by May Dawson
The sensation of his mouth strokes heat between my thighs long before his hand finds his way there. He runs his hand confidently up my thigh until his hand presses against my underwear. His thumb against the suddenly-damp cotton makes me moan even before his fingers begin to work deliberately against my throbbing clit through the fabric. I make a small sound of desire, and he kisses my lips again, capturing my moan as if my longing is delicious to him.
“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he murmurs when he pulls away. His bright blue eyes are intent on my face. “You’re mine. All mine.”
“Then why are you trying so hard to give me away?” I mean to ask the word archly, but desire’s flooded my brain and left me stupid. The words come out frank, just the way I mean them.
Pain flashes across his face. “What are you doing to me, Tera Kate?”
“What do you mean?” I’m worried that I’ve hurt his feelings, but he’s still beside me on the bed instead of moving away.
He tucks a wayward strand of hair back behind my ear. “I don’t want you to be with Rian. I don’t want any of this.”
There’s a sudden roughness in his voice. He shakes his head, as if he’s shaking it away. “If I had my way, we’d go somewhere else. Somewhere you didn’t have to be Tera Donovan and I didn’t have to be a spy.”
“We could go somewhere warm and sunny…”
“We could go somewhere it snows every day of the year.” He takes my hand in his and raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm. The soft scrape of his lips against my palm sends a thrill through my heart. “I don’t give a damn. I just want to be with you.”
“I like that idea.”
“Then run away with me,” he says. “The four of us. We could leave all this behind. The school, Radner, the mission…”
His words make some fragile hope stir in me, even as I know it’s ridiculous. “You’re drunk, Airren.”
“Maybe. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
“You love this life,” I say softly. I can’t imagine Airren not being a spy.
“Yes.” He doesn’t hesitate when he answers. “But not as much as I love being with you.”
I can’t take it anymore. His sweet words fill me an aching that I can’t bear, desire so intense that it feels like vulnerability. I throw my leg over his as I press my lips to his. He kisses me back with just as much passion. We trade wild, hungry kisses.
Where our foolish words fail us, our bodies take over.
His hands glide over my body, awakening each nerve, my skin coming alive under his touch. I kiss the points of the black compass tattooed over his heart, the shield-and-wand at its center, and then my tongue flicks mischievously against his nipple beneath it. He grins, as if it’s a strange sensation, and my tongue circles it until his breath gives. Then I trace my way down the smooth line of his pecs, each hard-ridged ab. He catches me when I reach the top of his trousers and draws me up beside him again.
“My turn,” he whispers.
He slides his finger under my panties, drawing them away down my hips. He slides between my legs, slipping his powerful shoulders underneath my thighs. Then he turns his head, pressing kisses to the inside of my leg. He works his way from my inner knee along my thigh, drawing my skin into his mouth hard enough to suck a bruise, only to kiss and soothe it. My hips are bucking before he even reaches my center.
He kisses my very inner thigh. He was clean-shaven earlier, but his five o’clock shadow is beginning to grow in, and his jaw scrapes in a ticklish but pleasant way across my thigh. He watches me, his eyes intent on my face, gauging my reaction, as he kisses my core. His lips brush against my inner lips in a sweet caress.
He presses his arm across my thighs, holding me still. I watch his dark hair, the shape of his shoulders, the tattoos across his biceps as his tongue slips inside me. There’s a faint warm buzz of magic here too, and as his tongue thrusts inside me, it vibrates against my g-spot.
“No fair,” I gasp raggedly.
He withdraws, just long enough to give me a wicked smile. “I’ve never played fair in my life, T. I don’t intend to start now.”
His tongue glides across my lips, and then he pauses to add, “After all, I’ve got to compete with unicorns.”
“You don’t have to compete with anyone and you know it, you idiot,” I say.
He grins and then, as if to punish me for the insult, he gives himself entirely over to alternately licking and sucking my clit. He’s merciless, changing position just when I’m on the verge of orgasm. I gasp and toss at the building heat and desire. The strangest sensation flows through my muscles as if pleasure is filling every part of my body.
As his tongue thrusts inside me, buzzing against my g-spot, I clutch at the headboard. My hips can’t rise with his arm pressing me down so he can continue his fiendish, wonderful work, and I writhe, helplessly, against the intensity of the orgasm.
“Airren,” I breathe desperately. His eyes flicker to mine and there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. His mouth works against my clit, his tongue pressed steadily against my g-spot, vibrating away as I come undone. I call his name again, more raggedly, as my hands tighten in the sheets. Waves of pleasure radiate from my center through my entire body. Even my toes relax as I fall back into the sheets, giving myself over to him entirely.
It’s only as he falls back beside me, the expression on his face tender, that I realize I’ve wrenched the sheets completely from the bed. I’m still breathing hard from that orgasm as he leans over and kisses me. His lips carry the smoky taste of myself.
My fingers tangle in his dark hair as I kiss him like I’ll never let him go.
Chapter 21
Airren draws me into his arms, and I rest my head on his shoulder. This close, the scent of his aftershave, all citrus and cinnamon and warm musk, wraps around me. I close my eyes, content.
