Then, with one hand still pinning me to the wall, the other abruptly retreats from under my skirts. I whimper in protest at the sudden emptiness, a desperate little sound I don’t think I’ve ever made in my life. But he keeps me in place, his gaze soldered to mine, as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks. Ever so slowly, his tongue works around his fingers, his eyes rolling closed as he licks every drop of me from them like he’s tasting the rarest of delicacies.
My body pulses as the ache in my core ignites. I writhe beneath his palm with another keening whimper, desperate to lunge at him. To taste every bit of his skin, to consume his death and make it my own. To lose myself entirely in him.
But Niko keeps me where I am, running his hungry gaze up and down my body, as he winds his ribbons slowly back toward him. They slither around his wrists and ankles; climb up his throat.
I don’t know what Niko sees—a needy, sweaty, mess, probably—but his eyes deaden like a fire doused. He snaps his hand away from me and rakes it through his hair until the black strands stand on end.
“Fuck,” he mutters furiously.
And without another word, he spins on his heel and disappears through the door.
I don’t see Niko the rest of the day, and he doesn’t come to bed that night. He doesn’t even come to his chambers.
I yank the silk sheets up around my throat, hating the smell of him lingering in the fabric. Hatinghim—for leaving me alone in his bed with my nightmares and regrets. A fierce part of me still feels like hunting through the Lunaedon to demand answers for everything. For what I’d learned of his past; for why he’d told me no one could ever want me; for why he’d ravished me, and then run away like he’d been disgusted and furious with what we’d done.
A far more vulnerable part of me is thankful for his absence. My cheeks heat every time I think of what happened on the balcony, and I don’t think I’ll be able to face him without dying of humiliation. I’m exactly as pathetic as he said I was.
What the hell had I been thinking, throwing myself at him like that?
I’d have to be pathetic to want you.
For a few years after my escape from the camps, I chased pain like an addict. My body had been stolen from me during my imprisonment, and I’d had no control over how it was used. Hurting myself had been my way of trying to get it back, a sick, twisted method of regaining agency. I recklessly and systematically destroyed myself. They’d ruined me, but I could ruin me better.
I’ve vowed since then to treat myself with more care, to protect my body. And here I am, freefalling back into the ruinous habits. Because what is my want of the Carrion Kingbuta fatal habit?Have I learned nothing? Am I doomed to always want the things most poisonous to me?
And what did it mean that Niko had wanted me back so fiercely, despite his cruel insistence otherwise? I hadn’t imagined the possessive desire in his touch—a need bordering on actual insanity that had sparked in him and consumed us both.
I still don’t understand his fear in those moments after he grabbed my hand; still don’t understand why he won’t let himself have what he so clearly wants, even if it’s fleeting.
Since we met, Niko has denied himself any sort of pleasure. He remains inundated in his pain.
I should have left him to it.
But even now, I don’t want to.
My skin grows hot as I writhe around, trying to get comfortable. As if there’s a position that will relieve the furious race of my thoughts, the unsatisfied fire in my core. The sheets stick to my calves, tangle around my feet. Kicking them into a pile on the floor, I heave a defeated sigh and lurch from the bed.
My heart jackhammers against my ribs so hard, I’m sure it’ll break the bone and fly out of my chest. My frustration bubbles to the surface, and I give the pile of blankets another petty kick, launching them toward the window, before I tear through the bedroom.
I pause in the study, taking in the quiet, neat appearance and wrestling with the urge to destroy it. To toss all Niko’s books to the floor, to throw the cushions off the chair. To upend some of his carefully crafted control the way he’s upended mine. If he thinks me a petulant child, I’ll prove just how right he is.
With a defeated sigh, I rein in my destruction. Not to spare Niko, but because Ilikehis rooms. The soft beauty, the neat order in an otherwise orderless world. Instead, I pad into the atrium. The piano glistens in the starlight, still pushed over tofar side of the glass. I wheel it back to the middle of the room, before taking a seat at the bench and spreading my fingers over the keys.
A few solemn notes ring through the air, the noise nothing like the beautiful sonance Niko coaxed from the instrument, but bringing memories of it all the same. It reverberates in my chest, soothing some of the discomfited prick of my skin.
I curl up on the bench, tucking my knees close to my chest. The velvet seat is small, but small feels better than the aching emptiness of Niko’s bed. Closing my eyes, I drift off as the note fades into silence.
It seems only a moment later that a few deep chords, far more consonant than the ones I’d played, vibrate through my dreams, dancing along my body and pooling in my brain. I stir to find Niko leaning over me, his fingers moving softly over the ivory keys.
Noticing I’m awake, he stiffens and steps back, hands folded behind his back in an oddly uncomfortable manner. He has always moved with a self-assured air, both as Niko and as king, like he’s certain of his place in the world. Smooth and arrogant, like someone who’s never had their power challenged; who’s never felt the suffocating pressure of another’s boot on their throat.
The dichotomy of the king I’ve known with the man who stands before me now is stark. He rocks back and forth between his bare feet, restless and discomposed. His gaze flutters everywhere but on me, snagging overlong on the door, like he’s considering bolting through it.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” he says after a stilted moment. “But I thought you might fall off in your sleep.” He gestures vaguely to the piano bench. “And you’ve already fallen off enough things for the day.”
“For life,” I amend, lifting my head drowsily. “And of all the things you should apologize for, waking me with music isn’t one of them. I’d never sleep again, if it meant I could listen to you play.”
I’m too tired to measure what the admittance will cost me; to weigh the risks and rewards of my honesty. So, I don’t. I only give him more of it. “You promised not to leave me alone, Niko.”
