smoke from the fires Xaphan’s concubines had started.
And she could smell his blood where it yet smeared his
lips.
She stared at his lips. His mouth was drawn in a taut
line, hard and tense. She wanted to feel his mouth on
hers, to taste him. She wanted to kiss him—not in case
she died, but in case she lived.
His hand slid to the angle of her jaw, then her
throat. She could feel her pulse beating against the
pads of his fingers.
“Don’t you fucking die,” he breathed.
She didn’t think she would. Thanks to him.
His gaze locked on hers. She didn’t know how long
they simply stared at each other.
He made a primitive sound, deep in his chest, and
then he kissed her, his mouth hard on hers. She opened
and took his tongue in her mouth, tasted his desperation and his fear for her, his dominion and power, and
his blood. It stained his lips, and hers, and it was there
in their kiss, electric and forbidden, salty and sweet.
His breath was hers. His blood was hers. The electricity of his power thrummed between them.
With a groan, he drew back. “I need to move you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know.” But itwouldhurt. Not much anyone could
do about that.
262
SINS OF THE HEART
There was an odd look in his eyes, one she couldn’t
quite read. Not just because the night was dark, but because she had the feeling he was guarding his thoughts,
forcing his features to betray nothing as he studied her
