Promise of Darkness

by Bec McMaster

  The urge to strike dies down, leaving me breathless. Leaving us both breathless.

  “There she is,” he whispers, lying flat on his back in surrender.

  There’s a moment where something inside me urges me to slash my blade across his skin, to see if he’ll still smile then, but somehow, I rein it in. I don’t know where this anger has come from.

  Thiago stills, his green eyes hooding with heat as he clasps my thigh. He tilts his head arrogantly, revealing the vulnerable skin of his throat. “Go ahead. You have me at your mercy, my love.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “My life is yours, my heart, my soul. It always has been, from the second I saw you, curse you. If you want it, all you have to do is take it.”

  My heart skips a beat.

  “And if I don’t want it?” I whisper, glaring down at him.

  A thumb brushes against my inner thigh, and I suck in a sharp breath. Thiago’s dark eyes hood as if he knows exactly what’s going through my mind. “I thought we weren’t going to lie to each other anymore? Or to ourselves?”

  The tip of the knife draws blood, and I throw the blade away with a clatter. I try to push to my feet, but he’s not done.

  One hand locks around my knee, pinning me atop him. The other snatches at my wrist. I sprawl forward, slamming both palms against his chest and breathing hard.

  Two hundred pounds of healthy, solid male lies beneath me. My nails curl into his chest, ruching the fabric of his shirt and drawing a hiss from him.

  It had been instinct to touch him like that.

  Perhaps something rising from the depths of my subconscious. My body recognizing what my mind doesn’t remember.

  Want. Need. Furious desire.

  But with it comes a flood of uncertainty.

  I tear at his grip on her wrists. “Let go of me.”

  “Aren’t you tired of running?”

  “Aren’t you tired of chasing me?” I snap, and see the words strike him like a whip lash across the face.

  Thiago finally lets me go, rolling out from under me and finding his feet with fluid grace. The muscles in his jaw are locked, his expression turning hard. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should let you go.”

  I clamber to my feet, wanting to take the words back somehow.

  But it’s too late.

  They’re out in the open, flaying the protective armor from around his heart. I can see it in his eyes as he turns for the door.

  Words can be sharper than steel, and this time I’ve drawn blood. The worst thing is, the wound sharp words leave can often be far more lethal than any blade. They linger, fester. They’re never forgotten, even long after a flesh wound has healed.

  “Wait,” I whisper as the doors slam shut behind him.

  It’s not in me to be unkind, but I have been.

  This has to be hard on him too.

  What would it feel like to see your wife look at you as if you were a stranger, year after year?

  “Fuck.” I kick the dagger into the wall, and it hits the floor with a clatter.

  I stare at the door as if I can somehow see the prince through it.

  I want to lick my wounds in the privacy of my rooms, but that’s cowardice speaking.

  And an Asturian princess doesn’t back down from a fight.

  Nor does she leave others to repay her debts.

  23

  If I think too long about it, I’ll falter.

  So, I don’t. I stride inside the prince’s bedchambers, letting the door slam behind me, an apology on my lips.

  And then I stop in my tracks.

  He’s in the middle of washing himself. Stripped to the waist, all that glorious skin bare for my hungry gaze as he drags a washcloth across his chest to remove the sweat our fight evoked. Golden candlelight caresses his skin, painting it with ripples of gold.

  The second I walk in, his gaze jerks to mine, and he freezes.

  Mother of Night. I curl my fingers into a fist. Resistance, thy name is futile.

  I can still feel his fingers brushing against my thighs and the shackle of his hands on my wrists. But seeing him like this, his dark wings nothing but suggestions of shadows behind him, makes every ghostly sensation dancing over my skin more intense.

  Thiago slowly resumes washing himself, heat smoldering beneath those thick lashes. The shadows behind him vanish as if they were never there. “I thought you made your feelings clear.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Because my brain’s not working very well right now and words fail me.

  He slowly lets the washcloth drop into the basin, his face giving nothing away. “For what?”