Then my stomach growls.
“Really?” Airren presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I saw you eat enough canapes for a squad of Marines.”
“I suppose you made me work up an appetite all over again.”
“I made you, hmm? Well, I suppose if it’s my fault, I’m responsible for feeding you.” He slips out of bed and crosses the room. He moves on surprisingly stealthy bare feet, given how big his body is. His muscles ripple subtly under his tanned skin, above the curve of his ass and his long, leanly muscled legs. He examines the tray. “I can call down for something else if you want. The kitchen stays open all night.”
“Now that is truly depraved, I imagine, in the mind of the kitchen staff.”
He flashes a grin at me over his shoulder.
“What’s on the cart? I hate to play the part of a spoiled noble.” I’m sure there’s something from the prince’s sumptuous dinner buffet that I can deign to eat.
“It never bothers me,” Airren says.
“It’s not an act for you.”
He pulls a face, but doesn’t deny it. He’s chosen to be a self-sacrificing Marine, putting his life in danger, rather than embrace the comfortable, wealthy destiny he was born to. But maybe part of him still longs for parts of his old life.
“Do you ever think you’ll go home again?” I ask, trying to imagine the castle he left behind.
“I am home,” he says. “Home’s wherever I rest my head. Having you and Croft around helps too.”
He says the words so matter-of-factly, but it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said. He doesn’t acknowledge their impact, even as my heart shifts, softening toward him even more. Instead, he lifts golden domes off plates and stacks them up to see what’s beneath. “Would you like lobster?”
“What are you having?”
He lifts an enormous slice of chocolate cake from the cart and as he turns toward me, he raises it up above his head like a prize.
“Perfect,” I tell him.
He grabs the carafe of spiced wine with his other hand, and carries the spoils of palace life over to the bed.
“We�
�re going to get crumbs in the bed,” I say.
His lips quirk in amusement. My father made a mess of Avalon, and I’m worried about making a mess of the sheets.
Don’t think about any of that right now. This has been one of those perfect, shining days I’ll remember all my life. I don’t want to ruin it.
He leans over the bed, and our lips meet softly. Then he sits beside me, settling the plate between us, and hands me one of the two forks he’s palmed. I bite into the soft, tender cake, layered with rich ganache and buttercream, while he takes a sip from the spiced wine. Apparently, he swigs booze like a Marine despite his boarding-school upbringing.
I’m about to say just that to him—and reach for the bottle—when he gets up and heads across the room to the window. There’s tension in the lines of his body, in how perfect his posture is. Something has changed.
I set the fork down on the plate. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He opens the glass doors and steps out onto the balcony. Cool air rushes into the room, carrying the first sharp sting of winter.
For a second time tonight, I get up from the bed and sling the blanket around my shoulders. Barefoot, I pad across the room.
He gazes out at the night sky, but there’s a frown between his brows. He shakes his head, as if he’s trying to clear it.
When he turns to me, he says, half to himself, “It must be the wine.”
“Are you having regrets about the evening?” I tease.
“Yes,” he says shortly.
My heart falls.
“There’s something off,” he mutters. He murmurs the words to a spell to himself, then raises his hand flat in front of his face. An iridescent bubble shimmers on his palm. His teeth are gritted as he says, “Mycroft. I’ve been poisoned. Some kind of magic that hijacks your nervous system. I need you in Tera’s room, now.”
The bubble rises from his palm and drifts away like it’s being carried off by those chilly currents.
“What can I do?” I touch Airren’s arm, drawing his attention back to me.
His eyes sweep over me coolly. “You can get dressed. That would be helpful.”
Obviously. Feeling a rush of embarrassment, I hurry back across the room to the closet and pull on jeans, a sweater, and a pair of boots.
When I come out, Airren stands by the door, dressed again. There’s a faint tic in his jaw, his hand on the doorknob.
“I have to go find that server,” he says. “Lock the door behind me. Be careful.”
“You’re leaving me?” That seems like a foolish choice right now when we’re under attack.
“I have to,” he grinds out.
He yanks the door open, and then he’s gone. The door closes softly behind him.
I run to lock it, then back away from it. My heart is pounding wildly in my chest.
“Well, that didn’t go as planned.”
The voice is behind me. I spin to find an older man, with thin dark hair above a wind-chapped, red face. The man from Avalon. He’s still wearing the white jacket and trousers of one of the servers.
I have a name to put with that ugly face now: Moirus Neal.
“How did you get in here?” I ask. It doesn’t really matter, but I don’t want him to see how fast panic is rising in my chest. Then, more importantly, “What did you do to him?”
“You were supposed to drink the wine,” he says. “Well, it’s not too late. Go ahead.”
He nods toward the wine bottle. Airren abandoned it on the night side table. For a second, I imagine myself pouring it out. I don’t want to do Moirus’ bidding.
But I want to save what’s left so they can figure out what exactly it was Airren drank, so we can prepare an antidote.
“Will it kill him?”
“No, of course not,” he says. “I’m no killer.”
“You tried to kill me.”
“I took your magic. That didn’t kill you, did it?” He nods to the bottle. “Drink up. We have work to do before another of your oafs arrives.”
