The kohl from the revel has been washed from his eyes, revealing the bruise-like circles beneath them.
He takes a sharp breath at the sight of me like he’s in pain.
I want to say something cutting like,At leasttry to look happy to see me, but I can’t risk him slamming the door in my face.
In one fluid movement, I pick the bucket up and dump it on my head.
Emmett gives an abbreviated little breath. His eyes rake down my body to all the places my silk nightdress now sticks to every curve of me.
Then he wraps me in his arms, and he’s kissing me.
His lips collide with mine with bruising pressure. His tongue slides into the gap between my teeth and he holds me against his body so tightly, I don’t think there is a single space where we are not touching.
The exquisite relief mixed with scorching desire is the single best sensation I’ve ever felt.
It’s like I’ve been aching with thirst for months and I’m suddenly being swept out to sea.
He winds his arm around the back of my head and tucks me into the crook of his elbow, tipping me back until we’re both stumbling.
He lifts me up and I wrap my legs around his waist as my head hits the plaster wall behind me, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I’m pinned now between Emmett and the wall, and I savor the heat of him, the hard planes of his body moving against mine.
He moans into my open mouth and all I can do is take it, feel it, feel him everywhere.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, Emmett lowers me to the floor and wrenches himself away from me.
He’s as soaked through as I am now. His white shirt sticks translucently to his chest and his hair is plastered to his forehead.
He’s breathing hard, looking at me wretchedly.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I can’t do this.” Then he disappears into his room and slams the door behind him.
Prince Emmett De Vere
It’s hours later when I appear at the threshold to Lydia’s room. She’s used to my late-night visits by now, as I am to her unusual waking hours.
She opens the door after only two knocks, clad, as she usually is, in a nightdress with her hair wound up in a knot on top of her head, a few curls escaping around her face.
She waves the paintbrush she has in one hand at me. “Come in, you.”
I plop down into the worn armchair by her fire and wonder how many hours, days, months I’ve spent in this exact spot.
I’ve never been able to think of the Otherworld as my home, but this corner in Lydia’s room comes very close.
Lydia returns to her canvas, sparing a glance at me behind her.
“You look awful,” she says.
“Thanks, Lyd.”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you,” I shoot back.
“Where is Ivy?” she asks, ignoring my jab. “She did come to see you, didn’t she?”
“Was the water your idea?” I ask.
