Page 94 of Veil of Blood and Bone

She’s silent for a long moment.

“I see a place too stiflingly restricted to contain what’s coming. To contain you,” I say.

“I’m a small-town girl, no matter what you might think of me. This area isn’t much, but it’s kind. It’s quiet. I like the change in seasons.”

My throat tightens. If I look at her, I know what I’ll see. She’s not the woman living a moody little life. She injects her relentless hope into everything she does. Whenever life bruises her, she shows up with her heart cracked open, a joke on her lips.

She uses empathy like a superpower.

She is sunshine with shadows, the scent of rain on flowers. The one who goes out of her way to bring soup when you’re sick, even if she is too.

“You find beauty in the smallest things.” I gesture to the tarnished pewter vase overflowing with buttery yellow and orange marigolds. “And you’re loyal to the bone. Not a small-town nobody.”

“I also avoid confrontation, if we’re going with an analysis this early in the morning. I avoid it until I explode.” She flashes me a practiced smile and puts distance between us. “Do you want some coffee?”

Absolutely fucking not; I’d rather drink sewer water. “No, thank you.”

She shifts away, and my hand snakes out, fingers banding around her wrist to keep her with me.

Stay.

Desire burns too hot for me to control. Her grief sits right below her sternum, twined with her pulse, throbbing through me.

I wanted to take this slowly. One touch from her ruins the idea.

“Why do you call me a monster? I mean, pretty I get,” she jokes, staring holes through the worn carpet. “But monsters aren’t pretty in general.”

“Are they not?”

“Not the ones I’ve encountered. Those trolls? Hideous.”

“You’ve been my pretty monster in every life. Since the first time I met you. Centuries ago.”

Mine. Dangerous thought.

“You killed a sister shieldmaiden who was going to die. A terrible thing. She’d been gutted and suffered.”

The image stands out like it was yesterday. The Fae are notoriously long-lived, but things tend to slip through the cracks after a time. Not so with these memories. Anything regarding Helene has solidified, integrated.

“You saw it as a way to give your friend and someone you cared about an honorable death, instead of a dishonorable and painful one. Even if she’d managed to live, she would have died from an infection within days.”

She shudders. “That’s awful.”

Her scent is everywhere. It’s becoming a problem. Every breath hurts.

Fuck.

I’ve got to get a fucking grip. Losing it at this point will spell ruin for more than me, more than her. The others⁠—

Aren’t here.

A feral smile lifts my cheeks. Only me. Only Helene.

I brush that rogue curl away from her face and linger, dragging my fingertips down the curve of her cheekbone and along her jaw.

My cock fills, and I shift, not to cover it but to give it room to breathe. My pants are too tight and constrictive.

Lust burns, hot and uncontrollable, the core theme of my existence. Control. Power.