16. Leni

The greed dooms me. Cross steps back, inhales, turns and rakes a hand through his hair. Takes off one sock. Two.

He says something. Something with the cadence of a question, but his hands are working free the buckle of his belt. I go deaf.

“What?”

In one smooth motion, he snaps his belt off and captures my hands with it. “I asked how old are you. Because I really need to know if I should hate myself for what I’m thinking right now.”

“It’s very mortal to concern yourself with age.” The leather tightens on my wrists. I pull at it. “I’m twenty-three,” I admit, not adding that I’m only twenty-three, not yet wholly immortal.

He lets me go and reaches to unclip a holster on his calf, discards a long serrated knife on top of the dresser.

I frown. “Does that really count?”

“It’s covering skin, isn’t it?”

“You blame a female for wanting to see more? After all, I might be the only creature who actually lives to tell the tale, spill the deets on what the spymaster truly looks like. No forked tongue. No scales … yet. Hate for the description to be partial.”

He smirks, stepping closer as he yanks his shirt over his head. “Who’s chasing you? Who do they work for?”

“Pants,” I say, but he’s already unzipping, watching me, waiting for an answer as he rips down his jeans. Naked save for black underwear and a black shoulder harness pinning a gun to his torso.

My cheeks are burning as he stretches out, a mile of pale cut muscle on display. Dark blood coagulated on his shoulder. “You still haven’t healed.”

“I’ll make time after our game. Who’s chasing you?”

“Guards,” I answer, skimming the truth. “They work for my fiancé.”

“Fiancé?” A growl.

“Is that a question?” He doesn’t need prompting. He’s tearing down his boxers. Nudity over the holster.

The fun seems to flicker away. “You really need the gun? Here with me?”

He tries for a smile as he sits on the bed, knees spread, shoulders pressed wide. Utterly unashamed.

And why shouldn’t he be when he looks like hand carved marble breathed to life? Long-limbed, lean, and hard all over.

All. Over.

I force my gaze away from his thighs, finish my perusal, and of all the ridiculous thoughts, I’m glad he ate. His muscles cut a little too ruthlessly into his legs and stomach.

This outrageous urge to feed him again hits me. I want to peel him an orange or rip the leaves off a strawberry and watch him eat, wince when the citrus seeps into his cut lip. Lick away the sting.

Kiss the tattoo on his throat, the bands on his wrist, hell, even the one on his ankle.

“I figured you’d pick the boxers,” he says, not denying he made a conscious choice to stay armed. Not even trying to.

A wisp of bitter anger unfurls over my skin. “You still don’t trust me? You think I’m after you? You think I’m … what? An assassin?”

“A spy, actually.”

For a second, I’m absolutely still. Then I’m sweeping furious hands out wide, narrowing my eyes. “Are you insane? I’m not a spy. Do we look alike? Act the same? Have I clocked the exits or rifled through your drawers? Is there a knife tucked under my shirt? No.”

He leans forward, expression stony, broad hands sliding over the edge of the bed and gripping. “We both know that’s exactly what I’d do to shed an identity and project loyalty, right before I slit someone’s throat.”

He’s right.

It’s a smart play.

The only way to prove he’s wrong is to hightail it in the other direction.

Quietly, I clear my throat, slide my hand over his jaw. “Even if I were any of those things, and I promise you, I’m not. I wouldn’t hurt you.” My laugh is self-effacing. Watery and thin. “Complete honesty? Even knowing you are a spy, an assassin, a Blackguard, I like you.”

Cross doesn’t respond.

Instead, black bleeds into his eyes, the skin of his cheek burns my palm. Thick dancing shadows create a dark outline over his form.

Like clockwork, my thoughts stop short and scatter. A swishing stream of confusion slithers through me, roils against my thoughts like a cat ensconcing its master, distracting and soothing and—my admission hurtles away from me, skids apart like sand through open fingers.

Pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, I stagger back. My limbs become heavy, as if filled with toxic smoke. Ridiculous courses of action ripple through me. Like sticking my head out the window or running from the room, like leaving and never coming back.

“No,” I snarl, fumbling internally, rushing to pick up the pieces of my mind. “Stop, I huff, worried I’m alone in a canyon. “Stop. It doesn’t work.” I grit my teeth, stare at the bed, at the dark silhouette. Almost buckle under the weight of memories. Glare. “I’m not afraid of you, Cross.”

Breathing hard, his nostrils flare. He swears, voice rough, reedy.

Then, I’m in his space, losing my fingers in black smoke, fury in my teeth. “You can’t magic me away. I’m not quitting. This isn’t a whim for me.”

His voice is quiet, though not quite a whisper, and the warmth of his breath sweeps hair off my cheek. “How do you fight it?”

“This isn’t revenge, Cross. This is my life. My fiancé is a monster. Of the worst kind. His desires … He wants a wife to beat and break and tame. And I was chosen before I was even born. Put into a deal to be with him. For eternity. I know you’re not a hero, but you are a predator, and you’re higher up on the food chain than him, and I really really need that.”

He’s up then, a mountain of shadow and skin plowing across the room, crowding me into the wall, a look on his face that could boil water. “What has he done to you? Has he hurt you?”

Gently, he caresses my jaw in his hands, guiding me to crane for him, to arch as he bends down. Strawberry, sweet and ripe, lingers on his skin, settles on my tongue. “My last question.”

“You’re out of bargaining chips.”

“Leni.”

Has Draven hurt me? It’s a subject I don’t know how to breach. “Nothing compared to what he promises to do,” I admit. “I just want to live for a little while. Is that too much to ask? To swim in the ocean, to sleep on a beach, to be with a male without …” I close my eyes. “Without worrying.”

“You could choose any man for that, Leni. Give me a reason to trust you and I’ll break for you. I’ll lay my sword at your feet.” He sounds almost impatient.

I can’t give him a reason. Not one he’d accept. Cross loved the king, protected him.

“Is it so unbelievable that I’d want you?” I ask, heart pounding as I finally set my gaze on him. Let it stick.

Roam.

Heat fans across my skin.

Nudity in the palace is reserved for Divine portraits and cherubs, neither of which compare well to Cross. He’s youth without softness, and beauty without refinement, and those eyes—supernovas creating new galaxies.

Every breath I take makes my rib cage expand and press against him. “Cross—” My words get caught. Strangled. My eyes go wide, catch the barest flash of dark green.

He kisses me. Movements testing and delicate, lips rough, scratching.

A gasp wrenches from my throat. Must be an offensive move because he groans in counter, sending sparks down my spine as his hands slink around my nape to drag me up against him.

Then his tongue swipes mine.

He tastes like himself and iced-over ocean, and the most delicate sweet aftertaste. Salty and shocking and sugary. Invigorating.

It’s addictive, sends a pulse through me, every muscle between my thighs clenching. I sweep my hand over the hot, taut flesh of his stomach, stroke upward until I’m holding his harness like it’s a grip on a bull’s saddle.

He holds me just the same. Tenderly, angrily, grip hard in all the right places, like it’s out of his control, like Helios himself is hauling us across the sky to light the world, and we’ve relinquished ourselves to the burn.

I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.

My pulse hammers, wildly pumping blood through my veins. Too fast, too much.

I kiss him like he’ll fix everything, like I’ll wake up on the sand, blue sky stretching above me. I’m needy and clingy, and he’s … feral.

Possessive, and feral, and almost frightening. His arms wound around me, urging me to my toes, plastering me to his skin, his gun. Tangible power wraps around me, as if I’m caught in an electric fence waiting for it to turn on.

“Ask me a question,” he says, swallowing down lost air, even as he kisses his way from my jaw to my ear.

I don’t want air. I want—“Cross.“ His name spills from me in an aggravated sigh that wrenches another low groan from his throat.

