Ignoring her, the predator holding her captive began to count her “spots.”
“Naasir.”
He looked up, expression suddenly dead serious. “Cutting me after fooling me with your outside skin wasn’t nice. It wasn’t civilized.”
“I didn’t promise to be civilized,” she said, then wanted to clamp her mouth shut. She’d spent most of her immortal lifetime being civilized and well-behaved and not an addict of sensation driven by her base needs.
Naasir snapped his teeth at her.
When she jerked, he laughed and stretched out on top of her, one hand still gripping her wrists, and his warm, masculine scent in her every inhale. “Then I’m not going to be civilized either.”
It was odd. She’d only met him hours earlier, and yet his words made something in her unknot, untwist. As if she’d lost something but managed to win it back again. “I only asked you to behave for a minute,” she found herself saying when she should’ve been telling him to get off. “You were aggravating me.”
His fingers flexed on her wrists but he didn’t release her. “I wasn’t hurting you,” he said with a scowl.
“No,” she admitted, the words from the letter stark against the landscape of her mind. “I was angry about something else and I yelled at you. I’m sorry.”
Those astonishing eyes held hers again as he closed the distance between them. “I want to lick your skin.”
That skin prickling with something that was very much not fear, she tried to buck him off. Of course she failed. He was significantly heavier. “I can’t breathe.”
“You’re an immortal.”
“My wings are squashed.”
He raised himself off her. “Spread them out.”
She did, easing the strain, but when she tugged at her wrists, he held on tighter and brought his body right back down on top of hers. “Now your wings aren’t squashed anymore and we can talk.”
Given that she could feel his arousal, hard and thick against her abdomen, Andromeda didn’t think it was talking he had in mind. She had the idea that if she gave him a single ounce of encouragement, she’d be naked with him inside her in a matter of seconds. “No,” she whispered, and for the first time in her existence, she felt regret for the choice she’d made.
He tilted his head to the side. “No?”
“I’ve sworn a vow of celibacy. It wasn’t done on a whim, or without thought.” It had been a hundred years in the making. “The vow is part of my honor, part of what makes me Andromeda.” Not Charisemnon’s grandchild. Not Lailah’s daughter. Not just another jaded princess of the court. Andromeda. Scholar and warrior.
A low, rumbling sound in Naasir’s chest, silver eyes burning above her. “Rutting isn’t dishonorable.”
Her cheeks burned from within. “It is for a woman who has vowed not to indulge in it.”
He shifted to rub himself against the juncture of her thighs. Her breath caught, her inner muscles spasming on aching emptiness as the place between her thighs went damp. Nostrils flaring, Naasir leaned in close enough to nuzzle her throat. “You want me.” It was a satisfied purr of sound.
Her throat was so dry it took her several attempts to get the words out. “That doesn’t change my choice.”
Squeezing her wrists but not hard enough to hurt, he snapped his teeth at her again. “What will change it?”
The words just fell out past her lips, as they had a way of doing around Naasir. “Finding the Star Grimoire.” That was her escape clause—she’d be released from the vow should the Grimoire return to the world.
“What is a Star Grimoire?”
“A book.” A book lost in the mysteries of time, the reason she’d chosen that as the key that would unlock her vow. “An ancient book no one has seen for thousands of years. An angelic treasure.”
Naasir was quiet for a long time. “If I find this stupid Grimoire, will you rut with me?”
Her cheeks blazed hotter even as her nipples grew tight enough to throb. “You can’t find the Grimoire.”
“If I do?”
“If you do, you can do whatever you like to me,” she said recklessly.
His smile was pure sin, the fangs that flashed in the muted light gleaming white. Rising off her, he held out a hand and, when she took it, hauled her to her feet. “Who taught you the blade? Your style is not Galen’s.”
“My other mentor.” She saw him looking admiringly at her sword and passed it over so he could examine it.
Taking it, Naasir stepped away and sliced the sword through the air in a fast, dangerous rhythm. “Someone from Charisemnon’s Refuge stronghold?”
“No. I don’t have anything to do with my grandfather’s people.” Not yet. Not for fifteen more days. “It was Dahariel.”
An icy cut of sound as he halted his swordplay. “Dahariel is Astaad’s second.”
“Teachers and scholars aren’t tied to any one archangel unless they swear that allegiance.” It was assumed Jessamy was more loyal to Raphael than to any other archangel because of her relationship with Galen, but even so, others of the Cadre still came to her for information.
As for Andromeda, she’d proven her loyalty to unbiased scholarship over more than three hundred years of hard work and unrelenting discipline. Most people had forgotten she was of Charisemnon’s bloodline, seeing her as belonging only to the Archives.
Naasir bared his teeth at her. “Do you report to him?”