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“Ignore them,” Myron whispers as he opens a plain wooden door, waiting for me to cross the threshold before he follows on silent feet. No matter how many times I wander the palace with him, I can’t get used to his stealth—worse even than Royad’s, whose wings at least rustle when he makes a quick movement. But Myron is quiet like a shark in deep waters and equally dangerous. “They’ll get used to the fact that this year’s bride is stronger than the ones before.”
I’m scared to ask the meaning of his statement with the all-black eyes of the Crow guards following us into the corridor. With a swift wave of his hand, Myron makes the door shut before falling into step beside me again.
“It’s hard to ignore them when they look at me like they want to roast me for dinner.”
Myron’s chuckle is as startlingly beautiful as is the humor in his tone as he tells me, “No matter how well they roast you, none of them could devour you as well as I could.”
“And bydevouryou mean sucking out my soul before handing me to the Guardians?” I try to make it a joke, but Myron’s chuckle fades as he pins me to the wall beside the door, one hand braced beside my head, the other gently curling around my waist so his taloned fingertips graze the small of my back.
“Bydevour, I mean slowly.” He lowers his face so it’s level with mine. “Deliciously.” He leans in until his lips brush my ear, and my breath hitches despite the calm I’m trying to keep. “Devour.You.”
The way his breath tickles my skin makes it very clear that he isn’t talking about the same type ofdevouring, and I press my knees together at the sudden heat between my legs.
We’ve been dancing around each other since the kiss after the attack, his gazes intense when he studies me across the room and even worse from up close, such hunger dwelling in the depths of those black eyes. And I’m nearly as bad. One glance at his tall form, at the torso he puts on display so often when we spend our days in the room beneath the palace where he’s been taking me to work on my fighting skills, and my mind zaps back to the feel of his skin under my palm.
With the Fire Fairies breaking into the palace for the second time within mere weeks, Myron insists I be in top shape, and he sees to it himself, making it harder for me to focus on wielding the dagger he gave me—and which I’m carrying everywhere now—when sweat glistens in the grooves of his muscles and his eyes twinkle whenever he catches me staring.
He hasn’t said a word about the curse, and I haven’t asked again. Not about that, anyway, instead trying to read up on everything I can to better understand the Flames once populating this region of Askarea.
I shiver as his talons dig into the thin fabric of my tunic—just lightly enough to remind me they’re there—and Myron pulls back with a smirk.
“Shouldn’t we be training?” I quip, placing one hand on my dagger as he hovers there, breath mingling with mine, inviting me to close the gap and do somedevouringof my own.
“I’m all for it, depending on what sort of skill you want to practice.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Is that the charm you spring on all your brides because, if it is, I assure you they might have died merely to escape that.” I mean it as a joke, but Myron’s expression darkens, and I swear the stone room does too as his power fills the air between us.
“Believe me, if I wanted to charm you, you’d know.” In the depths of his eyes, I spot a spark that sends shudders of the good kind through my body, and I wonder if I’m playing with a different sort of fire. One I won’t be able to contain once it tastes the charged air between us.
“Is that a promise, Myron? Or should I sayMoron?Might be a spelling error.” Pushing him when he’s this close isn’t a smart idea, but it’s a better idea than all the hundreds of ways my body is telling me to press against him, to taste him, breathe him.
Myron’s guttural growl reverberates through every inch of my body, making the hair stand at the back of my neck. And that is before he braces his second hand on the other side of my head, wings flaring to both sides, blocking out the light of the chandelier high up under the arched ceiling, and he closes his eyes, inhaling long and deep as if memorizing my scent.
When he opens them, the spark is gone. He lowers his wings, shrugging toward the training room. “I’m not making any promises, Ayna. We both know where that could end.”
Despite the lighter tone, there is something in his voice that tells me he’s fighting as hard as I am to let go of the moment. No matter how tempting, this can’t be anything more than the sizzling attraction it’s been growing into. I’ve lost too many people, and so has he. Even considering letting him closer might shatter me if I wake tomorrow and the Flames burn him to cinder the way they did with Ephegos. My heart is still bleeding over the Crow spy, and I can only imagine that Myron is devastated, losing a friend he’s been with for more than a thousand years.
I follow him into the stone chamber where we’ve spent at least an hour every day, wielding blades and words in an attempt to get me back in shape. Today is no different.
Myron picks up a dull training sword from the rack at the side of the fairy-light-drenched room and drags the tip over the rough stone of the floor as he approaches me with a serious expression—the face of Myron the Fighter, I’ve learned. As I’ve learned that the Crow is an excellent swordsman. Not that he needs a blade when he has refined, invisible power at his fingertips that can bring down enemies without even touching them.
I have about five heartbeats before he’s upon me, and I use them to study his graceful approach, the strength in the lines of his body, the set of his mouth and jaw as he studies his target. A lump forms in my throat at the thought of fighting this creature of magic who I’ll never defeat, no matter how much of my human brawn I put into a strike.
“Ready?” he purrs, lips twitching ever so slightly as he gestures at my dagger with the point of his sword.
I draw my weapon, readying myself for the softened blow he’s about to deliver. We’ve been through this multiple times, and every time, Myron adulterates his deadliness to match my human strength, slowing his pace to meet mine. And no matter how much I appreciate it, every time anew, I am reminded of just how weak I am next to him.
Today, apparently, is no different.
Only, Royad chooses to join us halfway into the training session, a grim expression on his features, and picks up a sword to spar with Myron. The Crow King blocks his attack with ease, his gaze on me while I debate whether I should use this moment of him busying himself with barring Royad’s sword to land that blow I’ve been trying to since the moment we started working.
I don’t know why I’m surprised that he sees my sneak attack coming, but as he wraps his magic around my wrist and my waist, holding me in place a pace away. His eyes flash a dangerous shade of night, and my breath catches as they lock on mine.
“Careful, Ayna. Attacking a king’s flank in an ambush like that might result in that very king pinning you against the wall with his magic.” The grasp of his power tightens around my wrist holding my blade well away from his chest, but around my waist, the invisible touch becomes more proprietary, pulling me in an inch or two while I’m still struggling to find my breath. And I can’t help reaching deep into my courage, the one always flaring when Myron challenges me with a statement. Curving my lips into a half-smirk, I lean into his hold, tossing my braid over my shoulder with my free hand. “Another promise, Moron?”
Myron’s growl rumbles through the room like slow-building thunder, and despite the obvious warning rolling along on the sound, there is more to it than a threat. Almost like an … invitation?
The sudden awareness of how his gaze slides over my body as he assesses the way I arch around his magic does nothing to ease the tension lingering in the space between us, and I’m surprised the air doesn’t combust right there.