“Fuck,” he growls. “I’ll never tire of my name on your lips.” My breath hitches as his mouth closes over my neck, a lick more than a kiss. “Question.”

The harsh demand vibrates along my skin, and I find my head shaking, my body tensing, ankles rubbing together.

He finds a spot that turns my nails into claws and scrapes his teeth across it. “Leni.”

“What?” I breathe, suddenly forgetful.

A greedy yank on my shirt. “I’ll answer a question and in return, you take this off. Those are the rules, yeah?”

The first time in my life I’ve detested rules. Thousands of questions swarm my mind, but they’re chased away by the crush of his hands on my waist, the graze of his tongue on my pulse, hot and teasing.

I let my eyes slip open, sleepy and drugged as they focus on the awkward bend of him feasting on me, hovering, all fallen curls and wide shoulders, rippling with tendons, a bullet hole weeping. And beyond him, beyond the blood and flesh, his touch, the realm is pitch black.

“Does it hurt?” I manage to gasp out. “The bands, the curse? Do they hurt right now?”

He draws my hand to his inked neck, spreads it flat against the scorching skin. Squeezes. “Not you. Not ever.”

A promise.

Then we’re kissing again—a desperate, raw exchange, as if each taste could be our last. My shirt dissolves under his strong touch and I’m too hungry to feel vulnerable. His fingers trace sundering lines across my exposed stomach and glide lower, plunge into the waistband of my pants.

He breathes harshly against my hair, voice layered with husk, clean scent embracing me. “Has another touched you—have you—”

“Why?” I’m clinging to his tense arms. “You’ll kill them?”

The challenge doesn’t faze Cross. His eyes smolder with defiance as he hauls me closer, lets his knuckles follow his fingertips.

My breath catches.

“Only the weak kill out of envy. An intelligent man learns from his competition, and I am very interested in learning how to please you, Leni.”

“You … I … No. I’ve never … been pleased.” I’m one giant flush of skin as Cross’s mouth descends from my throat to laugh against the damning ink between my breasts.

It’s downright blasphemous, having his tongue lave the word alone and then flick against my heart. A taunt.

He ventures further, as if I’m a map of directions, kisses my third and fourth ribs, then skates down to my navel, across, bite on my hip, notch my pants down just so.

He’s on his knees before I realize it’s me panting.

“Then maybe I will kill them,” he says casually.

I clamp my thighs together to punish the throb tangling in my blood. “There’s no one to kill. You’re the only—”

“I shouldn’t like that so much.” His fingers brush the heat of me, and before I can jolt, he groans. Nasty and dark and wild, gaze slanted up at me, a warrior alone in a sea of endless night.

My heart batters my chest.

“You were saying?” he asks, fingers gliding through the wet mess of my center, lazy and proprietary.

I marvel at the rampaging pulse in his wrist. The gape he’s cleaved out in my waistband is almost crude.

Kind of delicious.

“Talk to me, pyro.”

“I …” Was I saying something? The gentlest brush of his thumb hits me with needed friction and pressure. I gasp, squirming on my toes, rush out, “I’ve been engaged since I was eight. I haven’t ever—”

Teeth scrape my hipbone. Bite. “Then I should make it my mission to see you undone.”

He pulls back, withdraws his fingers, his hand, stretches out his hard, naked body to loom over me, close but out of reach.

The absence of him shears open a vile, festering wound in my stomach.

I almost scream at him.

For enticing me once away, for luring me in and—

Effortlessly, he lifts me into his arms and spreads me out on his bed. Controlled, purposeful, resting my head on his pillow, my body cradled in the crater where he must sleep.

It’s filthy with his scent. Clean, a tang of blood, some leftover fruity essence, as if he’s in the habit of leaving orange peels on the nightstand.

I inhale, fill my lungs with him, like he might imprint me on the inside too.

