Page 23 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

“I tend to my plants at night,” I say, all that I’m willing to give him.

“You planted these,” he says, a question buried in his deep tone, as he reaches toward the wolfsbane.

I catch his wrist. The sudden contact—skin to skin—jolts through me.

His darkened eyes track the wolfsbane’s violet hoods before descending to where my fingers clasp his wrist.

“Don’t touch it,” I murmur the warning. “Just brushing the petals with bare hands can slow your heart.”

He doesn’t pull away from my grip. His eyes—that one dark, the other pale—are on my fingers where we touch,and when he lifts his gaze slowly to mine, there’s something heated in it that makes my stomach tighten.

“But you tend it,” he says questioningly, “with bare hands.”

The deep purple flowers look black in this light, like bruised silk. “I helped tend my mother’s garden in the Vassal keep,” I tell him honestly. “I grew accustomed very young.”

His gaze absorbs me, a silent demand for more.

I lift my chin. “The soil there is perfect for this species, damp, acidic. Not like here. Plants like these don’t thrive in Kravenholt’s ground.”

My legacy. My inheritance. The knowledge of our goddesses, rooted in foreign soil and flowering in spite.

He simply watches me, patiently waiting.

“I had to bring the soil with me, and night gardening ensures the roots of moon-loving blooms take here.” I pause, needing a breath. “And it’s just…that I don’t want to be bothered. This is something all mine, something that makes me feel like I’m back home. I like to do it alone.” I hold his unwavering gaze. “And I don’t want to ask permission to do so.”

Remembering myself, I release his wrist, slowly letting my fingers trail across his skin. Wanting to imprint the memory of him before letting go.

“So,” I continue, arching an accusatory eyebrow. “Now that you knowmysecret. Tell me, Ren, whatbrings you out here in the middle of the night? Unless you want me to assume you’re up to no good, that is.”

The air between us grows so thick I can feel it on my skin, heavy with the scent of wolfsbane and the unbearable awareness of how little space separates us.

The edge of his mouth slants, his expression dangerously attractive. Then he reaches into the pocket of his tunic and pulls out a bundle. He unfolds the cloth, revealing a handful of mint leaves and a carved square of sugarcane.

“I fear my secret is rather dull compared to yours.” His voice is low, lazy with amusement. “I like to crush the leaves and sugar in hot water before bed. Helps me sleep. Doesn’t do the trick to knock me out like a bottle of whiskey but…” He shrugs. “It mostly works.”

His honesty lands tender in my chest, and I have to glance away to steady myself. “I see,” I murmur.

“Well, I can do better than show you, Princess.” He pinches grains of sugar between his thumb and forefinger, and his eyes lift to mine, glittering darker than the sugar itself. “Some things have to be experienced.”

Before I respond, he’s moving his hand, waiting for me to extend mine in acceptance. And I don’t know what makes me do it. My nerves, the brazenness of being secluded in the dark, Nythera’s influence?—

But instead of giving him my hand, I part my lips, opening my mouth to him.

The way his pupils blow wide at the sight quickens my pulse.

Ren leans closer. The space between us narrows to the width of a held breath. His thumb hovers just above my lower lip, the grains of sugar pinched between his fingertips, and I can feel his breath on my mouth—warm, ragged, controlled with the effort not to breathe too deeply.

As he places the sugar on my tongue, his thumb grazes the inside of my lower lip. He withdraws, and my tongue follows, the barest flick, to catch the pad of his thumb. His hand stills, his thumb resting against my mouth for one heartbeat too long, and his dark eye goes almost black.

When he finally starts to withdraw, my lips close around his finger, tasting sugar and salt and rough skin.

The sound he makes is small and involuntary, something between a grunt and a surrender of breath, torn from his throat. The way it falls out of him is wrecked, and I feel it everywhere. In my spine, my chest—the deep, unfamiliar ache that blooms low in my belly, refusing to be ignored.

My heartbeat is a roar in my head. His breathing is ragged, his jaw locked hard.

I let the sugar dissolve on my tongue before licking my lips. “You were right,” I whisper. “Better to be experienced.”

His throat works on a forced swallow. He drags a hand down his face. “Gods, woman,” he mutters so low, right into his hand.