“What were they doing in Nebba?”
“What do you think they were doing in Nebba?”
I assume it has to do with that noxious chemical Pierre is sprinkling into the ocean. “So you think Pierre had them . . .immobilized?”
“That’s why I need to fly to Nebba, Fallon. To feel out their location. But I don’t believe Pierre would have staked them or imprisoned them. After all, that would be an act of war.”
“And what you’re doing in Nebba isn’t?”
“We aren’t harming any Faeries.” He covers the hand with which I’m torturing the sheets.
Although the only thing that should matter is the news of his missing soldiers, his skin becomes my single point of focus. It is so very smooth. The exact opposite of my own, which still bears the brunt of years of manual labor.
I bet Alyona’s hands are like satin. I picture them twining through his hair like in my dream and grit my teeth, then attempt to steal my hand from beneath his before he can feel the hardened skin on my palm, but he clasps my hand.
And then he carries it up to his face.
I hold my breath because I don’t know what he’s doing.
And then I hold my breath for a whole other reason. His nose is traveling up the length of my middle finger, the one I used to—to—
When he reaches the tip, his eyes close, and he inhales a long, slow breath, and although it’s physically impossible, it feels like he’s just siphoned out all the air from my lungs.
When his eyes open, his pupils are so dilated that only a thin ring of gold remains. He carefully sets my hand back on the bed.
This time, it’shishand that shakes and mine that has grown steady. “Stay away from Antoni.”
That is all he says. Noplease. No explanation as to why he so wants me to keep my distance from the sailor.
I’m leaning toward a prophecy of some sort that’ll make me stray off my Bronwen-beaten path. “Why?”
“Because the sailor’s more useful to me in Luce than he’d be in Shabbe.”
My mouth gapes. Is he truly threatening to ship Antoni past the wards if he touches me? “You’ve got a fiancée, Lore!”
One who’d undoubtedly disapprove of the pathetic little show I just gave her betrothed.
Before I can react, he seizes my wrist and guides my hand back under the sheets. I’m so shocked by his move that, by the time I try to resist, he’s towed my hand well past my navel.
He leans over to murmur into my ear, “Your show wasn’t pathetic, Little Bird. You were just thinking of the wrong man.” His fingers slot through mine and bend until his blunt nails are flush with the lace covering my dark curls. “Well, right up until you stopped.”
My breath snags in my chest as he presses his palm a little more firmly against the back of my hand, forcing my thighs to part around our clasped hands.
“When I stroke myself, it is you I picture, Fallon. Always you,” he rasps. “Only you.”
I choke on my next inhale, then proceed to wheeze when the blunt nail of his middle finger digs into the lace until my lips part for him. He runs the tip of his nose down the side of my neck, and I shiver so hard that goosebumps burst over my skin.
What little dignity I’m still in possession of makes me yank our hands off my underwear and out from under the sheets. “Stop.” I snatch my hand from beneath his and cast my eyes on the flickering wick of my lantern that casts the Sky King in more shadows than light. “Don’t toy with me, Lore. It’s unfair to your fiancée, and it’s unfair to me.”
He sighs. “As soon as I return from Nebba, you and I will have a little talk.”
“We have many little talks.”
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Well, we’re due for another.”
“About?”
“About us, Behach Éan.”
