“If I had that bond, things in my life would get . . . fixed.”
“Like what?”
“I have a fear as strong as your phobia about heights.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “I’m afraid I’ll just float away. Especially if I sleep-ghost.”
“Sleep-ghost? Like sleepwalking?”
She nodded. “I float through the bed into the ground. When I come to, I’m basically in a grave. Why shouldn’t I fear going the other way? And those stars seem to call to me.”
“You never did that during the past two weeks.”
“It only happens when I’m filled with . . . loss. Or yearning. If I had a bond with someone, it would—I don’t know—maybe anchor me here.”
She fears floating away; I fear extinguishing my emotions forever.
Every time he went cold with a target, he wondered if he was like Darach—one fateful transition away from permanence. Or like Uthyr, the dragon shifter, who’d abandoned his human form and became a dragon forever.
Josephine wanted Rune to be her anchor? To hold her hand and keep her tethered to him? That, at least, seemed achievable. In return, she could make sure his heart never fell to ash again.
Maybe we could be each other’s anchors.
He reached for her, smoothing his thumb over her full bottom lip, that little dip. Her eyes grew even more luminous. As he stared into them, he said, “I could keep you with me.”
Her face lit up; his fell.
He’d used zero qualifiers. Was she mesmerizing him again? Exasperated, he said, “I want you, Josephine. I’ll wait no longer.” He was about to go into all the reasons her refusal was ridiculous—
“Okay.”
Huh? “I want you completely.”
Her lips curled.
“As in sex. I want sex.” He was fumbling. What in the hells was wrong with him?
Her smile deepened.
He could disabuse Josephine of her hopes right now. Or he could let her believe they would be exclusive, when he had every intention of bedding others.
Every intention of remaining the same.
She’d told him she had expectations, and they were sky-high. Tomorrow he would manage them for her. She would change. If they were to have any kind of future together, it would be on his terms—or not at all. “Are you sure you want to risk my poison?”
“Already told you I don’t think there’s a risk. But if we’re even talking about this, then you must think there’s some chance I’m your mate.”
“I’m not going to lie. I do think there’s a chance. I’ve got protection.” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a runic combination he’d inked in preparation.
“I’ve never seen those symbols.”
“It’s an ancient contraception spell to keep me from spilling seed.” He was about to get what he wanted. He’d won. He had seduced the impressionable Josephine with a ball and drinks and compliments.
If she knew how much he’d manipulated her—a millennia-old master versus an inexperienced young woman.
“But how will you know if I’m your mate?”
Rune already did. In that ballroom, when he’d seen her black blood . . . even amid his panic, a bewildering thought had arisen: She’s me, and I’m her. “Does it really matter? Tonight won’t change how we go forward. We’re still going to be together.”
Together in bed. In the Møriør. In war.
FIFTY-THREE
I loved this on you,” Rune murmured against Jo’s choker.
She was sitting in his lap as he nuzzled her neck. Beneath her ass, he was rock-hard.
“Loved seeing you wear my baneblood.” His warm breaths made her shiver. When he claimed her as his mate tonight, he would bite her neck. “Your own blood is black now. I saw when that swordsman nicked you.”
Get out! “Can I kill with my bite or my claws?” More powers!
“Your blood might be deadly. But I doubt anything else would be.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “For all my life, I’ve hated my poison.”
“Until you met me.” She leaned in for a kiss.
His lips were firm when he grazed them over hers. Just that light contact made her heart race. She parted her lips, welcoming his clever tongue.
He leaned her back against his arm so he could take her more thoroughly. For a male who hadn’t kissed often—or at least not for extended amounts of time—he was an amazing kisser.
She threaded her fingers into his thick hair, loosening it from his queue, pressing herself against his body. She was already wet for him. He’d made a big deal out of readying her for sex—she was raring.
When she wriggled over his dick—hint, hint—he groaned into the kiss, adjusting her on his lap. As their tongues twined, she tugged on his neck, arching into his grip. Why wasn’t he feeling her up? Why did they still have clothes on? She wanted his dick warming her palm. She wanted his mouth on her tits, his tongue playing with a piercing.
Against Jo’s lips, he muttered, “Damn it.” He drew his head back.
Catching her breath, she said, “What’s wrong?”
“Maybe we should get back.”
“To Tortua? I wanted it to be here at this epic location.”
“Perhaps we should wait for another night or so.” Her dark fey was getting cold feet.
Jo had outlined her parameters for sex. Yet he’d still been about to do it. To commit. The bond with him was so close she could taste it.