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His voice is thick, like he’s been running, and something about that timbre sends a rush of heat through my abdomen that pools between my legs. My eyes stay closed but, stars above, my mind is running wild, filling in all the lurid details of Phaedron’s body as my fingertips trace the heat and strength of his muscles. Even the twisting knots of his scars are beautiful, spreading across his back and torso like flames stretching upward toward the winter sky.
I can’t believe he survived the injury that left those scars, or whatever magic must have pulled him back together. I want to tell him how incredibly happy I am that he did, how much better the world is with him in it, but my voice seems to have been burned away by the fire racing through my veins. I dip the cloth in the water again and again, then raise it to trace the patterns of his scars, the pulse of his muscles, and the rise and fall of his shoulders, and no words come to me. No words at all.
So when the idea appears, it comes in images. Running my fingers through Phaedron’s hair. Pushing his hair off his shoulders, then following my fingertips with my lips. Discovering how his skin tastes beneath the warm water I’ve dripped down the curves of his muscles, across the tangled web of his scars. Dropping the white cloth to the floor and wrapping my arm around his waist, my fingers reaching down to the space between his legs, waiting to see if he would stop me. To see what sound he makes when my hand touches the hard length of him.
I feel hot and cold at the same time, both shocked and horribly drawn to these visions. I’ve never done anything so bold in my life. Even when I kissed Phaedron in the Silver City’s human inn, it was light and delicate, with my mouth closed and the rest of me ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. I’ve never been the one to reach out, to start the slow dance of intimacy.
Balmyr was always the instigator during our short, doomed fling. He was the seducer, the one in control, and all I did, every single time, was yield to his advances. It all felt inevitable somehow, as if Balmyr was some force of nature, a storm or a tornado, something that would have pushed me down and run me over no matter how I felt about the situation.
But, this! This moment depends entirely on me, just like the kiss I gave Phaedron in the Silver City. For the first time in my life, a man is half-naked before me and asking nothing from me, expecting nothing at all. I feel almost dizzy, as though some of the old god’s magic still swirls through my veins, giving me a reckless sort of strength. The fire crackles as its warmth washes over my face; a droplet of water traces a path down the inside of my wrist. Phaedron inhales softly, the warm expanse of his back rising beneath my hand. The darkness behind my eyelids is crimson, and in that velvet emptiness, I picture the curve of Phaedron’s chin, the sweep of his hair against his neck. The softness of his lips.
I lean forward, my heart fluttering in my throat like a butterfly caught behind a window, and I raise my left hand to brush his hair from his neck. Phaedron’s breath catches like a half-swallowed sigh. I hesitate, waiting to see if he’ll object. He says nothing, although his muscles go tight beneath the cloth I’ve pressed to his right shoulder. When he exhales, in a shaky sort of gasp, I bend down and press my lips against the place where his neck meets his shoulder.
His skin is warm, almost hot, and his pulse surges against my lips. I taste salt and something else, something intoxicatingly unique, something wild and forbidden from another world.
And then Phaedron makes a sound, almost a whimper, as though he’s in pain and I’m the only one who could help. Heat rises between my legs and soaks through the thin scrap of fabric over my sex. I pull away and kiss him again, then again, tracing a line up his neck. His back rises and falls against my chest; his breath is ragged. I thread my left arm beneath his, wrapping my hand around his waist as my hips rock into his back, searching. Aching. When my hungry mouth finds the soft skin behind his ear, he moans my name.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
My entire body feels taut as a bowstring, pulled tight and ready to fire, and the space between my legs is so slick I’m sure it’s seeping into my skirts. Stars, I want him so badly it’s almost painful, this ache, this pull toward his body. I press my lips to his neck, tasting the beating of his pulse, then trace the hard lines of his abdomen with my left hand. My fingers tangle in a trail of tight little curls as they drop lower. Phaedron gasps, then falls silent, holding his breath.
I hesitate when my fingers reach the rough fabric of his pants. Stars above, I’ve never been so bold! Phaedron’s head rocks back, pressing into my shoulder. I let the cloth in my right hand fall to the floor and reach my arm around his waist, following the ridges of his scars while I squeeze my eyelids together. This seems easier, somehow, with my eyes closed. Phaedron’s skin burns against my palms as he inhales, sharp and shallow. Expectant. I let my hands drop—
A strange flash of light surges against my eyelids. Phaedron makes a sound, like a growl, although whether it’s disappointment or merely surprise I couldn’t tell. His back stiffens, and he pulls away. When I open my eyes, a strange sort of blue-green light is pouring through the window.
The scent of Phaedron’s illusion magic swirls through the air like smoke, and I know even before my eyes adjust to the light that I’ll find him wearing his impossibly white illusion shirt. My cheeks burn as I glance down, then look away. There are no wrinkles in his shirt, no shadows or bulges in his black pants. No indication at all of what we were just doing, or if it affected him. Stars, what would it be like to be able to hide yourself so easily behind your own magic?
“It’s the glowsoft orbs,” Phaedron says.
His voice sounds rough, like he’s been swallowing sand. I blink at the weird light seeping through the glass and try to hide the fact that my heart is racing like a thoroughbred.
“Oh,” I respond.
Maybe I should know what glowsoft orbs are. Maybe I should know what it means that they’re a strange blue-green color. And, stars, maybe I do know what those words in that order are supposed to signify, but right now everything I’ve ever learned is being incinerated in the raging bonfire of embarrassment and frustrated desire that’s currently burning every fiber of my body.
Phaedron says something under his breath that sounds suspiciously likeshit.
“We should get going,” Phaedron says, meeting my eyes for the first time. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks like he’s spent too much time this close to the fire. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug like I wasn’t just trying to shove my hand down his pants. “Okay,” I say.
“We can ride the teleport hubs now,” Phaedron continues. His voice sounds more normal now, more like the crisp white illusion shirt he’s wearing. “And we really should get back to Arryn.”
“Great,” I say as I force myself to stand, even though my legs are trembling beneath the skirt that’s now smeared with dirt from two worlds.
Somehow, I manage not to ask who in the nine hells Arryn is.
Chapter24
Alindra
WELCOME TO THE WORLD’S END
“So, this might be pretty uncomfortable,” Phaedron says as he holds his hand just above one of the dozen massive standing stones that surround us, their barely contained magic making the cold air shimmer.
I only just manage to keep my mouth closed. I’ve heard of teleportation hubs, of course. I read about how the magic should be woven and sustained, and I’ve even visited the sites of some of the old hubs in the Kingdom of the Summer to see if they could be resurrected. I’m completely comfortable with the concept of traveling via magic.
But in practice? Stars, the thought makes my skin crawl. Trusting myself to someone else’s magic? Riding a network of connections I didn’t create and can’t control? I know how finicky magic can be, especially if the magician is untrained. Or young. Or just having a really bad day.