  I can’t meet his gaze, so I turn and pour us both a goblet of rich Mercian wine.

  “For not remembering you. For not being what you want me to be. For… what I said before.” I set the wine to my lips and swallow hastily. “If what you say is true then… she—I—was the luckiest woman alive, but it feels as though you’re speaking of a stranger.” I set the wine down. “I don’t know what to think.” It all makes too much sense for it not to be true. “How do I know I can trust your claims? Because either you’re lying to me or my mother is, and I’d be a fool not to consider the enmity between our courts. How do I know this isn’t merely… another deadly thrust against her? How do I know you’re not merely trying to trick me? To use me against my own people? Against my own mother?”

  “Did she ask you to kill me?”

  I nearly knock the goblet over. “What?”

  He casts the washcloth aside and prowls toward me, dark eyes gleaming a cold, merciless green. “She often does, you know. I’m never quite sure if it’s a test for you to earn her trust again or a way to twist the knife she buries in my heart every time you look at me as if you don’t know me. Probably both. Adaia never likes to waste an opportunity.”

  “N-no, I— I….”

  His lips twist cruelly, and he snatches the dagger from the table behind me.

  “What are you doing?”

  Capturing my hand, he curls my resisting fingers around the blade, then sets the tip directly to the inch of skin above his sternum. “Here’s your chance, Vi. A single strike and you’ll win your mother’s love back. You’ll cast the Kingdom of Evernight into chaos, and your own people will win this eternal damned war.”

  I struggle against his grip as the tip of the blade draws blood. “What are you doing? Stop it!”

  “Do it,” he repeats softly.

  I can’t look away from his heated gaze. “No.”

  “You’re an Asturian princess, aren’t you? And I’m the enemy. If I’m lying to you, then this will earn you untold infamy within your mother’s court.”

  “No!” I throw the dagger aside with a clatter and shove away from him, my heart lodged somewhere in the region of my throat. “Fine. I believe you.”

  My hands shake, but I don’t dare look at them.

  It’s true.

  It’s all true.

  My mother put that knife into my hand and whispered murder in my ear. She knew what she was sending me to do. She knew if I succeeded, then I would be standing over the body of my husband.

  She has taken, and taken, and taken from me, and I don’t know how to fix any of this. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to believe.

  Until this revelation, I thought I’d somehow disappointed her by not being ruthless enough, calculating enough to be her heir. All I’ve ever wanted is her approval, but I lost her respect all those years ago.

  And she’s manipulated me ever since, knowing I have no memory of the past. She’s whispered poison in my ear and pulled my strings while I blithely sought her approval. Her… love.

  I’ve been nothing more than a puppet to her, a blind, foolish puppet.

  And Andraste knew all along.

  The taste of betrayal leaves my mouth dry and ashen.

  Helplessly, I look to the prince. I want to make sense of this new world I’ve found myself
in, but he’s a whirlpool, spinning me further into confusion.

  “I don’t know you,” I whisper.

  “I know.”

  Thiago stops just shy of reaching for me. Water beads on his skin. I lick my lips, half tempted to touch him. This is the only thing I can make sense of.

  “No. I’m done playing this game. I’m done chasing you, as you say.” He captures my chin and tilts my face to his. “So stop looking at me with those eyes, Vi, unless you mean to cursed well do something about it.”

  I press a hesitant hand flat against his chest. His heart kicks right beneath my palm, causing my breath to hitch.

  But he makes no move to touch me.

  To reach for me.

  And I understand then. If I want him to kiss me, then I have to make the first move. If I want his hands on my skin, then I have to put them there.

  “I hate this.” I brush my palm down his chest, confused by the heat of his skin and the urge to wrap myself in his arms, when he feels like a stranger to me.

  “My chest?” he teases, but there’s a hint of roughness in his voice, as if he can sense my hurt.

  The humor startles me. I lift my eyes to his. “You know I don’t hate your body.”

