But, never mind. The thought should have stopped me because Arthur was quite the odious man. Instead, it drove me forward. My fingers traced the slick heat of her, and she archedinto my touch, still lost in dreams where another man claimed what I had no right to want.
I plunged back into her dreaming mind, desperate to see what was now driving her thoughts.
Arthur moved inside her, each thrust claiming deeper territory. His eyes locked on hers—gold catching violet in the strange light of dream logic. No tenderness. Only conquest.
"You're mine," he growled. "Every breath. Every secret. Mine."
Her body betrayed her, arching to meet him. But her eyes—those magnificent eyes—held something else. Resistance. Fury. A refusal to surrender completely even as pleasure threatened to drown her.
I withdrew from her mind, and in the waking world, I pushed two fingers inside her slick heat. She gasped, hips rolling to meet the intrusion. The linens twisted around her legs as she moved, seeking more, coaxing me deeper. Her inner walls clenched around my fingers, hot and tight and perfect. Gods, I wanted to slam my cock into that tight wetness.
"Please," she whispered, still caught between dream and waking. Still seeing Arthur's face while my hand worked between her thighs.
The word shattered something in me.
I leaned down, capturing her mouth with mine while my fingers curled inside her. I had to remind myself she was still a maiden, lest I get too carried away and rip through that delicate line of flesh deep inside her.
Yes, I'd learned as much in another of her dreams—when the man I didn't recognize had plunged inside her and ripped her virginal wall down. She'd orgasmed quite thunderously that time. But back to the present, she opened for me, tongue meeting mine with a hunger that had nothing to do with dreams.
My thumb found the swollen bud above my fingers and circled it. She moaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. Her hips lifted, grinding against my hand. I pumped my fingers inside her faster, deeper, matching the rhythm I'd witnessed in her dream, being careful not to go too high.
"That's it," I breathed against her lips. "Take what you need, my dirty little dove."
Her body went rigid. Inner muscles clamped down on my fingers as she came undone, orgasm rolling through her in waves I could feel pulsing around my knuckles. She cried out—wordless and raw—back arching off the mattress as pleasure claimed her completely.
Move. Now.
The thought cut through the haze of lust polluting my mind. Her sleeping mind was already stirring, consciousness rising toward the surface like a swimmer breaking for air. If she woke and found me here, standing above her without a stitch of clothing on—
As much as I didn't want to, I pulled my fingers from her tightness and stumbled back from the bed. The transformation seized me before I'd fully stepped away, bones compressing, skin erupting into feathers. The change hurt this time, rushed and graceless.
Wings beat air where arms had been. I launched myself toward the windowsill, talons scraping stone as I landed hard.
Below me, she shifted beneath the linens. Her breathing changed, deepening, steadying. Returning to normal sleep patterns.
I'd come so close to discovery.
Inform her dreams,the rebellion leaders had instructed.Turn her mind toward our cause. Make her question Arthur's narrative.
Instead, I'd buried my fingers inside her tight cunt while she moaned another man's name.
Ah, well, what was the rush?
My talons gripped the sill tighter as I watched her settle back into undisturbed sleep, white hair fanned across pillows, lips still parted from the kiss I'd stolen.
I'd tasted her now. Felt her come apart beneath my touch—all that had done was make me want her in real life—when she would call my name as she bucked beneath me instead of the rotten king's.
How could I ever retreat back into shadows after that?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
-GUIN-
The next morning, I received another summons from Arthur.
When I joined him in the royal practice yard, he was already mounted on his massive black warhorse, Cabal, the beast pawing at the ground impatiently. Several pages milled about, their curious glances following me as I approached.
Arthur was dressed in the garments of a king who had not forgotten the feel of reins in his hands. A dark riding tunic hugged the breadth of his shoulders, its edges embroidered with subtle thread that caught the morning light like the suggestion of scales. A half-cloak, pinned with a dragon-shaped clasp, fell to mid-thigh—short enough not to tangle with his mount’s stride.
