottom lip with his tongue.
“It is not just a kiss,” I whisper against his mouth. It’s utterly euphoric and addictive, and a thousand times more intimate than anything I have ever experienced with a male before.
“No?” His eyes are wild with lust as they search my face. “What is it, then?”
I don’t know how to describe it except … “Hope.” That my past will not taint everything for my future.
That a kind king might lead Islor to a better place.
That my children might not be relegated to a life of misery.
A strange look flickers across Atticus’s face. “You didn’t have any hope before?”
“Not until …” Princess Romeria saved me. “… I came here.” I smooth a hand over his chest. “And now I’ve met you, and no one has ever made me feel like this before.”
“Like what?” His voice has turned husky.
“Like I matter. Like what I want matters.”
His fingers are gentle as he strokes strands of hair off my cheek. “And what do you want, Gracen?”
I hesitate, but only for a moment, to trace his square jawline with my fingertip, letting it skate over his lips. “Choice.” I’ve never had one before. Even my two older children were named by Lord Danthrin, as he sat by the fire with his wife, sipping glasses of wine and discussing options, like they were naming the newest pet.
Atticus said he wouldn’t take anything I wasn’t willing to give. The promise was so simple and yet so profound, because the only thing these keepers have ever done is take from me.
His throat bobs with a hard swallow, before sliding his hand through my hair to grip my nape. “If you do not want me—”
“I do,” I blurt, my cheeks flushing. “Fates, you must be able to feel how much I want you.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up in a sexy smile. He leans in to trap my mouth in his once again, this time the kiss slower, more sensual than before.
And more intoxicating, as emotion seems to bleed into every stroke of his tongue.
The ache inside me grows more urgent.
I need him closer.
But his hands stay put—one tangled in my hair, the other against my hip, and his lips never leave mine, as if he can’t get enough of my mouth, or he doesn’t trust them elsewhere.
He hasn’t taken a vein, I remind myself. He’s had plenty of chances. He could have gone to someone else tonight, but he didn’t. Wouldn’t. With a shaky hand, I unfasten my cloak, letting it tumble off my shoulders. My buttons come next, just enough to loosen the collar of my dress for him.
“What are you doing?”
Slipping a hand around to the back of his head, my fingers toying with strands of his hair for just a moment, I break away and guide his mouth to my neck.
His voice is ragged in my ear. “You do not have to do this, Gracen.”
“I know I don’t.” But Atticus does, and the thought of his mouth on someone else makes my chest ache with jealousy and regret. “I have a choice, and I choose this.” I don’t want him going to anyone else for it.
A long, soft sigh sails from his lips, sending shivers down my spine. “I will not hurt you,” he promises.
I close my eyes in anticipation as his tongue traces the length of my neck from my collarbone to my ear and back again, before his lips replace it, his breath hot against my skin.
I feel the sharp prick against my throat, one I’ve felt countless times before, and I brace myself for the pain that comes with each draw. Only it doesn’t come. Atticus is so very gentle as he takes what he needs from me, slowly, his palm smoothing back and forth over my hip while his other hand cradles my head.
My blood flows freely.
Willing.
Maybe because, for once, I am willing, to give Atticus what he needs to survive, to remain strong. And if we were in his warm chamber, in his bed, I wouldn’t hesitate to give him everything he might want.
