Page 107

I didn’t want to be something that he just acted on behind closed doors.

I wanted more.

I needed more.

He leaned down, his mouth catching the sensitive, shivering column of my neck.

I let out a soft, breathless gasp as he kissed his way up to my jaw, his tongue lightly tracing the warm skin until my entire body flushed with a sudden, white-hot heat. A deep, yearning ache that made me arch straight into his touch, my hands reaching out instinctively to clutch at the broad, solid lines of his shoulders.

Just as my breathing turned frantic, just as the suffocating heat between us reached the absolute point of no return—

He let go.

Caspian stepped back smoothly, a slow, dark, and thoroughly wicked smirk spreading across his face as he took in my wide, swimming eyes and flushed skin. He winked at me; a quick, taunting flash of pure chaos that told me he knew exactly what he was doing to my sanity.

“Enjoy your shower, Trouble,” he murmured.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room without another word, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, leaving me standing alone in the quiet, dim motel room, my core burning for a heat I couldn’t reach.

FORTY-FIVE

The motel shower was loud, the plumbing rattling behind yellowed plastic wall inserts as a stream of tepid water sprayed over my sore, bruised shoulders. I leaned my forehead against the slick tile, my breath turning to thin wisps of steam as the lukewarm spray tried to wash away the stinging salt and black sand of the Pacific surf.

But it couldn’t wash away the heat.

I was completely, utterly frustrated. Caspian’s sudden retreat in the bedroom had left my skin burning, the raw memory of his long, calloused fingers grazing my Remnikai markings feeling like a living brand beneath the water. I closed my eyes, a low, frustrated groan catching in my throat as I pictured his broad frame pinning me against the bathroom door. I imagined the heavy, dominant weight of his hands mapping the curve of my waist, tracing a ruthless path down my hips until my core ached with a sudden, sharp yearning.

Then—the image fractured.

It was still Caspian, but the man in my mind shifted into something far darker, far more terrifying. His dark chestnut hair darkened to a starless black. His skin, usually bronze from the sun of the keep, became veined with dark, writhing tattoos that perfectly mimicked the volatile Remnikai ink coiling across my own body. Torrents of living, celestial shadow erupted from his broad shoulders, swallowing the room, swallowing the light, until there was nothing left in the void except him.

In my mind’s eye, I pictured him pressing me flat against the motel counter, his leather jacket rough against my bare skin, his mouth catching mine in a suffocating, dangerous kiss that tasted of iron, dark magic, and absolute ruin.

My eyes snapped open.

I stopped myself dead in my tracks, my hands slamming hard against the wet, rattling tile as my heart hammered wildly against my ribs.

It was a mess. A catastrophic, volatile mess. I couldn’t even lose control in a motel shower without the dual magic in my blood twisting my desires into apocalyptic visions.

I dried off quickly, the rough towel scratching against the gold and black swirls lacing across my body. Before I could even finish pulling a pair of dry grey sweatpants and an oversized black t-shirt over my damp limbs, a sharp, rhythmic knock rattled the outer door.

“Taur?” Dax’s voice carried through the thin wood panels, light and bantering. “Manem and Mal have returned from the local trading outpost. They’re loaded with mortal sustenance. Am I clear to enter, or are you still indecent?”

I threw the bathroom door open, towel-drying the copper-red waves of my hair. “Come in, Dax. I’m dressed.”

Dax slipped into the room, holding an open bag of barbecue potato chips in one hand and pointing a thumb back toward the outdoor walkway. “You might want to head across the hall, Princess. The Commander has discovered something monumental, and I think his military discipline is officially compromised.”

Amused despite my bone-deep exhaustion, I tossed the towel onto the tweed couch and followed him out. My bare feet sank into the damp carpet as we crossed the narrow, fog-shrouded hallway into Room 15.

The sight that greeted me when I pushed the door open was unadulterated chaos.

The small, two-double-bed space looked as if two feral children had been set loose in a candy factory. Gas station food was strewn across both mattresses. Brightly colored plastic wrappers, crumpled foil bags of neon-orange cheese puffs, plastic bottles of soda, and boxes of processed pastries littered the nightstands.

And right in the center of the madness sat Manem.

The fierce head of the Black Guard. The man whose brutal reputation and broad-shouldered frame usually made opponents freeze in terror, was sitting cross-legged on the floral bedspread, completely surrounded by a fortress of crumpled chocolate wrappers. A thick, dark smear of milk chocolate coated his goatee and the side of his mouth, and his dark eyes were wider than I had ever seen them, vibrating with unspent sugar energy.

He shoved an entire chocolate bar into his mouth, chewing rhythmically before pointing a thick, scarred finger at me.