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The Crow King’s human features are painted with shadows from the way he angles his head to look down at me. “Are you in pain?” Without moving the wing on the backrest, he brings his other hand to the side of my face, hovering there for a few, long breaths before he grazes them along my cheekbone. “Here?”
It takes me a moment to understand that he is asking me if my face hurts where he touches it, the sensation of his skin against mine so surprising that my mind shuts down momentarily.
“You have a cut right here.” His fingers slide up to the corner of my eye, outlining the injury.
I don’t know why disappointment fills me as I realize that’s all he’s doing, that he isn’t touching me because he … wants to. And I shudder again at the bitter taste that fact leaves in my mouth.
“I’m all right.” With all the reserves I have left, I push myself into a sitting position, swaying a little, although I’m not even trying to stand up.
Myron’s wing slides from the backrest, circling around my waist instead as he stabilizes me before I might slip off the couch like a dead weight.
“Doesn’t look like it.” I can’t help but recognize the modicum of humor snaking into his voice as he looks me over. “You look like you bathed in fire.”
I want to object, want to correct him that the last element washing over me was water, but my clothes are dry, and so are my boots—as if I never stood between the murderous lake and the wall of fire going after Myron’s library.
“What—” My head bounces back and forth between the soot-stained walls and the immaculate hardwood floor. “What happened?”
When my gaze finally settles on Myron, his all-black eyes are already waiting for me, both pain and fury fighting for the upper hand, and for a moment, I believe he is angry with me. But his gaze softens as our eyes lock, and a crease appears between his raven brows. “You tell me, Ayna.”
“Ephegos took me to your room, and then I heard noises outside, in the hallway.” I glance at the intact wooden door, closed to protect our privacy in this room where Myron dared to be himself more than anywhere else in the palace. “They were coming closer.” The thud at the door springs through my head, drawing me back into the fear of an unknown attacker. “I slipped outside to have at least a chance at running in case they made it through this door. But when I got out, someone captured me. A male, not a Crow. Ahigh faemale.”
Myron’s expression darkens as if I just told him the Guardians themselves had come to snatch me from the palace, but he says nothing even when his mouth twitches with proof he has plenty to say.
At least, at first, he’s quiet. Then, he tilts his head, silky hair sliding over his neck as he heaves a breath of determination.
“First—Crow males aremalesas well as any high fae male.” He straightens an inch, and I can’t help but notice the way his muscles tighten on his stomach, the expanse of his shoulders, feathered or not, and the unmistakable masculinity in his whole appearance. The strong jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the heavy brows—one slanted, one cocked— accentuating his pale features. And that mouth…
“And second?—”
I’m suddenly very much aware of the heat of his wing around my waist, the deadly strength keeping me close to his side so gently I wonder if he believes I’m made of glass. Of the way his tongue flicks over his lower lip as he watches me study him.
“Second?” I prompt, but I barely get the word out because he pulls me against him, those sensuous lips hovering an inch from mine. His breath is all mint and fairy wine, and I want to taste him so badly I forget I was just dragged through fire and water.
“Second—” He brings his free hand back to my cheek, thumb grazing down to the corner of my mouth, gliding along my lips. They part in invitation, and I nearly moan at that simple touch. Myron’s fingers curl into my hair as he cups my face, gaze glued to where I’m pulling my lower lip between my teeth to stop myself from kissing him. “I don’t like when someone touches my wife.” His voice is shaking at that last word.Wife.He’s never called me that, even when we’d been officially married by the Ceremonial. “Someone other than me.”
His eyes are black fire, and his skin against mine sizzles like the aftermath of lightning.
But before I can read into it, he pulls back as if remembering something—a role he’s playing, a vow he swore, or the self-loathing I’ve observed creeping up on him so many times. Whatever it is that keeps him from kissing me right now, my body turns cold without his touch, my chest aching at these first signs of rejection.
“No.” It isn’t more than a whisper, but it gets Myron’s attention, as does my hand catching his and leading it back to my face. I don’t press it against my cheek, though. Instead, I swipe my mouth along his palm, my eyes never straying from his. “Don’t do this.”
“What?” He sounds as breathless as I feel as I thread my fingers through his.
“Disappear.” For lack of a better word. It’s what he always does. Either it’s the spell preventing him from speaking freely, or it’s him holding in the male who is kind to his friends and who has done nothing to lose my trust. I didn’t gift it to him when I was brought to this Godsforsaken palace as a forced bride, but he earned it anyway. And, no matter how much I hated him in the beginning, there is something growing between us, and I can’t point my finger if it is just that undeniable attraction overwhelming me or if there is something more. “Don’t disappear into that armor you’ve built around yourself. I’m not afraid of you.”
His eyes flare like burning stars as he brings his mouth down on mine, and I don’t hesitate to meet him with the same intensity, my lips molding around his firm ones as we move in a dangerous dance of heat and desperation. It’s there in every kiss, in every breath, in every touch as his hand knots in my hair, fastening my face to his while the other one brushes down my arm. I remember I should feel pain where the fire singed me earlier, where the fairy pressed his blade against my throat, but all I can feel is the need to sink deeper into him as his hard front crashes against me. All I can do is hold onto him, fingers sliding into his feathers as I grab onto his shoulders, knot my arms behind his neck, anything that will keep him right where he is. Anything to keep the fire burning away that facade he’s so expertly built.
Not a monster but a king with a burden so heavy it has split his people. A king with a spell keeping him from naming the curse he’s living.
“Ayna—” He moans my name as we come up for breath, but I nip his lower lip, inviting him back into our dance, and he follows with a groan that makes my core tighten. My whole body is on fire, whatever weakness had me swaying replaced by the excitement of being kissed by him, of being touched. My own hand finds its way to his front, contouring his chest, his abs, and his hands fall away from my hair and neck. I want to protest, but he grabs my hips, pulling me onto his lap so I straddle him on the couch, and his fingers slide lower, cupping my ass as he rolls his hips.
My mouth goes desert dry at the hardness straining against his pants, and for a breathless moment, I debate reaching for those leather strings at the front of his pants and unlacing them, but my hands get sidetracked by the ripple of muscle in his chest, and I trace patterns over his bare skin instead, my mouth back on his and my tongue exploring his taste while heat pools between my thighs more with each answering stroke of his tongue.
Until our breathing becomes ragged, and his hold on my flesh near painful.
“Stop,” he grinds out between kisses, the way he’s devouring me indicating he wants me to do anything but that.
In response, I lower my head to his neck and lick up the side of his throat.
