Page 34 of Given to the Black King

I do not move.

She is within reach now. Warm. Barefoot. Her robe brushes my boots.

“Tell me your name,” she says.

Every instinct in me says no. A king does not hand his last defense to the one person who can use it.

But that is why I must.

I take her hand.

Her fingers are cold. Mine close around them, claws buried. She watches our joined hands.

I turn her palm upward and breathe against the center of it.

Her scent opens.

I drag my nose slowly over her wrist, the same place I held at the treaty table. Her pulse kicks against my mouth. I keep my lips closed. I keep my fangs away.

“Torgan,” I say against her skin.

She shudders.

I lift her hand and set it over my heart.

“Name. Summons. Intent.” My heart strikes her palm hard enough that she spreads her fingers. “Now you have them.”

She looks up at me. “Why give me this if you want me to leave?”

“Because wanting you does not entitle me to keep you ignorant.”

“That sounds painful.”

“It is.”

Her thumb moves once over my chest.

The touch is small. My whole body answers. Claws punch free from my right hand. One catches the edge of the dais and carves through stone.

Iona does not pull away.

“Do you want me to use it?” she asks.

I cannot lie to her with her hand over my heart.

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Would that be wise?”

“No.”

A breath of laughter leaves her. It shakes.

I close my hand over hers before she can move it again. “Do not offer because I hurt. Do not offer because your council wants a seal. Do not offer because you think gratitude is the same as desire.”