The connection between us roared. That golden light of my magic soothed the silver frost of his curse, then mated with it. I felt the tangle of our power in my veins, a rush of heat that mademy knees buckle. Fenrik growled against my mouth, one of his hands sliding down my spine to grip my hip, hauling me flush against his erection. He was hard and overwhelming.
He broke the kiss only to bury his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Lysa,” he rasped, the name a jagged prayer against my throat. “Mine. You feel... Gods, you feel like silence.”
That word—silence—pierced the haze of lust. To him, I was relief. I was the analgesic for his agony, the cool water on a burn. The realization was a bucket of ice water dumped over my fevered skin. I wedged my hands against his chest—hard. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed, my own blood screaming at me to pull him closer, to let this fire burn us both to ash.
“Fenrik.” I gasped, shoving again.
He froze panting, his forehead resting against my collarbone.
“Stop,” I said. My voice shook. I forced myself to lift my head, to look at the man who was trembling against me. “Not like this.”
He pulled back slowly, blinking as if waking from a trance. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown so large the grey was swallowed by black. His lips were swollen, red-bitten, and he looked... destroyed.
“Not while you’re in pain,” I said. I reached up, intending to cup his cheek, but stopped myself. I couldn’t risk the connection sparking again. “I want you to choose me, Fenrik. Not need me. Not just because I make the hurting stop.”
The color drained from his face so fast it was terrifying. He stumbled back, putting a foot of distance between us, then two.
“I—“ He choked on the word. He looked down at his hands, turning them over. “I didn’t... I almost...”
He didn’t finish. He spun on his heels, turning toward the door that had refused to open for me. He slammed his hand against the wood, and the lock shattered with a metalliccrack, the door flying open so hard it rebounded off the inner wall.
He fled into the corridor without looking back, disappearing into the shadows of his own home.
I stayed pressed against the bookshelf, listening to his retreating footsteps until the sound was swallowed by the storm outside. The amber lights flickered once, then died, plunging the room into darkness.
My legs gave out. I slid down the spine of the books until I hit the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. My body was still humming, alive and aching with a fierce, terrifying want. I touched my lips, tracing the ghost of his mouth.
He was a monster, they said. A cursed beast. But it wasn’t his darkness that scared me. It was how easily my own darkness had risen to meet it.
thirteen
Lysa
Two days of silence passed. I’d been avoiding the library myself for the past two days, but he’d also been avoiding the dining hall, and I’d been also passing fast through any corridor that smelled remotely of him. I had spent forty-eight hours rearranging my ceramic dragons my sister had sent to keep me company, and trying to read a bawdy novel about a pirate queen, but the words kept restructuring themselves into the shape of Fenrik’s plea.I’ve wanted—since you arrived.
My body was a coiled spring, wound tight by rejection and a frustration so potent it felt like a fever. I needed to hit something. Or kiss something. Or perhaps both, simultaneously.
A high-pitched scream shattered my morning frustrations, echoing from the glass-domed conservatory.
The heavy doors of the manor flew open before I even reached for the handle, the house, helpful as ever, seeminglyeager to usher me toward danger. I tore across the wet grass, my boots slipping on the mulch, and burst into the humid, cloying heat of the greenhouse.
Chaos reigned inside. Pots of flutter-ferns lay smashed on the stone floor. Soil was flung across the glass panes, and in the center of the carnage, cowering behind a frantic, shouting man—Olin, the head gardener—was young Tessaly. Her hands were over her head, her small shoulders shaking.
Above them, perched on a hanging iron rafter, was a ruby-scaled Garden Drake. He was small, perhaps the size of a hawk, but he was posturing like a mythical beast of legend, its wings flared, throat swelling with fire.
“What is happening?” I shouted, stepping over a decapitated begonia.
Olin whirled, wielding a rake like a pike. “He’s mad, miss! Rusty—he’s never hurt a fly!”
“He’s usually so posh,” Tessaly squeaked from behind her father’s legs. “He only likes the expensive orchids!”
Rusty the drake hissed, a sound like steam escaping a kettle. His gem-bright eyes were clouded with that sickeningsilver film.
“Tell me about it,” I said, keeping my eyes on the beast. “Has he been acting strange?”
“Not until a few days ago,” Olin stammered, sweat dripping off his nose. “Used to be, these drakes were useful. Kept the aphids off, warmed the soil in winter. A proper partnership, like the old days in the valley. But since the corruption... since the shadows came to the manor... acts like he don’t know us.”
“They say it’s a curse on the blood,” Tessaly piped up, her fear momentarily forgotten in favor of gossip. “Or quiet healers. Old Nan says healers who silence magic steal the souls of beasts.”
