Page 67 of Given to the Black King

His thumb moves over my hip while I hold the cloth to his arm.

“Three heartbeats,” he says.

“What?”

“The relief after I bite something else. Three heartbeats. Then the ache knows I lied to it.”

I kiss the skin beside the punctures.

His breath stops.

“You take care of me,” he says.

It is not a question.

“Yes.”

“No one does.”

“Then they are idiots.”

His mouth moves. Almost a smile.

When the pressure finally eases, he slides free by fractions. The last thick drag pulls a raw shiver through me.

He lowers us onto the bed and pulls me against his chest. The headboard is cracked and hangs crooked above us, but the two iron wall bolts still hold.

My body aches everywhere. Between my thighs. At my shoulder. Around the bruises his fingers left on my hips. My breasts throb where his back teeth held them.

I touch each mark.

He watches.

“Regret?”

“No.”

“Pain?”

“Yes.”

His face closes.

“Good pain,” I say. “The kind I asked for.”

“That distinction will take practice.”

“We have time.”

The words settle between us.

I am not ready to give him forever. I am ready to let the possibility live.

“I am not offering the bite tonight.”

“I know.”

“I need to be able to say it without fear, gratitude, or my council standing behind me.”