"They're all inside deciding my fate anyway." The bitterness in her voice made him pull back to look at her, those inhuman eyes catching every flicker of emotion across her face.
"You're using me." It wasn't an accusation, just observation.
"Yes." She met his gaze steadily, refusing to pretend otherwise.
"Good." He spun her suddenly, pressing her against the stone railing, her hands bracing against the cold surface. "At least you're honest about it."
His mouth found her throat again and she could feel scales against her skin where his shirt had come undone, the texture alien but not unpleasant. His teeth scraped against her pulse, sharp enough to threaten but not break skin.
"Tell me about him," he said suddenly, his hands sliding along her waist. "The Forest Lord. Tell me why you chose him."
"What?" She tried to turn but he held her in place, not forcefully but firmly.
"You're thinking about him anyway." His voice carried that unsettling casual tone. "Comparing us. Wondering what he'd think if he saw you now. So tell me."
The question cut through her haze of anger and want. She didn't want to think about Eliam, but Karse was right—he was there anyway, a ghost between them.
"He never asked permission," she heard herself say. "He took. But somehow... it felt like being chosen."
"And now?" Karse's hands stilled on her waist, waiting.
"Now I'm choosing to be here. With someone else who takes what they want." She pressed back against him deliberately. "Someone who won't pretend it means more than it does and make me want things I shouldn’t.."
"Such a romantic." But his voice had roughened, the heat from his skin increasing until she could feel it through her dress. "Turn around."
She did, meeting those inhuman eyes. In the moonlight, she could see the scales had spread, following the line of his collarbone, down his chest where his shirt hung open. They caught the light like black opals.
"You're beautiful," she said, surprising herself with the honesty. "In a terrifying way."
"Flattery?" He tilted his head. "Unexpected."
"Truth." She traced one of the scales with her fingertip, felt him shudder beneath her touch. "You're not human. Not fae. Something else entirely."
"Does that bother you?"
"It should." She pulled him down for another kiss. "But nothing about tonight is about what should be."
His response was to lift her onto the wide stone railing, her back to the drop, only his grip keeping her stable. The height, the danger of it, should have terrified her. Instead, it felt appropriate—balanced on an edge, one wrong move from disaster.
"You're trembling," he observed, his hands steady on her waist despite the precarious position.
"It's cold." But they both knew that was a lie—his heat had turned the air around them almost tropical.
"Liar." He pulled her closer to the edge, and her hands flew to his shoulders, gripping hard. She could feel scales beneath her palms, rougher than skin but warm, almost fevered. "You're scared."
"Of falling?"
"Of jumping." His mouth found that spot where her neck met her shoulder, teeth grazing. "There's a difference."
His hand slid up her thigh, pushing fabric aside with deliberate slowness. "Let's see how close to the edge you're willing to go," he murmured against her throat.
When his fingers found her, they were impossibly hot—not quite burning but close enough that she gasped, her grip on his shoulders tightening. He made that inhuman sound again, pleased.
"Already wet," he observed with clinical detachment that somehow made it worse. "Your body's more honest than you are."
She wanted to argue, but then he shifted the temperature of his touch—hot to cool to hot again—and coherent thought scattered. The danger of their position, balanced on the edge of a killing drop, only heightened every sensation. One hand gripped the railing while the other pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat—too slow to be human.
"Still thinking about him?" Karse asked, sliding two fingers inside her with a twist that made her back arch.
