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She frees her hand and returns to my thigh, her fingers slowly inching higher.
Walk away. Act instead of just standing here like a statue.
Instead, I remain still as she leans farther forward. This time, the ravenous little vixen mouths my cock through my leggings, her soft, damp lips curiously exploring my erection.
My hips jerk reflexively. Through the thin layers, the sensation is both too much and not enough. Esme suckles and nuzzles greedily, wetting me through the fabric barrier and driving me mad. I tip my head back, biting the inside of my cheek to stifle a groan. I feel every minute advancement of her steamy breath and lips as she traces a line upward.
Her hands tremble where they grip my thighs, anchoring her in place like she’ll collapse otherwise. But she doesn’t quit. She kisses up one side of my cock and then starts on the other side. Knowing where she’s heading, she slows the pace on the second pass.
I’m shaking too. My every muscle seizes, because the only way I can control myself is by remaining motionless. A sluggish rhythm pounds through my blood, growing louder by the lick. I can almost taste my desire, along with the sharp need that borders on pain.
But under that, beneath the physical want, my magic rises. Not the controlled earth manipulation I use in the arena. This is darker. The part of me I lock down tight because it doesn’t like to follow commands pushes to the surface like a swelling wave.
Take her. Fuck her. Make her scream. Fuck her until she loves the dark and begs for more. You already know she likes it. You can take her desire and work her over until she likes every dark thing you ever wanted to do.
I squeeze my eyes shut, panting with the strain of holding myself together. I do not want to do that. Esme is purer than anyone I’ve met before. I want to keep her that way. I would hate to hurt her.
Esme shifts closer on her knees, her fingers moving to the laces at my waist. Her eyes fix on mine, her pupils blown wide. She’s breathing faster now.
She wants this. Wants me. She knows what I can do and still wants it.
My craving for her tears at the very core of my being. I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in years. I’ve never felt this way with another woman, not even when I still believed I could have a normal relationship. A farm, a woman, crops, and a life that isn’t doused in blood and regret.
The reminder helps me regain control, and I clamp down on Esme’s wrist before she can loosen the first lace. “No.” The word comes out guttural.
Confusion flashes across her face. “What—”
“No.” I pry her fingers away from the laces.
Emotion means loss of control, and control is the only thing that keeps the danger at bay.
I push Esme away before she can try again. She falls back, landing on her ass, staring up at me with hurt in her eyes. The saliva glistening on her lips taunts me.
I stalk toward the tent flap while I still can.
“Agnar—”
I keep walking and refuse to glance back.
For her sake. I’m staying away for her sake.
Even if it kills me.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Esme
When the Onyx Knight enters the arena, the crowd quiets, and a hush falls over the stands instead of the usual cheers that proceed a bout. Anxiety and excitement mount as he swivels his head to take stock of the audience before centering on his opponent.
Even if his reputation didn’t precede him, the Onyx Knight’s appearance alone tells the story of a peculiar and deadly man. Almost seven feet tall, he’s wrapped in spiked armor so black that it drinks in the sun. Shoulders too wide for a regular human body support a dome-shaped helmet that shows his eyes as pools of darkness.
The man under the armor is impossible to make out. Even through the chinks, only the deep black of his shadow shows. He carries a heavy halberd with a long, crescent-shaped blade topped with a sharp tip and a hammer head on the back. Three weapons combined, the halberd would normally require two hands, but he wields it in one.
Stuck three rows back in the squire section, I have no idea what I’m looking at. My gut screams that whatever is walking across the sand isn’t entirely human.
His rival is already in the ring, a Kamorian fighter built like a bull, with muscles upon muscles and scarred knuckles that suggest decades of victories. He holds a war hammer that would require two strong men to lift. The Onyx Knight tilts his head as he inspects his next contender. Other than that, he doesn’t react.
The bell rings.