“What do you want from me?”
There’s a flicker of silver in his hand, against his trousers. His eyes register me noticing, and he turns his hand to shield the knife from me. “I want you to drink, Tera. Time’s a-wasting. Best we be gone before one of your men comes through that door.”
Mycroft will be careful. Mycroft knows there’s something wrong.
But he’s also weak right now.
I lift the bottle from the nightstand to my lips in one smooth, sure motion. I press my tongue against the slick glass of the bottle neck. The cool wine prickles against my tongue, but none of it slides down my throat.
When I lower the bottle, holding it loosely against my side, he holds his hand out toward my temple.
“Come here, Tera Donovan.”
Lord, the man does love saying my last name.
Fear is sour in my stomach as I cross the room to him. When I stop, he beckons me closer. I take another step, but I’m still out of his touch. When he waits expectantly, I take another step, my knees soft beneath me. I’m close enough now for him to touch me.
My eyes shift toward the door, just a quick flicker, but I can see it in his face that he registered it. Mycroft should be here soon, shouldn’t he?
Unless Mycroft has left the palace.
But Airren will know where he is. Airren must have a plan.
Still, the memory of Airren’s face, his nerves frayed tight, stays with me. He looked like he was fighting that poison with everything he had. Maybe he couldn’t think straight.
Moirus is going to use some kind of spell on me. I have to get out of here. But it will take me precious long seconds to get across the room, get the door unlocked, open it. I have to put him down first. Kill him, if I can.
He raises his hand toward my temple, but just before his fingertips can brush my skin, I step into him, slamming my booted foot into his shin.
He’s got the knife, and it’s a long shot that I can take him down.
I go for the handle. As he thrusts the blade toward me, I try to catch it in my hand, stepping in and throwing my body weight against his. His body barely moves when I slam into him. My fingers close around his fingers on the hilt. And the blade. Cold steel slices into two of my fingers.
He grabs me around the waist. He doesn’t want to use the knife. I don’t have to be so careful. I want him dead.
I slam my head forward into his, aiming for his nose. It’s an awkward shot, but my forehead slams into his nose. There’s an awful crack. His blood spurts across us both.
Croft would be proud.
I’ve got to get the knife. I scramble to control his hand with the knife even though my blood is slick on my fingers. Everything I touch is slippery.
Suddenly, he abandons the knife entirely. His hands slap against the side of my face as the knife comes loose in my hand. It’s so slick that I can barely get it under control, turn it. I fumble it as I turn it, driving it toward his side.
“Vota maa perara,” he shouts. He stumbles back, staring down at the hilt of the knife buried in his side. His gaze rises again to my face. He shakes his head, as if in disbelief.
He’s used a spell to command me, to compel me to obey him. It’s another forbidden magic.
But he was too late. He puts his hand to the hilt, but he’s not foolish enough to draw the blade back out. His blood is soaking steadily through the white coat.
There’s a knock on the door, quick and urgent. “Tera!” Mycroft shouts.
I run for the door, just as Moirus says behind me, “When he comes through the door, you kill him.”
There’s a note of command in his voice. He’s certain that I’m his creature now.
When I grab the doorknob, the metal feels warm and wet under my palm.
Am I going to hurt Mycroft when he comes through that door? I don’t feel any different, but maybe that’s part of how the spell works.
Moirus didn’t tell me to open the door.
I t
urn away from it. His attention is focused on the wound now. He’s slowly drawing the knife out. He hisses beneath his breath, and his free hand dances over the wound as he tries to hastily heal himself. As he draws the knife out, his blood pumps out, spilling faster than he can heal the damaged cells.
I have to get away from Mycroft, just in case.
“Tera!” Mycroft shouts through the door. He’s so very close. Then there’s a thud, the sound of splintering wood, as he starts to kick down the door.
Moirus looks up, his eyes widening. He’ll tell me to open the door.
But I’m already sprinting past him. My arms pump furiously as I race for the open doors to the balcony.
There’s another thud, more splintering, the slam of a door being knocked off its hinges.
The night air is cold on my face as I reach the long balcony. My boots pound over the stone as I prepare to hurtle myself over the edge. I can’t hear Moirus now, although he’s shouting something that suddenly breaks off. Mycroft must have gotten to him.
But that might not change the order I already received, will it? The image of me driving a knife into Mycroft’s side the same way I just knifed Moirus rises, and my heart rate speeds frantically. I need to put more distance between myself and Mycroft.
The swimming pool is just a few stories below.
My bare knees scrape against the rough stone as I throw my leg over. I teeter awkwardly, drawing my leg up, preparing to launch myself over. I have to jump up and out to make it into the clear, sparkling water that I can glimpse below. Bubbles of light and flowers drift across the smooth surface of the water.
I get my feet underneath me just as behind me, Mycroft shouts, “Tera! What the hell are you doing?”
Ignore him, ignore Moirus.
I stand into an unsteady crouch on the railing, gather my strength, then jump with all my power.
There’s a terrible moment when I’ve committed and the stone is a blur beneath me, something I’m just as aware of as the tranquil pool below.
