I breathe through it.
Eventually, my heart rate lowers.
“When are you leaving?” I ask quietly. I try for casual, but he’s so close to me. It comes out shaky.
Stark pauses and wipes at his work with a clean cloth, then the needle startsagain. “The Sovereign Alpha wants us to leave tomorrow morning.” His jaw tenses underneath his dark scruff, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something more. But he doesn’t.
It’s maddening. This whole thing is maddening.
I don’t want him to go, I realize. And it’s not just about all this disorienting… whatever. His presence makes me feel safer.
Lately, it’s as if I’m standing on a frozen pond, just waiting for the ice to give out. Stark is a hand offering to pull me back to shore.
“Stop moving,” he says in a slightly raspy voice. Itry, but my chest hurts almost as much as my ribs.
While he focuses on what he’s doing, I focus on him.
The flick of his eyelashes as his gaze darts over his work. The strong line of his stubble-covered jaw and the hidden scar I see forjusta second when he turns his head. The slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he squints to lay down the finer lines.
His hands are gentle despite their size and strength—despite what they’ve done—and I can’t shake the idea that there are depths to him I haven’t seen. That maybeno one’sseen.
Well, no one except perhaps Noemi.
The tap of the ink bottle returning to the table jars me from my thoughts. He’s finished. For a long moment, I consider asking him to continue, just to keep his hands near my skin.
I’m losing my mind.
I blink rapidly and twist slightly to see what he’s done.
It’s a beautiful series of interlocking runes, incorporating a bit of each of the four pack symbols. Without counting, I know there will be twelve lines, one for each of the lives I took. It’s unfair that he made something horrific look so lovely on my body.
Stark’s hand is suddenly on the bend of my waist, and my stomach swoops. His fingers press lightly into my skin, pricks of searing heat. He holds me still and leans forward.
So much for my lowered heart rate.
Then he dips his head and opens his mouth. His breath heats my skin, oversensitive from the needle.
And his tongue is on me. Over my ribs, below my heart, so close to my now-aching breasts. He drags it in long paths over the markings, and I hold my breath to stop my audible reaction.
Just when I think he’s going to stop, he traces the entire thing again. His tongue presses into me harder this time, like he’s devouring me. Like he’s ravenous for the taste.
When he finally sits up, I’m half delirious. His eyes open and meet mine.
I can’t move for a long moment. Or breathe. Or blink. The entire room falls away. There is no Killian. There is no coronation. There is no rebellion.
There’s just Stark.
My hand moves of its own accord to the edge of his jaw. I trace the rasp of stubble, then smooth scar tissue hidden there. My lips part.
He’s breathing heavily now, too.
I’m not in control as my fingertips trace up the side of his face to his cheekbone, his temple. They sink into his thick, dark hair. My body lights up with sensation. His hair is soft, and his breath is on the inside of my wrist as my fingers tease the locks apart.
I tighten my grip in his hair. He leans almost imperceptibly closer to me.
Every inch remaining between us is a living, electric thing. I can feel the slightest twitch of his muscles, see the smallest changes in his face.
His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s a strange burning in their depths, like a fire that’s been raging for eons. His breath stills, and my eyes go to his mouth.
