I sense him before I see him, then he’s standing before me, gentle hands framing my shoulders. I keep my eyes down, the blood on my chin out of his sight.
“What’s wrong, dear?” His voice is a caress, but I bristle at it.
“Don’t look at me,” I bite out.
“Why not?” he asks, undeterred by the iron in my tone. “Why rob me the pleasure of looking when I like the view so much?”
His fingertip comes to my chin, and he lifts it. I could fight him. I could nip at his fingers or yank my head to the side. But I allow him to angle my face, bracing myself for whatever his expression holds. Tears glaze my vision as our eyes lock. I’m tempted to keep the sight of his face obscured, but I should know the truth. Can he really accept me like this? I blink, and his face clears.
His lips are curved in a sideways grin, eyelids heavy.
That isn’t disgust on his face.
No, it’s…
Desire?
“Tell me what you said before we were interrupted,” he says.
My mind goes blank. He…he doesn’t hate me. He doesn’t think I’m a monster.
“Not the part about fucking my brains out, though we’ll revisit that shortly. Tell me what you said before that. Remind me how you feel about me.”
I’m stunned. My heart softens, yet it’s still prickly. Still raw. Still unsure if he simply hasn’t seen the blood on my lips. The two halves of my heart collide, and I avert my gaze. “I said I love you, you idiot,” I mutter.
He presses his palm to my cheek and tilts my face again, forcing my eyes back to his. His grin is wider now, deepening his dimples. “I like what you added this time. Say it again. Call me an idiot with blood running down your lips. I want to watch.”
He does see the blood. And he isn’t at all put off by my surly demeanor. My heart slams against my ribs, its riotous rhythm filling my ears and clearing the clouds of the past. I swallow the lump rising in my throat, then croak out, “Idiot.”
Tears glaze his eyes, as if I just uttered the most heartwarming phrase. He runs his thumb along my jaw, over my bloodstained chin, then across my bottom lip. “Fucking beautiful.”
My lips part at the hunger in his eyes, but before I can marvel at the sight, he lowers his mouth to mine.
The kiss is so sudden, so startling, so desired and needed and desperately craved, I forget to react. I freeze in place, my eyes open, his face filling every inch of my vision. His kiss is hard and claiming, sending a jolt to my heart.
How I wanted this kiss so badly.
If we kiss, it’s real.
How I imagined it time and again, but never in a damp alleyway illuminated by mushrooms, with bruises marring his skin and someone else’s blood filling my mouth.
Butthisuntamed kiss is ours. This is us.
Finally, my mind settles and sharpens, allowing me to sink deeper into this moment, close my eyes, and kiss him back. As soon as I yield against him, his lips part, and he sweeps his tongue into my mouth, sharing the taste of copper between us.
I can’t imagine Monty has ever tasted another person’s or creature’s blood. Not intentionally. As far as I’ve surmised, he’s never gotten to live in his unseelie form—if he knows how to shift at all. He’s never hunted prey or eaten raw flesh. Yet as his tongue continues to move against mine, as his arms wrap around my waist to pull me flush against him, as he tastes me as if he can’t get enough, I realize there’s a hunter inside him too. A beast that doesn’t shy away from that same part of me.
I throw my arms around his neck and arch against him, desperate to be closer. His hands move to my thighs, and he hefts me up, lifting me until my legs wrap around his waist. My fingers wind into his hair, still damp from the rain. He sucks my bottom lip between his teeth before moving his mouth to my chin. There he drags his tongue over the very place I know is smeared with blood. I don’t shy away this time, instead letting him cleanse away my shame as he sees fit, luxuriating in the attention, the vulgarity of what he’s doing.
Then he pulls back and holds my gaze. I stare down at him, perfectly secure in his arms. I caress his hair back from his forehead, plant a kiss above the cut on his brow. When my gaze returns to his, he smiles.
“Do you know what this means?” When I don’t answer, he softly brushes his lips against mine.
I know what he’s telling me. This kiss wasn’t just a flight of fancy or an accidental stumble into temptation.
“If we kiss, it’s real,” he says. “And this is real.”
“It’s real?” The question comes out with a quaver of emotion.
