Page 48 of Given to the Black King

My claws extend against the desktop.

She touches the first one with the pad of her finger.

“May I?”

“Yes.”

She traces the curve from base to point. The claw is hard, without feeling past the root, but the touch still travels up my hand.

“Do they come out when you fight?”

“Yes.”

“When you are angry?”

“Yes.”

“When you want me?”

“All of them.”

She looks at my other hand. Every claw is out.

Her scent warms.

I close my eyes.

“Not here,” I say.

“I did not ask.”

“You were going to.”

“I was thinking.”

“I can smell thinking now.”

“That is an abuse of royal power.”

I catch her wrist and bring her fingers to my mouth.

The wit leaves her face.

I suck the fingertip that touched my claw. One slow pull. Her breath breaks.

Then I let her go.

“Work,” I say.

She stares at me.

“You came into my room.”

“It is my hold.”

“You put my finger in your mouth.”

“It was distracting me.”