Page 70 of House of the Iron Reaper

I lean in. I stop breathing.

“When…” Her eyes dart up to my eyes and back down to my lips. “... are you going to fucking kiss me?”

My restraint snaps. I close the space between us quickly, too quickly, and press my lips against Novalie’s. Swallowing her gasp, I snake my hand around the back of her neck to cradle the base of her skull, pulling her closer to me. Novalie grasps the front of my shirt, anchoring herself to me.

I kiss her and I wonder how I ever lived without kissing her.

The taste of the blue drink still lingers on her lips, but it is overpowered by something else, something more. A sweetness, syrupy like desert figs, that only invites me to kiss her harder. Novalie moans into my mouth and something inside me clenches.

I pull back, just slightly, just enough to break the kiss, my breath stolen. Novalie looks up at me, eyes glassy and a dazed smile on her face. I try to smile back, but my vision blurs and my lungs constrict.

“Deyanara?” Novalie says, concern laced in her voice. “Are you alright?”

My lips still tingle, like tiny sparks against my skin, and my head swims. Saints, only a kiss from Novalie and I am overcome to the point of delirium.

“Yes,” I say, breathless. “I… I have n-never k-kissed…”

I swallow hard, blinking to clear my vision.

“Oh,” Novalie says softly. “I am your first kiss?”

I nod. A smile curves her lips, and she cups my cheek.

“I am honoured,” she says. “Once you have recovered, may I also be your second?”

Heat flushes my cheeks, and a shy grin finds its way onto my face. I breathe deep, the cool air clearing my head.

“Please,” I say with a smile.

Chapter 27

Novalie

The stadium trembles under the roars of the crowd, thirsty for their first true dragon fight of the Rites. Deimos disappeared into one of the shrines some minutes ago, and has not resurfaced. Ronan, Deyanara, and I sit in the contender’s area, waiting for him. Sand trickles from the ceiling with each thump of the audience's boots.

“I’ll go and fetch him,” Ronan declares, standing.

“Do not dare,” I hiss, yanking him back down. “The shrines are sacred, no one praying should be disturbed.”

“But his fight-”

“He will come out when he is ready,” I tell him finally. “The fight can wait as long as it has to.”

Deyanara says nothing, a queasy look on her face. She stares at the tunnel leading to the arena with unfocused eyes. I reach out to squeeze her hand, and she offers a weak smile in return.

With concern, I wonder if she has taken ill—she has been in a state of sweat and daze since Lovers’ Rest, and at every clandestine meeting of ours since. Surely she is not that nervous, still?

And then I remember having to tell a merchant her fennec was undercooked because Deyanara would rather poison herself than say anything and I realise perhaps she is still nervous. I squeeze her hand again, shuffling closer.

Aythora hurries into the room, crimson eyes burning like lava.

“Where is he?” she huffs, hands on hips.

“Praying,” I answer simply.

Aythora’s lips press into a thin line.

“When I have invested so much time in him,” she bites out. “I should hope he is not using worship as an excuse to bow out of this fight.”