He tastes like violence. Like chaos. Like the laugh that cracked open in this plaza while a body leaked at his feet. His hands are in my hair, blood-wet and warm, tilting my head back so he can take more, and I let him. I open for him and his tongue slides against mine and a sound comes out of me that I will absolutely deny later.
There's a body six feet away. There's blood soaking into the stone. There are Coin observers watching and Renan probably smirking and the entire fucking city in shambles around us—
I don't care.
I bite his lower lip and he growls into my mouth and his hands tighten in my hair and I'm pressed against him now, chest to chest, his blood smearing onto my clothes, onto my skin, copper and heat and him. His hips pin me and I can feel how hard he is through his coat, through my dress, and my brain shorts out entirely.
More.
I want more.
He pulls back. Just enough to breathe. His forehead pressed to mine, his chest heaving, his eyes silver and blown and fixed on my mouth.
"We're leaving." His voice is wrecked.
"Seris—"
"Tonight." His thumb drags across my lower lip, smearing blood there. "Right now, I'm taking you somewhere I can finish this properly."
Oh.
"The plaza—"
"Renan." Koshin doesn't look away from me. "Handle it."
Somewhere behind us, Renan's voice: "Of course. Go fuck. I'll clean up your political massacre."
I should argue. There's work to do. There's a dead High Priest and a shattered House and a witness who needs protection and—
Koshin's hands drop to my hips, grip, and then I'm over his shoulder.
"What the—"
"You can walk or I can carry you." He's already moving, striding through the plaza with me slung over him like a prize. "I don't care which."
I should be furious. I should demand he put me down, make some sharp comment about being treated like luggage, assert my dignity in front of the remaining observers.
Instead I watch his ass as he walks and think about sinking my teeth into it.
My priorities are a disaster. I've made peace with that.
"People are staring."
"Let them." His hand tightens on my thigh—high, possessive, his thumb pressing into the muscle. "They can watch me carry my mortal through the compound. Might teach them something."
"About what? Proper hostage transport?"
"About who you belong to."
Heat pools low in my belly. Not from the angle.
The corridors blur past—guards with that look, the one that says we heard what happened and we don't know what comes next. Faith is dead. A god bled out in a public plaza because Koshin decided it was time, and now everyone in Discord is waiting for the fallout.
I don't know either. I'm too busy watching his back muscles shift under his ruined coat and thinking about dragging my nails down them.
The door to his chambers slams open. He strides through and kicks it shut behind us, and the thunk of it closing feels final. Privacy. No audience. No more performing.
He dumps me on the bed.
