My ankle gives way. The momentum shears completely from my frame. I pitch forward, falling directly into the lethal, corrupted space of his exposed skin.
He violently attempts to jerk back, a harsh, desperate sound tearing from his throat.
It is too late. To stop my fall, my bare hand lashes out, clamping fiercely around his exposed, ashen-violet wrist.
Time stops.
I brace for the agonizing burn. I wait for the volatile decay to boil the flesh from my fingers, for the necrotic magic to liquefy my bones. I squeeze my eyes shut against the inevitable rot.
The pain does not come.
Only the heavy, rapid pulse of a living heartbeat beneath smooth, impossibly hot skin.
I open my eyes. My brown fingers are wrapped tightly around the thick, corded muscle of his forearm, directly over ajagged, black-gold vein. The curse is not lashing out. The toxic ozone vanishes, replaced entirely by the scent of dark spice and the heavy musk of his sweat.
Khaelor is completely frozen. He stares down at my hand gripping his wrist. The chest beneath his tunic heaves in rapid, uneven pulls of oxygen.
"You're not ash," he whispers, the words fracturing in the quiet hall.
"I am not going to die," I answer, the truth settling into my blood with the force of a tectonic shift.
The acknowledgment shatters the century-old cage.
With a guttural, feral groan, Khaelor twists his arm, his large hand capturing my wrist. He hauls me upward, his other hand gripping my waist, and slams my back against the black ironwood pillar. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, but his mouth crashes down on mine before I can gasp.
The kiss is a violent, starving collision. There is no hesitation. It is the desperate, ravenous consumption of a man who has not touched another living creature in a hundred years. His lips are scalding, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a bruising, territorial demand that sends a liquid, heavy heat pooling straight to my core.
I groan, the sound lost against his mouth. I thread my fingers into the thick, silvery-white silk of his hair, pulling him closer. The friction of his massive body pressing against mine is intoxicating. I snake one leg around his hip, anchoring myself to the solid, unyielding muscle of his thigh.
"Mireya," he rasps against my lips, his voice ragged, bordering on a plea. His thumbs press into my ribs, mapping the curve of my waist as if terrified I am an illusion that will dissolve. "Tell me to stop. By the Thirteen, tell me to stop before I tear you apart."
I want to forget myself. I want to be with him. I am tired of fighting my attraction to him.
"Take me," I breathe, biting his lower lip, the metallic taste of his power sharp on my tongue. "I want it. Tear it all down."
He releases a ragged curse. He sweeps me entirely off the ground, my legs locking tightly around his waist. He does not walk; he stalks through the manor, a predator carrying his long-denied prize. We crash through the corridors, the heavy oak doors splintering open before us beneath the telekinetic force of his volatile magic.
He kicks the door of his bedchamber shut, the heavy iron deadbolts sliding into place with a resounding slam.
The room is vast, swallowed in shadow, smelling of old timber and the deep, masculine scent of his isolation. He drops me onto the center of the massive, fur-lined bed.
He stands over me, his chest heaving. The veins on his skin are not weeping decay; they are pulsing with a brilliant, steady light, fueled entirely by lust. His hands tremble as he grips the hem of his tunic, pulling it over his head and discarding it onto the stone floor.
His torso is a landscape of severe, aristocratic power. Thick, sculpted muscle maps his chest and abdomen, the pale violet skin glowing faintly in the dark.
I sit up, my fingers making quick work of the leather laces of my tunic. I pull the garment off, tossing it aside, leaving me in nothing but thin linen undergarments.
Khaelor’s amber eyes track the movement. He drops his gaze to my breasts, the heavy rise and fall of my chest. He steps between my spread knees and grips the linen, his large hands astonishingly gentle as he rips the fabric cleanly down the center.
The cool air of the bedchamber hits my bare skin, but the blistering heat coming from his body instantly warms me.
"You are a living impossibility," he murmurs, his voice thick with reverence.
He lowers his towering frame over me, pressing me back into the furs. His mouth descends, bypassing my lips to trail a scorching path down the column of my throat. He maps the slope of my collarbone, the scrape of his teeth sending a sharp, electric jolt straight to my center.
“Khaelor!” I gasp, breathless.
I arch my back as his mouth closes over the peak of my breast.
