29. Cross

I’m fucking this up.

I whip the match to snuff it and watch the delicate smoke stretch upward. Chase it with a streak of my gift, potent black firing from my palm, jumping up to devour the innocent tendril.

Get it together.

I snap my power up from the oily pool at my feet, directing it into a steel room in my chest, locking it there, melting the key.

The sheets are new, washed, pressed, folded and refolded. Tucked, cornered. Every crease clearer in my head than the back of my fucking hand. Candles pour over every workable flat surface, the credenza, the side table, the bare bookshelf is so bright, the National Forest Foundation registered it as an imminent threat.

Hundreds of tiny flames dance happily, waving little middle fingers at me.

The floor to ceiling windows face east, drenching the room in the morning winter sun. I can’t bring myself to draw the curtains. Too much of a bastard to grant Leni the privacy she deserves.

Greed.

Isn’t the first step to absolution identifying your sins?

What’s step two? Expunging them?

I can’t.

I’m doubling up on them. Greed. Lust. Even prides sweeps in. She chose me.

Because your nobody, the curse pipes up.

Semantics.

In the corner of the room, bare feet on the herringbone tile, Leni hovers over a spread of washed berries, tracing the rim of an empty crystal flute. She’s in my shirt. Only my shirt.

She hasn’t looked at me since she stepped inside.

She’s nervous.

In another reality, I would be prepared for tender consummation. If only Leni were my wife. If only it were that simple. If only we could wait, we could move slowly, one touch snowballing into a million.

Envy.

Add it to the list.

I picture Leni in a gown the same lovely periwinkle shade as her hair. A corset elegantly beaded. Sleeveless to display her tattoos, a bright train as long as the aisle chasing after her, pink, purple, orange flowers hung loosely in her hand, a mischievous smile as she approaches me, as if our entire wedding is a whimsical charade, as if she’s only playing along to relish in the gossip at the reception, where she’ll pretend she can’t hear a thing.

And after, when we’re alone, I’ll undo the buttons down her back one by one while she regales everything she learned, my little information thief.

Longing spreads through me like a wild.

“Good?” I ask, shattering the silence.

I steel myself for a jolt or jump or scream, in case she forgot I’m here.

She just shrugs, still picking between raspberries. “You’re a fruit guy,” she discerns, glancing over her shoulder.

I swallow tightly. “I like to eat healthy, you eat …”

“Artificial magic sugar?” she offers, tilting her head in the way she does, bangs spilling across her forehead.

“Yes. I compromised.”

She grins. Grins. Wearing my shirt, in my room, smelling like soap and honeysuckle, and I don’t know how to react to her looking mine already. Before, all I wanted was to make her mine, and now… here she is. Mine.

It’s done nothing to ease my possessiveness.

Gentle, she’d whispered, eyes misty.

Gentle.

If it kills me.

And even then.

She fiddles with the cork of the iced champagne, removing the foil in flaky silver pieces. “It’s here, isn’t it?” She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. “We should drink it.”

I put my hand out for the bottle and pop the cork into my palm, flooding her glass with shimmering gold. Set the bottle down without filling the other flute.

“You don’t want any?”

I toy with the hem of her shirt, fingers smoothing black cotton, knuckles dragging over the flesh just above her knee. “If alcohol helps you unwind, or forget, or stomach what’s to come, I understand. But I want to remember of detail.”

And keep my wits, maintain control.

Leni drinks and twists back to the food, popping three, four blackberries into her mouth.

Skittish. Delaying the inevitable.

I wish I had words of comfort, or advice.

My first time, or the first time I remember, involved fumbling around in the stables, a maze of skirts, the smell of hay, my bare ass exposed to the bitter snap of an English winter. It’d been as simple as base desire. Her beckoning fingers, my eagerness. We’d scrambled and tripped and hurried. It was pleasant. From then on, I partook when I had the time, the energy, when the loneliness gnawed.

I remember, vividly, my first time after joining the Kingsguard. The gold embossing on my armor had sparked the rarefied interest of a courtesan. She threw hot coals from the bed warmer on me when she woke up with a stranger.

Leni will remember.

And I want it to be right. I need her to remember me, not as the Blackguard, the killer, the spy. Not even the honorable Kingsguard.