  “Don’t you?” This time, his voice is a purr. His knuckles brush against my hips. “I do know you look at me quite often. Even when you profess to hate me.”

  “You’re the one parading yourself in front of me at every opportunity.”

  He’s getting closer, leaning into me. We stand before each other, his breath stirring over my skin and tension igniting the air between us.

  “If it’s any consolation,” he whispers, “it gets better.”

  “Do they ever return?”

  He pauses.

  “My memories. Do they ever return? Do I ever remember the past?”

  Dark silky lashes obliterate his eyes. “No.”

  Thirteen years’ worth of memories. Gone.

  It’s not their loss that hurts so much—you can’t miss what you can’t remember—but the fact she stole them aches.

  And maybe that’s the reason I stroke my hands down his chest. I need something to anchor me, and right now, that’s him.

  “Help me remember, then,” I whisper before pressing my lips to his.

  He brushes his lips across mine—a feather stroke of a touch that leaves me hungry for more. I turn my face to chase his touch, but he draws back. Taunting me. Teasing me. The message is clear.

  I bite his lower lip, nibbling on the soft flesh in a clear response. Just try and resist me.

  Our mouths meet again, and this time he captures my wrists as he bites me back.

  Dark eyes burn as they lock on me. “Oh, Vi.” He slides a possessive hand behind the base of my skull and then hauls me toward him.

  Our lips meet. Fuse.

  It’s the kiss that’s been promised from the moment I met him. The one I saw in his eyes every cursed time he looked at me. Both sweet and achingly hot. Demanding. Wanting more than I thought I could give.

  I stretch up on my toes, my palms sliding down over the ripple of his abdomen as his fingers curl in my hair. Then there’s no more time for thought. No chance for regret. He hauls me against him as if the dams have finally broken, unleashing the fury and passion within him.

  Then I’m in his arms, my thighs straddling his waist as he lurches to the right.

  I gasp as my back meets the bed.

  This is more than I’d intended, but as he kneels between my thighs, I can’t find the breath to protest. For all that my mind holds no memories of him, my body seems to have no such qualms.

  “Does this help you remember?” he breathes in my ear, his tongue lashing against my lobe as his entire weight settles upon me. “Or this?” He rocks against me, the hard grind of his erection lined up right where I want it.

  Oh, sweet gods.

  I arch my head back, the lash of sensation obliterating all rational thoughts. “Maybe…. Or maybe you should continue.”

  The rasp of his stubble brushes my throat as he kisses his way south. “How am I going?”

  “Definitely… coming back to me,” I gasp as that hard, callused hand finds the curve of my breast, palming it with rough urgency.

  Then his hot mouth is trailing across my breast, his thumb finding my nipple through my shirt. I gasp as pure sensation arcs through me like a lightning bolt. His mouth follows his thumb, and I catch a fistful of his hair as he suckles on my nipple through the linen. Sweet Maia. Whatever history we might have shared, he clearly knows my body as intimately as he knows his own.

  “How’s this?” he breathes, looking up the length of my body with a devilish smile on his lips.

  “Sweet goddess.” I drag his face to mine, capturing that wicked mouth before it can do any more damage.

  Our lips fuse, and I can feel the passion igniting between us. Thiago ravages my mouth like a drowning man seeking water. My nails rake down his bare shoulders, digging into pure muscle, and a groan tears from my lips as he sinks between the cradle of my thighs, rocking against me.

  It’s too much.

  Hard fingers stroke their way up my thigh, and his gaze locks upon mine as if in challenge. Back and forth. Back and forth. Knuckles questing their way higher until I’m holding my breath, trying not to squirm. Trying not to rock my hips against him.

  “The first time I fucked you, we took no time for such niceties,” he tells me. “But the second time, you stole away from your mother’s court and met me in the ruins of Hammerdale. You told me you couldn’t betray your mother unless I promised you my heart. So I gave it to you then and there. Forever, Vi. Forever mine. And I won you over with soft kisses”—like the one he presses against my jaw—“and gentle touches”—those knuckles brush against the leather covering my thigh—“and the hot lash of my tongue, right… here.”

