“You’re welcome, Zephyra.”
We both close our eyes, but neither of us falls asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ZEPHYRA
I can’t ignore the looming presence of Arion beside me. It burrows under my skin. Nestles between my nerves and hitches my breath. No matter how exhausted I am, I cannot bring myself to sleep.
Fucking warlock.
I shouldn’t have talked as much as I did. Shouldn’t have exposed the parts of myself I’ve hidden for so long. I just got caught up in being here together. In not being alone. Eight years of silence, of screaming or weeping or banging on that amber window, praying someone, anyone, would rescue me… it stole something from me. It stole more than the sorcerer intended. I don’t know how to exist in this world anymore.
I don’t want to be the person I am. I don’t want people to die because of me.
But Arion—he didn’t flinch away from that darkness. Probably because his opinions of me are already so low. Still, it was… nice. For a moment, with his liquid-metal gaze scorching through mine, the world felt small again. Just him and me. Our pasts. Our presents.
Maybe even our futures.
Ifwe can find the heart.
I roll over onto my side, and—there he is. Right there. Thewarlock’s muscles are coiled tight, his arms and hands crossed over his bare chest, beneath the blanket of his wings. He doesn’t appear serene like Gavriall, who sprawls out with one hand thrown behind him and a leg dangling over the side of the bench. Instead, Arion looks as if he’s fighting it. Sleep, thoughts, life itself—any number of things hidden beneath that perfected surface of strength and power and control.
How did they train you?
Torture.
I hate the memory of our conversation climbing the walls of this too-small chamber, stealing the oxygen and suffocating me slowly. Because there is a world where Arion isn’t entirely evil. A world where I can’t entirely loathe him. A world where I—
I might even understand him.
The silvered cord twists around my waist, tighter, before shooting out to caress his throat. His hard expression eases almost instantly. His muscles relax. He rolls onto his back, his wings spreading wide enough now they threaten to tickle my cheek. Every bone in my body stiffens. If I move, we’ll touch. And whenever we touch…
Zephyra, if we don’t stop now, I am going to fuck you.
I swallow hard. My breathing ceases entirely.Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.But I stare at him, watching the rise and fall of his broad chest, the play of violet bioluminescence on his chiseled features, the way his trousers ride low on his hips, the rough fabric rasping with his every shallow breath.
Shallow breaths, I realize, not deep inhalations of exhaustion.
Shallow breaths, I realize, because he’s awake.
Shit.I can’t stop staring at him, and—Arion turns his head. He stares back at me.
His wings rustle, the lightest feather’s touch sweeping across my shoulder. I shiver. His gaze flicks to my mouth. Truthfully, I’m far from a virgin. I’ve slept with men, women, and nonbinary beauties. But with Arion—with our goddess-forsaken bond—it’s different. It’s too much. Desire burns through every cell in my body; it incinerates blood and bone, pulsing through the silvered cord with a divine sort of light. Which is stupid. A historian-slash-criminal sleeps behindus, an evil sorcerer is hunting me down, yet I can’t helpstaring. I lick my lips. Arion shifts on the ground. Neither of us takes our eyes off the other. The cord slides down his neck, over his chest, while it drags up the curve of my waist and over the tip of my breast. Cruel. Heinous.
I still gasp.
As soon as my lips part, Arion unleashes a burst of magic. It silences my breathy sigh before it can permeate the cavern. Although, that doesn’t really matter. Arion may not be able to hear it, but he can still see. Just as I can see his throat bob with a rough swallow. He shifts again. His hands ball into fists. He’s searching for restraint, just as he was when he took my hand.
Goddess, I fucking wanted him. All that lust rushing through the cord, his body trembling with need, his cock hard. My body bowing toward his.
I don’t want him to have restraint.
I want—I need—
Stop, he mouths, and his gaze descends to my thighs. I realize then that I’m pressing them together. Whether I’m fighting pleasure or seeking it, I don’t know. I squirm. He shifts once more. Reaching down, he tugs at the waistband of his trousers. The silhouette of his cock once again presses hard and huge against the fabric, and another harsh breath escapes me. It’s been months since I’ve had the time or energy or care to touch myself, let alone touch anyone else, but right now I might implode if I don’t.
Of course, I can’t.