Me. As in the other half of her.

For as long as she’s here with me, I must be the gentlemen I was born to be. Once she flitters off, runs with her gained freedom, I’ll thrash the title once again.

Leni’s hand trembles around the thin stem of her flute, and she drinks more to keep from spilling over the top.

This is not the female who chased me across continents, who burned down the Ballasts, who punched Atlas.

“We don’t have to do this,” I offer

She shoots the last of her flute and slams it to the table. The sharp clink reverberates. “We do.” Her eyes are ablaze, her tone firm. “And I’m ready.”

There she is. Licking the corner of her mouth, glaring, chin thrown up. Arsonist, princess.

I cup her face in my hands, marveling at the softness. “I’ll kill him.” It needs to be said before we begin. Get it out of the way. “For you, I’ll slice Draven’s throat and watch him choke on his glittery fucking blood.”

Her eyes fall shut, exhale loud in the silence. “Andromeda said the chains forbade you from hurting royalty.”

“And the field medics said I’d be lucky to live past thirty. I will not have the curse forever. Kadmos’s retribution is now an insignificant step on the way to my real vengeance.”

She smirks, and I can’t help but taste the hint of champagne on her lips. Short. Quick. A furious rush of adrenaline bites my veins. When I draw back, she’s shaking her head at me.

I narrow my eyes. “You think I’m lying?”

“The opposite, actually.” Her hands land on my belt. The sound of the buckle being loosened fills the air like the snap of a viper’s jaw. “The ghost, the spymaster, commander of secrets. I pictured you a thousand times. Clad in your black, slinking around corners. The only male in the realm to evade the pursuit of the Pierides.” She presses me backward, but I don’t budge, instead letting the weight of her body fall flush against mine. “Surely this male of such incredible intelligence would be well above inane emotion. Above such lurid passions.”

“If that’s true, then you set out on a fool’s errand trying to seduce me.”

“Tell me I wasn’t in your mind for weeks,” she whispers, like a seasoned temptress. What was in that champagne? “Tell me you weren’t wondering who I was, why I followed you, tell me you weren’t desperate to know.”

“I can’t.”

This woman is my perfect match.

“I know how intoxicating an unsolved mystery can be.” She slinks closer still, filling the air with a delicate floral and berry scent. “You were my puzzle. I kept wondering will the heartless spymaster be methodical and cool headed in his task?”

Task. I yearn to banish the word from her lips. Yearn for her to think of me as more than a step to her freedom, a final piece for her to place before her victory.

If she wants methodical, fine. I’ll count the lines of her ribs, kiss down the breaks of her spine, catalog every one of her curves. “And finding out?” I slide my lips down the arch of her neck. “Will that bring you peace? Knowing? Solving your mystery?”

I claim her mouth with mine before she can answer, savoring her gasp and the cinch of her fingers on my wrists. Too quickly, it spirals, becomes reckless and ragged. My blood turns molten. I push aside her hair with my nose and coast my mouth along the sensitive spot below her ear, trail my teeth and tongue over her nape.

I’ve been hard since last night, but with a hot little sigh, Leni turns me to iron.

“You’re not Tantalus,” Leni breathes, scoring her nails across my scalp.

I slide a hand around her hip to her backside, hold her tightly as I press her against my arousal. “Yes, I am.”

I am Tantalus, tempted to keep a woman who dreams of freedom.

I am Tantalus, tempted to kill her abuser without ever being able.

Death is my only escape, but even that is impossible. I won’t force my tattoos on Atlas’s throat.

“You’re not,” she says again, her declaration a feather against my chest.

I curl my fingers around the edge of the table behind her, dig into the polished wood to keep from grinding against her, from clutching and squeezing and taking everything I want as her lips slip across mine.

She sighs softly into my mouth, hands finding their way around me, tugging me closer. The wood creaks under the pressure of my hold.

I turn us away before I break it and walk her backward to the bed, reminding myself this is for her protection, not my satisfaction.

Why are you enjoying it so much then?

Monster, remember?

In truth, I want nothing more in the realm than Leni’s safety, except perhaps, for her body, her mind, except her soul stamped into mine.

One evening. She’s given me only one with her body and I’ll be damned if I won’t cherish it. Give her happy memories and endure the torment of temptation a little longer before I begin the hunt for her prince’s black heart.

