“Of course.” Sybille darts toward the door. When she realizes that Phoebus isn’t following, much too busy gawping at me, she retraces her steps, snags his hand and pulls him out.
As they cross Reid’s small bedroom, I hear him utterPierreandmarriageandmate. He’s evidently disgusted by my scheme. Because I had a true mate, or because of the Nebban King’s repute?
Lore steps closer to me, features so strained that I frown up at him.
“You cannot possibly still be mad at me about Pierre, Lore.”
He cups my cheek, his long thumb drawing an arc over my new feather. “Though I abhor the memory of that day and of that man, I’m not angry with you, Little Bird. Only with myself for not disclosing all I knew.”
“You had your reasons.”
“Don’t justify what I did. Not only were you my liberator, Fallon, but you were my mate.” He stares at my little feather, a maelstrom of emotion stirring the gold. When I swallow, he lowers his thumb. “Forgive me. Your cheek must be tender.”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, Lore. I’m astonishingly robust; something I surely inherited from my hard-as-iron-talons father.”
The shadow of a smile breaches his moodiness as he knuckles the side of my neck before sloping down my shoulder. “And yet you’re so soft. So delicate.”
“All an illusion.”
He skims the bone in my shoulder, then traces a line down my arm before curling his fingers around my waist. I shiver when he grips the harsh indent Sybille created with her enthusiastic lace-pulling. “I’d offer to loosen them, but I cannot guarantee we’d make it to the party, and everyone is so very thrilled to celebrate you.”
A blush hurtles into my cheeks at the mention of loosening my bodice. “If you didn’t come to ravish me, then what is it you want?”
Using only the hand at my waist, he spins me around until my back is to his front, and we both face the mirror. “I came to paint your face, BehachÉan.”
Sixty-Two
The mention of Lore adorning my face with my Crow stripes deepens the blush splashed across my collarbone, neck, and jaw. How does this man make putting on makeup sound so seductive?
Lore reaches past my body and picks up the shrunken block of charcoal resting beside Reid’s sink. “First things first”—his unctuous voice is so near my earlobe that it raises goosebumps over my scarlet flush—“you must rub the charcoal between your fingers for they will be your brushes.”
He handles the charcoal with such deliberate strokes that I begin to envy the piece of charred wood. Gods, I’m pathetic.
As Lore leans over me to replace the black lump, he murmurs, “No need to be jealous of an inanimate object, mo khrà. I will be fondling your lovely body soon.”
My heart jolts at his promise, shipping the heat in my face to all my other extremities.
The tip of his nose skims my earlobe and then the skin right behind it, and, Cauldron, how I shudder. “Where were we? Ah, yes . . . using one’s fingers as brushes.” He raises both his hands to my face, hovering his fingers in front of my lashes. “Close your eyes.”
I clasp my lids and wait with bated breath to feel the glide of Lore’s fingers. He must decide to draw out the sweet torture because he keeps hovering his hands over my face, filling me with the scent of scorched timbre and wild storms.
He sidles nearer. When his bulging pecs brush up against my shoulder blades and his chin scrapes against the top of my head, a shiver races up my spine. I arch my back to better fit against Lore’s front and sigh when not a millimeter of space remains between us, then sigh again when his fingers finally alight on my closed lids.
I feel every ridge and callus on his skin, every bob of his Adam’s apple, every pulse of his cool breath, every thrum of his strong heart. Slowly, he glides his fingers from the bridge of my nose to my temples. Though he’s carried no storm inside his kingdom, he’s carried one inside my body. Thunder and lightning strike my breastbone and veins.
As his fingertips flutter away from my face, he murmurs, “Open your eyes, my love.”
My lashes sweep up and I stare.
And stare.
A little ink and black powder shouldn’t make me feel more like what I intrinsically am, but they do. They truly do. I may not be able to break into feathers and smoke, but tonight, Lore has made me feel as though growing wings lies within the realm of my abilities.
I lean toward the mirror, turning my head this way and that. Edged by so much black, my violet eyes appear almost pink.
