Page 39 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

I press his back against the wall and grab the front of his motley, rising onto my toes.

“Sera, what are you?—”

My lips crash against his.

Chapter 12

Seravyn

The kiss is frantic and desperate and needy. There’s a brief moment where the shock of it freezes him against me. I hear the glass shard clatter to the floor. Then his hands are palming my face and my nape. The warmth of his blood on his palm seeps into my skin.

A deep groan wrenches free of him as his mouth turns hungry, deepening the kiss. He kisses me back with a feral need, hauling my body closer to his, bending at the knees to bring our bodies together.

I’m in his arms, his mouth parting over mine, his tongue delving into the depths of my mouth to claim me—and suddenly it’s not enough. He’s turning me, bracing my back against the wall, tilting my head back as he seeks a more devastating angle.

“Gods—fuck, Sera,” he mutters into the kiss. His roughthumb traces the line of my cheekbone, and I feel it in my spine.

A sound escapes me, small and involuntary. His mouth moves down my jaw, setting a blazing course to my neck, and for one impossible heartbeat, I surrender. A sound breaks out of his throat, low and wrecked, and then he’s kissing me fiercely to take it.

In the back of my mind, I know how reckless this is. I know what I’m risking, whatwe’rerisking. But I can’t let him go back into that hall with murder in his eyes.

Better it be lust.

His hands tighten in my hair below my crown and slide down to grip my jaw, the back of my neck, the small of my waist, pulling me into him until I can feel every taut line of him through my silk gown. The lean and hard shape of his chest, the heat of his ribs, the tense restraint in his body daring to break.

His tongue traces the seam of my mouth and he groans against my lips. His hand slides up the back of my neck and into my hair and grips, tipping my head so he can take the kiss even deeper.

I press myself against him, and he makes another ruined sound as his hand drops lower, finds the curve of my hip through the crimson silk, grips—reclaiming every inch of me where Aldric dared to touch.

A loud crack of applause breaks into the moment, reality crashing through.

Ren breaks the kiss. His chest is rising and falling fast. His hair is wrecked from my hands, Aldric’s crown askew. He drops his forehead to mine, his breath ragged. His thumb sweeps under my jaw, gently stroking.

“Meet me later,” he demands.

I drag in a breath. “I don’t know if?—”

“Come to me, Sera,” he says, the desperation burning in his eyes searing right through me.

“I’ll come to you.”

And in this moment, with my heart clenched in a vise, I mean it.

I close my eyes. My hand is still on the back of his neck, fearful of letting go. His thumb sweeps under my jaw. I tilt my chin up and kiss him once more, softer this time, slower, a long, sweet press of my mouth that tastes of all the restraint we just broke.

As I pull away, Ren coasts his thumb across my cheek, clearing away any visible trace of his blood. What’s likely on my gown is masked by the crimson.

“Leave first,” I say to him, pressing a finger to his mouth when he starts to argue. “You need to be seen in the hall. Go.”

Ren hesitates a moment longer before he touches my cheek, then departs the corner alcove. I wait the necessary length of time, smoothing my palms down my gown to collect myself. Then I school my features into a mask and step into the dim, torchlitcorridor.

I pass the great hall, the ruckus growing fainter as I keep walking and slip down a side corridor. Isolde is there, right where she’d said she’d be should I need her.

And I need her now.

She’s stationed just beyond the great hall’s archway, a wine cup in hand. Her eyes lock onto me immediately.

“Sera, what is it?” Her voice is hushed as she quickly takes me in. My tousled hair, the flush of my skin. “Are you all right?”