With a small lift, a whisper of lean back, Leni’s on my bed.

Bare legged, knees caught on the bed’s edge, my mouth waters, I push her legs apart and slot myself in the opening as I admire her. Desire sends a flush deep from her neck to her ears.

She stops me with a featherlight touch. “I couldn’t find underwear,” she confesses shakily. Sweet with her blue hair and tattoos and steel determination. Sweet as sin. “And,” she inhales deeply. “You’re fully dressed, so it just feels …”

I strip off my shirt, kick away my boots. I’m halfway naked when a laugh escapes her. “Is that what you wanted?” I ask, smiling, unzipping my pants. “Does this make you feel better?”

“That was the fastest I’ve ever seen anyone get undressed.” She goes pink again. “Not that I’ve ever—”

“I’m glad to hold the title.” Credit to her after all. The allure of her makes me frantic.

I press my lips to the side of her neck, set my hands on her thighs, resting, not squeezing like I want, but gentle. There’s no question, as I smooth my palms under her shift, but she nods anyway, eyes fluttering shut, surrendering to the slow river of desire weaving between us. A growl grinds deep in my throat, heat building in my groin, scraping through my abdomen.

Careful, I remind myself.

I kiss her again, needing the taste of berries and champagne. Through her shirt, her nipples pebble against me. Sharp contrasts to the rub of the soft cotton on my bare chest.

At her thighs, I send my hands higher, barely touching her, splaying my fingers where her thigh meets her hip bone, thumb achingly near to the center of her. She moans. Burning need arcs through me like Zeus’s bolt.

I have to pull away from her mouth to puff hot breaths against her hair. I glare at the headboard, counting seams in the wood to stabilize the roar in my blood. “What do you like?” I ask, voice like gravel.

“Just … uh …” Her cheeks flush the closest to red I’ve ever seen. “Can you just do what they like? The others?”

So fumble around for a pantaloon hole like some desperate horn dog? “No, Leni, I want to know what you like.”

Her cheeks flush even deeper, almost mortal. “I like … everything you do.”

My little pyro playing with fire.

I spread her thighs further, slide my hand high between her legs and make a deliberate, swift sweep across the heated center of her.

Her gasp is loud enough to be a cry, as if an ember has hit her skin.

She’s wet. Despite the nerves, she’s beautifully, sinfully wet for me.

The tension inside me explodes into something nearly unbearable, more intense that the curse, hot and urgent, greedy.

I let go of her, rock back to my feet, stand while she lays out in the sheets, knees bent over the mattress, feet dangling. Red and black and blue. Gods above, it hits me square in the chest how incredible she is.

I clench my teeth, ignore the jump of the muscle in my jaw. “How about a game?”

She levels me with a frosted stare, arches a single pale blue eyebrow, “You’ve just wrenched all your bargaining chips from your body. What incentive would I have to play another one of your games?”

“You answer my questions.” I plant a kiss on her lips. “And I’ll tell you a secret.”

“A secret from the keeper himself.” she smiles. “Is Pandora as much of a bitch as everyone says?”

“You want a free sample?”

She nods at her still spread knees. “You got one.”

And it nearly killed me. “Alright. Yes, Pandora’s more Olympian than immortal these days.”

She rises to her elbows. “What if that’s all I wanted to know?”

Not a chance. I know her, know her mind is a sand trap for secrets and information. She revels in it same as I do. “Let me assure you, love. When you win, I’ll reveal the secret you desire most of all. And if it doesn’t satisfy you, I’ll divulge the sordid laundry of every uprising in history until you know more than any dusty textbook.”

Her icy eyes flash with interest, and I bite back a smile. See, we are the same. I offered her what I’d want in her place. Of course she likes it.

Her chin lifts, princess-y and dazzling. “You’d surrender the secrets of the Gods for answers from me? I hope Atlas doesn’t allow you to negotiate.”

“Or you underestimate how desperate I am to unravel you.”

A frustrated sound catches in her throat. “Fine then. How many questions?”

My eyes lock on her mouth. “Atlas should put you in charge of negotiations.” I manage to look as serious as I sound because she stiffens, smiles. “We’ll play until the end.”

She laughs. “And when is that?”

