His lips met mine.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was raw, hungry, claiming. His mouth crashed into mine with the force of all that tension we’d been dancing around for days. My lips parted, and his tongue swept in too greedily for a kiss that served a purpose. Breathless, I let him sling a hand around my waist and pull me impossibly close, anchoring me against the hardness of his body. The heat of his bare chest scorched me through the fabric of my dress. His other hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head so he could kiss me deeper.
My hands landed on his shoulders, sensing the fluid movement of muscle under his warm skin. The magic locked in his tattoos gently prickled my fingers. Around us, the tower responded: the fire in the hearth blazed, flower petals fell in slow spirals like confetti. And he still kissed me.
There was nothing but him—his mouth, his breath, his hands. The way his tongue stroked against mine, unrelentingand reverent all at once. The way I pressed closer, hungry to taste more.
Magic sparked like fireflies behind my eyes. The breath we shared was charged with something—hot and tasting of something sharp and metallic, like sunshine on iron.
I pressed against him, chasing that rising tide. His kiss grew fiercer, more reckless. My fingers tangled in his hair. His hips rolled against mine, and I gasped into his mouth.
Whatever spell this was, I didn’t want it to end.
I clung to him, dazed, half-drunk on magic and want.
I wanted to speak, to ask what this meant. But my body only knew how to hold on.
Then, the world cracked apart.
Daphne
Midnight Masquerade
Ilanded on something hard. Strong arms kept me from rolling to the side. My lips were still burning, and my heart was beating so loud I was afraid he could hear it.
Was he only using me to bring us back?
How could someone kiss like that only to get what they want?
“I wouldn’t mind the position, but you knocked my air out when you landed on me,” Emrys said beneath me. The world gained shape again, and I blushed, realizing I was sprawled on top of him.
I peeled myself from him. “Where are we?” Desperate to hide my flushed face, I looked around. The night was chilly, the air carrying the distant whiff of salt. A black cat perched on a pile of crates was watching us with contempt.
Emrys pushed himself from the dusty cobblestones. “A back alley of some kind.”
He was right. Gray walls surrounded us, and garbage and old newspapers littered the corners. He snuck to the alley’s entrance, his silhouette framed by the golden glow of the street lamps beyond. He peeked out and cursed in some unknown language.
“We’re still in France. Marseille. Well, close enough. Come on, little thief. Let’s get us some clothes.” And, to my terror, he stepped into the main street.
“Clothes?” I asked, hurrying to match his wide stride.
“Even immortals get cold, little thief. And you look like you got dragged through a battlefield.”
I plucked at my ruined sleeve. “Technically, I was.”
Thank God it was late, and the streets were empty, except for the occasional drunk sailor. Nobody paid us any attention. It seemed that a half-naked man and a woman in a blood-stained gown were nothing unusual around here. Emrys stopped before a shop window displaying elegant suits and shimmering evening dresses.
“‘Maison de Mode Vautrin,’” he read the sign above the door. “Charming. Let’s rob it.”
He was gone—disappeared into a narrow side street. I rolled my eyes. “Damn this man!” Would I ever have a peaceful minute again? To my horror, I found him pulling himself up through a narrow window. Glancing at the main street, I stood alone for a moment, then followed, trying not to snag my skirt on the windowsill.
Inside, the shop was hushed and opulent—lace curtains, velvet ottomans, mannequins frozen mid-pose. It smelled of lavender sachets and expensive perfume. Moonlight filtered through the frosted glass, catching on crystal beading and soft folds of silk.
I tried to focus on the clothes, the velvet and lace and the absurdity of it all—but the ghost of his lips on mine wouldn’t leave me. I kept seeing his hands. Hearing his voice. Feeling like something dangerous had already begun.
We moved through the racks, brushing aside feathers, brocade, and impractical corsets. Emrys lifted a sequined shawl and raised an eyebrow. “What about this? Parisian vampire? Very now.”
