As does the tail wrapped around my leg.
My heart starts to race at the sight of the blatant possessiveness, and for one of the first times since being tortured, it doesn’t fill me with panic.
Teo lets out a long growl that turns into a purr as I place my hand atop his and lean down to press a kiss to his forehead.
Only then can I slide off the bed and run to the bathroom.
This room was always beautiful, but its opulence feels exaggerated as I compare it to the bleak cottage in Zlosa. The Enduar plumbing system is a luxury that only can be fully appreciated after weeks of being stuck in a cage with a bucket.
When I’m finished, I look at the mirror for the first time since the night of the coronation.
The reddish scars on my throat from the metal collar and Teo’s teeth are the most prominent things I notice, along with the frizzy curls that puff out of the top part of my braid and curve around my face.
Another damaged memory surfaces, the first night that I gave in to Teo. After he died.
No. Not dead.
A logical part of me wars with the conflicting memories that tell me he didn’t die, but I see him bleeding out on the bed, and everything goes hazy with tears.
It’s easy to picture how his eyes went back into his head, and his skin turned cold—grey. And then he was a monster who wanted to kill me.
I push away from the sink and slam into the wall. Then the dry heaving starts.
My whole body shudders just as the door opens and warm, soft skin wraps me up.
“Estela, my love,” Teo says in my ear. “Was it another memory?”
I nod weakly, letting myself sink into his warmth as we sit on the ground.
It’s like a bath, one before all the torture. My aching joints and pounding skull ease in his presence.
My mind opens.
He rubs my back, taking every awful thought. It isn’t until every trace of panic is gone that I realize he is still naked.
Thick, muscled thighs cradle my hips.
Tears dry. Heat scalds me.
There’s so much I crave with him that has been left unexplored.
Without speaking, Teo shows me his version of the ruined memory from the night he nearly died.
He wakes up sore, though his heart pounds like a drum. I see the door open and watch myself come out of the bathroom. I feel the smell burrow into his senses and the feral need it awakes.
As the memory progresses, we get closer and closer to my climax. My skin gets over sensitive as I watch. He shocks me when he puts his hand between my inner thighs in real-time.
His hand strokes the sensitive skin there. I watch the memory for as long as I can, gasping in his arms as he works the space at the apex of my thighs.
My slickness makes each stroke soft and silky, and just…
“Perfect,” he growls.
And the memory fades.
Everything moves from desolate, clammy panic to warm passion. Everything is low, sultry, moving to the rock of my hips against his hand.
When I come, it hits me by surprise given our slow pace.
