“Please,” I whisper. I see sparks and stars in my vision, and it reminds me of the magic that flares when I need to heal myself. But I ignore them, desperate for his touch.
His hand barely moves, and it’s delicate torture.
“Anyone could come along the road,” he says.
It should be sobering, but it’s not. I look right back into his blue eyes and grab hold of his belt. “Then stop taking so long.”
That seems to light a fire inhim, because he slips the buckle and tosses his sword belt to the side. Then he pulls away my underthings, while I’m gasping the whole time. When I take him in my hand, he makes a choked sound, inhaling deeply through his teeth. But his eyes stay open, and he looks down at me. The expression in his eyes reminds me of what he said before he kissed me.
Never disappointed. Proud.
The swell of emotion in my chest nearly brings tears to my eyes. “Please,” I whisper again. “Please.”
And then he’s inside me, so slow, so determined. The air feels charged, my body feels charged, and each thrust makes my breath shudder. He smells like sunlight and summertime, and when he kisses my neck, I’ve never felt so cherished.
At some point he takes hold of my leg, the angle changing,hismotions becoming more desperate. His hand strokes my breast, then reaches between us, seeking every delicate spot. It sends me over the edge and I cry out, stars filling my vision until I can’t see anything at all. My entire existence spirals down to the warm feel of him pressing into my body, the slow, dizzying motion of his hand. When he makes a sound, it’s low and guttural and makes my womb give another clench. And then it’s just the weight of him on top of me, the sweet, heady scent of him, the tenderness of him kissing my cheek, my jaw, my throat. I’m ready for sweet nothings, for him to whisper promises against my skin.
Instead, he says, “Fast enough?” and I burst out laughing.
“Next time I’ll keep count,” I say, and he grins down at me.
“Next time,” he murmurs, tracing a finger along my jaw, “you won’t be able to keep count.”
I flush. My skin is still so warm, so charged, that when a breeze drifts down the lane and finds my bare legs, it feels like ice, and I shiver. “We should make ourselves presentable.”
Alek casts a glance at the road, which is still empty. “As you say.” He draws back, tugging at my skirts, drawing up one of the bolts of fabric to give me some privacy. It’s thoughtful and kind, and probably themostunexpected action from him. “I can go to the other side of the carriage,” he says. “If you’d like a moment alone.” He pauses. “There might be some food in the footman’s carriage box, too.”
“All right,” I whisper.
He gives me a nod, then kisses the back of my hand, then moves away. My heart gives a clench, and I have to press a hand to my chest, just for a moment. The weight of my pendant is warm against my fingers. I know I need to get up and arrange myself, but I just watch him move.
But as Alek stands, a screech emits from somewhere deep in the trees. Before I can react, a scraver soars out of the forest. I remember Tycho’s warning.
When the air turns cold, get off the fields. It’s the first sign of scravers.
I should have been paying attention.
I watch Alek’s hand immediately go for his sword—which is still lying beside me in the grass.
“No!” I shriek, but it doesn’t matter. The scraver is diving right at me, claws outstretched.
Before it reaches me, Alek leaps in front of the creature. He has no armor, no weapons. The scraver slams right into him, and blood flies.
CHAPTER 42
CALLYN
My breathing is so loud, rattling in and out of my chest. Everything is socold. A high-pitched whine carries over everything, and I think it’s me, keening. My entire body seems to be moving in slow motion. I’ve grabbed Alek’s sword, but I’ll never be fast enough to stop the scraver. Alek’s blood has sprayed everywhere, and his arm flops crookedly away from his body as the creature slashes him with its claws again.
With every pulse of my heart, I feel stars sparking through my veins. It’s magic, and I know it, but it’s useless. I don’t know what todowith it.
But then I’m moving, the sword braced in my hand. Frost crawls up the length of the blade, but I don’t stop.
At the last moment, the scraver turns, and the screech that pours from its throat is enough to stop me in my tracks. Alek’s blood has sprayed across its chest, and I see viscera spilling from the slash marks in his abdomen.
In my moment of hesitation, the scraver leaps off him, and flies atme.
“No!” I scream—and with the sound, those sparks and stars in my blood seem to explode out of me. A rush of wind blasts from behind me, and the world goes vivid white, almost blinding. It only lasts a second, but the scraver is flung back, slamming into the ground twenty feet away.
