Page 72 of Given to the Black King

Then she turns onto her side and takes my wrist, placing my hand over her waist.

She does not offer a solution.

Neither do I.

For the first time in a hundred years, I want time more than victory.

TORGAN

The following night, I wake with my fangs caught in Iona’s hair.

Not skin.

Not yet.

The ache has dragged me across the bed in my sleep. My mouth is open beside her ear. One sharp point is buried in the dark mass of her hair. Venom tastes sweet under my tongue.

I pull back before she moves.

Her hand catches my wrist. The bandage around my forearm shifts beneath her fingers; the punctures have sealed, but the flesh is still tender.

“No.”

She is awake at once, eyes clear in the dark.

“I need the yard.”

“You need to stop leaving without waking me.”

“Iona.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

My honesty seems to satisfy her. She reaches for the lamp.

“Do not light it.”

“Why?”

“I do not want to see your throat.”

Her hand stops.

The room remains dark except for the low fire.

The mattress shifts. Her bare leg moves over mine. She straddles my thighs.

Her scent is sleep-warm, already changing.

“What does it want?” she asks.

“You know.”

“Say it.”

I grip the sheets. My claws cut through them.