  I nearly die as his touch finds me.

  He rubs those fingers between my thighs, and I’ve never hated my leather breeches more.

  “Your mother proclaimed me a thief, Vi. But I never stole a thing that wasn’t freely given. And I never will.”

  The touch vanishes.

  “Don’t you dare stop.” I grab his wrist.

  “No?” He bites at my lower lip, his thumb brushing back and forth over that seam, igniting a million nerves. “Then beg me, Vi. Beg me to shatter you. Beg me to break you. Beg me to make you scream.”

  Yes. I throw my head back, arching my spine. “Please, oh, please.”

  He tugs at the leather of my breeches, jerking them apart roughly, and then his fingers slide beneath my waistband, slipping between the wet crevice until they find me. “Beg harder. Tell me how much you want my touch. Tell me how you can’t live another moment without it.”

  Fuck. “Harder. More. Please. Please, Thiago.”

  He has his fingers inside me, and he fucks them there mercilessly, one hand pinning my wrists to the bed, and the other wreaking sweet torture.

  I thrash and buck, my breath coming in sharp, harsh pants.

  I see a thousand stars, biting my lip so hard I want to scream. And then he’s doing exactly as he promised. His thumb presses down ruthlessly, and I don’t even have the breath to beg for more. I shoot over the edge, shattering into a million tiny pieces.

  He holds me through the aftermath, his face burrowed against my throat and his own harsh pants landing wetly on my skin.

  Slowly, he lifts his head, capturing my gaze, and then he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucks my moisture from them. “I hate every fucking moment of this curse, except for this one. The moment of surrender.”

  Sweet merciless fuck.

  My head falls back on the bed. I don’t know how I’ve managed to retain any of my wits at all. “How many times have we done that?”

  His eyes darken, and I can sense his pain in the roughness of his voice. “Far too many times to count.”

  “If it’s any consolation”—I let a trembling hand skate up
the plane of his chest, brushing my thumbs against the roughened stubble of his jaw—“practice makes perfect.”

  He nips at my fingers, then lowers himself onto all fours over me, his massive arms caging me in. “Are you asking me to continue?”

  I think about it.

  In my mother’s court, sex is often used as a weapon or a political maneuver. I learned that lesson when I was eighteen and Etan of the Goldenhills taught me I couldn’t trust a honeyed tongue or a passionate kiss. While the other women of the court enjoyed such pursuits, or laid their own, I was somewhat choosier.

  Sex isn’t just a means to an end for me. Nor is it a means to answer the questions that brew inside me. I need those questions answered first, before I allow him to take further intimacies.

  “I—”

  He presses a finger to my mouth. “You don’t need to say it. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Thiago leans down, replacing his finger with his lips as he presses the softest of kisses to my mouth. My resolve is just beginning to weaken when he finally breaks the kiss.

  A dark smile curls over his mouth as he pushes away from the bed. “Let me know if you want to test your memory again. Until then…. You’d best get dressed, Vi. Before I forget my promise to give you time to remember me.”

  A pent-up breath explodes from me as he strides toward the chair where his shirt lies. But it can’t slake the furious burn of unfulfilled desire.

  “You bastard.”

  Thiago laughs as he snatches up his shirt. “Your move, Vi. It’s always been your move.”

  24

  It takes me several days to recover from the onslaught of the curse breaking. I spend those days either sleeping or roaming the battlements of Ceres, looking down at the town.

  I know now why Thiago kept me locked away up here.

  There are too many people in the town who know who I am. All it would take would be one slip, and then the curse’s steely trap might have snapped shut and driven me mad.

  It reminds me of my mother’s court. Doors slamming in my face. All those nobles and emissaries glancing at me from a distance before they were whisked away. It was never obvious how closely guarded I was, but my mother ascertained that I was kept away from anyone who might reveal the truth.