“Good,” he says softly. “Fear means you understand the cost.”
“The cost of what?”
“You know what I speak of. Do not pretend otherwise.”
“The cost of desire?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His gaze drops—to my mouth, my throat—then returns, darker now.
“That,” he says, voice roughening, “is why I chose you. You see much, Lady Delia.”
Chapter 7
Thorne
After The Rite of Silken Flame
The moment she takes my hand, the fire inside me answers.
Not with flame—gods help me—but with pressure.
With heat rolling through my veins like a tide I have spent centuries mastering and tonight am perilously close to losing.
I feel it in my shoulders first.
In the flex of my hands.
In the way my wings itch beneath my skin, aching to unfurl, to claim space, to claim her.
Restraint has never been my strongest virtue.
Delia moves like she belongs here—bare feet whispering over stone warmed by the Great Flame, chin lifted despite the tremor I can sense in her pulse.
She does not cower. She does not hesitate.
She walks beside me as if I have not just undone her life.
As if she trusts me not to burn her alive.
That trust is a blade to the ribs.
I curl my hands into fists behind my back, forcing my power down, down, down.
If I touch her now without care, without intention, I will scorch us both—and this moment deserves more than ruin.
Stop, I want to tell her, not because I want her to stop—but because I should do something.
I don’t.
Her dark eyes search my face, and something in my chest fractures.
Her lips part. I feel the bond tighten, humming low and dangerous between us.
I don’t want this to be only pretending.
But I don’t know how to say that.
All I know is this woman hits me like oxygen on flame.