Cross shares a low chuckle, nose skimming my jaw. “I know,” he utters. “I know. I’ll fix it.”

His hands trail fire up my torso, lingering over each tattoo before skating between the valley of my breasts and pressing down, as if to erase the tattoo there.

As if to say, are you better alone? Really?

The look he gives me tears at me, intense and sure.

Better with me, it insists.

So many colliding, tempting sensations swell inside me. I want to run and stay and drink in every touch while simultaneously forgetting the thrill of sparks only his hands have ever given me.

Cross strips off my pants, kissing each new expanse of skin exposed, the roundness of my thighs, the hollows under my knees. “Ask me—” he murmurs amidst a heated kiss along my calve. “Ask me if I have regrets between us.”

My eyes are closed, my hands knotted in the sheets.

I must ask. Because he responds.

“There are none.” He’s down on his knees, again, like he can’t get enough of the feel, the angle, and then he yanks me off the pillow and down the bed, straight to him. Sets his chin on my bent knee. “I’d kiss you again in the cold. I’d kill again, let the curse tear into me again. I’d take the bullet. I’d dive into the freezing surf.”

I’m breathless, shivering. “Why?”

He’s devastating. Lips full and wet, dark eyes ablaze with desire, only a lone band of his holster breaking up the chiseled lines of his body sat in devotion for me. “Because I’m fucking greedy. Because he pulled your hair. Because they threatened you. Because I want to take your pain. But mostly, because each time you’ve closed your eyes, and you’ve said my name.”

My mouth goes dry, my stomach flutters. “Cross.”

His expression darkens further. “Just like that,” he sounds hoarse. “Spread your legs.”

A command.

I do as he asks, fire eating at my veins.

“If you remember nothing of me,” he says, voice like silk, peppering my inner thighs with languorous kisses, easing his shoulders between my knees, spreading me farther. “Then remember this.”

And then he’s tasting me, licking and sucking on the most intimate part of me, rolling his tongue across me.

It’s too much.

The embers fizzing in my blood spark to flame under his ministrations. I forget how to breathe, how to stay still, struggling, twisting my hips, gasping out half thoughts like “we should just,” and “you don’t have to,” and “Sweet Gods of Olympus.”

“I changed my mind,” he says, pulling apart from me, gaze scoring up my heaving body, cheeks flushed red. He pushes a single finger inside me, another, and I gasp, back arching up off the bed, hands clawing at the sheets. “Forget everything,” he orders darkly, happily, “Allow me to remind you of this, over and over.”

The pleasure goes white hot, pierces to catastrophic, and sparks fracture across me, blistering and beautiful. I moan, slam my legs together, arch taut and say the only name I know. “Cross.”

He guides me through the peak, kissing paths up my legs, keeping his finger deep inside me, pressure on exactly the right spot.

Gradually, the sparks fade to oblivion, and I slink into the bed. Smile at the ceiling.

I’m still breathing hard when I push to my elbows. Cross is staring, rolled back to sit on his heels as he white knuckles the edge of the mattress. The clench in his jaw would shear mortal teeth.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Some strange emotions show on his face. “Ask me to stop,” he rasps. “Please.”

Please.

“I can’t.” I don’t want to.

We’re here, rocketing toward the game winning move I’ve been grappling for since we met, toward my freedom, and I’m wishing I was stronger, brave enough to tell him to stop.

I’m not.

I bend to fold my hands over the bulk of his shoulders, draw him into me, and he’s drawn as easily as teeth of a zipper, pulling us tighter, cinching us to a lock, his length hot and hard on my thigh.

Shivers and heat.

Noise blasts through our embrace. A shout. “Hey! He’s not finished! Wait!”

The door flies open, Cross’s shadows ripple, rush to cover me and the bed. The bulb in the lamp next to us explodes from a thrum of his power and he covers himself over me to protect me from the spray of glass.

And then the worst thing possible happens.

A low, monotone voice commands, “Hands off the princess.”