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He lets me go, withdrawing his big, warm body and his gentle hands, taking a step back so that I’m looking up at him as he wipes the blood from his lips with the back of his hand.
Slowly, intentionally, he licks the blood from his skin and stares back at me.
He wears a slightly glazed expression. The unearthly glow in his eyes has faded.
“Thank you, Finley,” he says quietly. “Fornotfalling apart in the face of what must seem incomprehensible.” He gestures toward a nearby sofa; studded and made of richly patinaed brown leather. It looks worn and comfortable. “Please, sit. Oh, don’t look like that. I’m not going to bite you again.”
Warily, I glance around the room. We seem to be in a study or an office of sorts. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling. My eyes widen as I scan the spines. Some are beautifully bound and embossed with gilt lettering. Some are so ancient they’re falling apart.
Vast windows, crossed with black steel frames, look out onto yet another snow-blanketed courtyard. A grove of stately blue cedars stands in the center, drooping branches thickly laden with pure white snow. In front of the window is a huge, leather-topped wooden desk. Books and papers are neatly arranged on top, alongside ink-pots, pens, and a wooden box containing a brass wax seal.
It’s an office. A big, sumptuous one, filled with meticulously crafted furniture that’s been built for purpose, not show. It’s warm and comfortable and undeniably masculine.
My legs like jelly, I tip my head and walk across the floor, stepping on a woven rug of cerulean blue decorated with intricate cream-colored patterns of leaves and vines. I take a seat, sinking into leather cushions that are neither too soft nor too firm; just ridiculously comfortable.
He crosses the room, turning his back to me. I’m starting to feel a little giddy and lightheaded. I can’t help it if I take a moment to stare at his broad back; at the way he moves, his toned ass perfectly encased in those fitted trousers, his body sinuous, exuding raw power.
What is wrong with you, Finley Solisar?
Maybe the blood loss has me in a delirium.
He retrieves a guest chair from in front of his desk and returns with it, turning it so that the back is towards me.
Then he sits, legs wide, arms draped over the back of the chair.
His sleeves are rolled up, revealing broad, sinewy forearms. He has a few old scars—some tiny, some long and nasty. All as marble-pale as his skin.
Battle-scars, perhaps?
He regards me with an unfathomable expression, head cocked, one eyebrow slightly raised, eyes narrowed, his lips curving ever so slightly.
And they’re still faintly stained pink with my blood.
There’s no denying that he’s a spectacularly handsome man. But for all his chiseled alabaster beauty, there’s a certain rough edge to him; a hardness that reminds me of Kaithar and the soldiers I encountered down there in the courtyard.
The ones that detained my father.
Onhisorders.
That effortless authority.
That face of his… it’s not exactly the same, but the resemblance is there, on every damn coin in Rahava.
He looks like…
Oh, Eresus.
My mind pieces together all the evidence that my heart doesn’t want to believe.
He’s…
My thoughts become like treacle. My head is fuzzy. His unearthly face swims in my vision.
“Finley?” I hear his voice, quiet and oh-so-serious. Why does he sound so far away?
Why are you so serious, Your Highness?
His brow furrows in concern. His eyes are deep and dark, like wine.
