Inme.
Withme.
And he does, his golden gaze gleaming as he carves himself deeper into every corner of my being.From now until the end of time, Behach Éan.
My heart tightens, storing each feverish beat before releasing them all at once.
He tows his hips back, drawing himself out. When only his tip is buried, he flexes his ass and sweeps in deep, glancing against each one of my walls.
Although his body was made for the sky, it moves like the ocean, a swell that rolls in deep, dashing itself against my shores, before retracting like the tides.
He grazes my lips with his, keeping his touch soft, soft, soft, as though to counter the punishing pumps of his hips. “Pain?” His eyes are half-lidded, half-crazed.
Raking my nails up the runnel of his spine that is as taut and slick as a rain-soaked mooring rope, I whisper,No, mo khrà.
As my words register, he freezes, and then he slow-blinks. And then his mouth crashes down against mine, and he pistons his hips. Heat builds everywhere our bodies connect, a glorious burn that ignites my flesh and inflames my core.
He pulls his mouth from mine, and I lament the loss, but my lament is cut short as his torso ripples off mine and he hooks one of my legs to curl it around his waist.
Hand splayed against the underside of my lifted thigh, gaze pinned to mine, he whispers, “Ha’rovh béhya an ha théach’thu; ha’raì béih.”
Although his timbre is low, his words imprint themselves into my mind, each foreign syllable and strange consonant rolling into me in time with his hips—haroff beya an ha thock thoo; haray beh.“Tell me—what it means.”
That until I met you, Little Bird, I was merely living; I was not alive.
My pulse surges as emotion seizes my lids and lungs. I lift one trembling hand to his cheek and caress the small feather inked beside his eye before tracing the smudged line of black that frames his glowing eyes.
My thumb stills and my lips part around a shocked gasp as he rams in so deep, a lightning bolt of pleasure skitters across my marrow. I scream his name, which makes him curse and accelerate his thrusts until a shudder overtakes him, and he roars like a beast released from his cage.
The beast I released.
Mybeast.
Tremor after tremor rattles his big body, wringing a hot gush that must breach my walls for the way my blood warms.
Yes, Behach Éan—he turns his face and kisses the center of my palm—your beast.
A bead of moisture rolls off the tip of his nose and drips into my mouth. I swallow, intent on absorbing more of this man, all of this man . . . this mate who’s enveloped me in his dark gusts and drenched me in his relentless affection.
Your monster.
But monsters in stories never gethappily ever afters, and if anyone deserves one, it’s the male still buried inside of me.
Bronwen’s prophecy echoes between my temples. For once, I neither feel guilt nor revulsion as I contemplate ending Dante’s life, only intractable resolve.
As always, he sees the images foaming behind my lids. “We will find another way. Do not even entertain the thought.”
But I do.
How could I not?
Fifty-Seven
Iam dragged from slumber by the heavy raps of a fist against my door. It feels as though the knuckles are banging against my skull.
“Wakey, wakey,ínon.”
“Focá,” Lore grumbles against my temple.
