Page 24 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

He stares right into my eyes as he brings that same thumb to his own mouth, tastes it—tastes me.

Morrishan, have mercy.The sightof it undoes something low in my belly, and I have to press my thighs together against the sudden, traitorous ache.

He then scrapes his fingers through his hair, as if trying to physically scrape his thoughts free. He shifts back slightly, putting an inch of merciful space between us.

And I’m transfixed, intoxicated at the sight of watching this dangerous man rein himself in, knowing that I’ve unmade him with one flick of my tongue.

“We should go in,” I say, my senses finally returning. I gather myself and stand. Smooth my skirts with deliberate movements. The single bloom of wolfsbane in my pocket is a mental anchor, reminding me of who I am, what I carry.

My task.

Yet Ren hasn’t moved. I look down at him crouched between the rows of plants. “Are you coming?”

“Give me a moment, Princess,” he says, his voice rough.

His eyes drop, just briefly—a flick downward. And suddenly, with a flush of heat through my skin, I understand why he can’t yet stand. What he’s trying to hide behind the angle of his body.

Nythera’s veil,I mentally swear.

He drags a hand down his face. Lets out a sound that is half laugh, half groan, utterly undone.

I press my lips together to prevent a smile.

He clears his throat. “Tell me something,” Ren says, graciously distracting my thoughts. “Are there other places you like to sneak off during the night?”

Now this feels entirely too dangerous.

His eyes lift, attentive. Daring.

I push my hand into my cloak pocket, feeling the wolfsbane there. “There’s a river,” I say. “Just past the eastern wall, through the orchard. The palace grounds end at its bank. The water is cool, streaming down from the mountains. And on nights with a full moon, it catches the light like…” I trail off, searching for words to describe it. “Like poured silver.”

His gaze is absorbed on me. “It sounds beautiful.”

“It is. I like to swim there.” My voice softens, almost in spite of myself.

He doesn’t speak. Just watches me, and the weight of his attention is its own kind of touch.

I glance up at the waxing gibbous moon, avoiding his too heavy gaze.

When I dare another look at him, his gaze is still on me. His throat works, and he says, “I’d like to see that sometime.”

I take a step back, then another, the wolfsbane heavy in my pocket and the taste of him still clinging to my tongue. “Take all the time you need, Ren. Goodnight.”

Behind me, I hear him exhale, and it stirs something ruinous inside me.

By the time I reach my chambers, I’m unsure of what just transpired between us. Of my own brash actions. I pull the bloom from my cloak pocket, wondering if Ren is still in the garden right now. Wondering what would’ve happenedif I hadn’t left.

I’m unsure—honestly—of so many things.

I quickly make my nightly drink laced with wolfsbane and lift it to my lips, taking a sip of the poison I’ve spent my whole life building a tolerance to survive.

And I can still taste my first sip of him on my tongue.

The slow, sweet burn of him already in my blood, fused with the cold certainty that he may be the one thing I’m unable to build a tolerance against.

Chapter 8

Seravyn