I got up from the table and walked to the other end where he was sitting.
“Open wide,” I instructed, leaning toward him with the piece of scallop on my fork.
His lips quivered with a barely contained smile before he obediently opened his mouth for me to deposit the scallop in. I moved the fork slowly, careful not to touch his lips with it. A flash of his tongue caught my eye, and I put the scallop on it, allowing Kye to remove it from the fork with his teeth.
It occurred to me that a tongue was covered not with skin but with mucosa. It didn’t turn things to glass, which allowed Kye to eat and drink, sparing him the torture of hunger and thirst. But that wasn’t the only use for his tongue that suddenly came to my perverted mind.
He licked his lips, studying my face.
“You’re right, my darling,” he murmured. “The scallop is delectable.”
“Your tongue can touch,” I blurted out because the many filters I normally had between my brain and my mouth tended to disappear in Kye’s presence.
A wide, lascivious smile spread on his face like honey, and I wished I could taste it. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t give for a single kiss from him.
“Yes, it could,” he said slowly. “And I would’ve licked every part of your body by now if I didn’t fear the risk of bringing my lips that close to your skin.”
“But...” I exhaled.
“Too close, my fragile butterfly. Way too close for me to risk it.” He adjusted his position on the chair, his hard-on perfectly visible to me through the glass table. “Believe me, not acting on it ails me more than I can tell.”
My mind reeled. I was so close to him, I could smell him. That warm scent of ocean spray and sunshine that didn’t come from the outside but emanated from his body—the scent of his skin, fatal to touch.
What made me crave him so much that I felt ready to throw all caution to the wind, even forgetting about the mortal danger? Was it some kind of spell? It had to be. Because nothing about this feeling was normal or ordinary. No one had ever had this effect on me before.
“Maren. Darling,” Kye’s voice vibrated with warning as I leaned closer and closer.
And even then, I found his voice incredibly alluring—the irresistible , all-consuming call of a siren.
It took me a gargantuan effort to step back from him. But with a long, bracing breath, I finally pulled away.
As horrible as it still felt to spend the night apart from him, maybe that was exactly what I needed? I needed some distance from Kye to find myself again. With him around, I just couldn’t think straight.
A shadow fell across the sky, accompanied by a soft swishing of wings. The sunlight was obstructed so suddenly, it startled me. I gripped the table, ready to run. How timid and jumpy the night attacks had made me.
“You’re safe,” Kye’s calming voice was the only thing that stopped me from bolting. “It’s just a messenger owl.”
A great, snow-white bird soared in a loop over our heads before landing on the table, next to my platter of scallops.
“A-an owl?” I stammered in shock.
Kye lifted a finger in a call for silence, staring at the bird intently. He didn’t appear alarmed or particularly surprised, just extremely alert with all his senses honed in on the bird.
“A message for His Majesty, King Kye of the Olathana Ocean,” the bird said, its big round eyes directed between us through the opening to the dining room into the depths of the glass palace.
A talking owl?
I glanced at Kye in confusion, but he seemed to be captivated by what the bird had to say, unperturbed by the fact that it could talk at all.
“I’m King Kye,” he said.
“Odine, the former royal hag of Olathana, wishes you to know that the silk you ordered has been delivered to her and is ready for you now,” the bird delivered its message in a surprisingly clear voice with perfect pronunciation.
Then it spread its beautiful white wings and took off, sending a wave of air around us in its wake.
Kye’s eyes widened. He pushed away from the table, getting up.
“It’s ready,” he muttered, looking more dumbfounded by what the bird had said than by its sudden appearance at our table or its ability to speak.