“Either the second or third time you come on me.”

Her mouth falls open, and I have to readjust the overexcited rod in my pants with my palm.

“Should we start?” She’s still gaping, eyes taking up half her face, so I move forward without an answer. “What’s this?” I bend over her to trace the row of black numbers above her knee. “Lucky numbers from a fortune cookie?”

“Coordinates of my home. In case I ever want to return. Sometimes—” I lick the tattoo and she gasps, body tensing.

“Sometimes?” I prompt, gazing up at her with a truly insidious smile.

Her eyes are no longer frost. They’re pure ice, and I think she’s just figured out the fun in this game.

She grits her teeth. “Sometimes, I worry about losing my way. My wrist has Waikiki beach.”

“Couldn’t believe you’d ever forget anything.” She remembers me.

“There’s a first time for everything.” Despite her smooth tone, her knees are vises on my thighs.

I decide not to remove her shirt or my pants. Instead, I kneel, letting my forearm drape along her ribs as I place gentle kisses on her belly, and trace the contours of a tattoo on the swell of his hip. “And what’s this one?”

“It’s—” I kiss it and she giggles. Shoves hands at me. I’m grinning, licking and sucking her skin as she laughs and squirms. “Stop!”

She’s ticklish. Gods above, I adore that she’s ticklish.

A swell of acute lust rolls through me and I stop it with razor sharp restraint. Wait for her to wipe her eyes. Her smile is radiant, dims the glow of the sun. “It’s my favorite scale. E minor. I play the piano. Horribly, but it might be the only real skill I have.”

“Besides cards, being brave and brilliant, negotiating—”

“I’m already in your bed you can stop.” She’s wry, flushed.

I let this time go because I’m impatient, but there’s nothing in the realm I want more than for her to realize her true value. “Tell me about all of your tattoos. Every one. Take me on the tour.”

“They’re not important.”

“They’re important enough for you to permanently mark them on your skin.” I yank my wrist up before my own tattoo scrapes her, stare at the harsh band next to Themis’s scales of justice on the outside of her thigh. Black against black, hers beautiful, mine diseased.

“You don’t like the tattoos?” she asks softly. “I didn’t consider your preference when I got them. I just wanted to memorialize the things important to me.” Her fingers brush the scales. “Good should rise to balance bad.”

Such a concept must have felt abstract to her growing up in the palace, deprived of choice. “I love your tattoos. I really fucking love that you want to remember so fiercely. That you work so hard at it, and never accept failure. Your tattoos are breathtaking, mine …” I pause, cotton filling my throat.

“I love yours.”

I shake my head, tamp down the urge to claw at my neck. “No.”

“Yes.”

“They aren’t cherished memories.” I bury my nose in her thigh, leave it there, breathing her in, honeysuckle and hope. “They’re a stain of my failure. I wish you’d never have to see them.”

Her fingers stay in my hair, stroking. I feel her touch echo in the strangest places, writhing deep inside me. Twisting in my stomach. Scouring along my ribs.

“They’re not a stain,” she argues. “They’re a testament to the faith you had in your king. Evidence of your everlasting vow, a signal of your unwavering loyalty.”

If I look up at her, I’ll tell her I love her. I’ll ask her what she smelled in the Gorgon’s blood and bathe in it.

I press a tender kiss to her thigh, close my eyes. “What about this one?” I rasp. Numbers again, clustered tightly together on her calf. It’s binary. A puzzle.

“It’s what I desire most,” she says. “Choice.”

I trail fingers over it, mind racing. Bite the skin of her calf, the ink there, push my nose at the building on her ankle.

“The ancestral gardens of my people. It was burned to the ground. It’s a reminder to never return.”

As she opens up to me, her body gradually relaxes, and I can sense the tension melting away. I kiss her calves, her ankles, her feet and work my way up slowly, pausing each time she squirms or jolts.

Then, as she’s telling me why there’s a bouquet of waffles and pomegranates and tootsie rolls on the underside of her breast—her favorite foods—I get a moan.

And another. Soft and melodic, it sends shivers down my spine, electrifies every nerve in my body. I can feel my pulse racing, each throb resonating in my chest and my cock.

The plan goes to hell.

Gentle becomes a foreign word with lust raging through my veins.

I fight to breathe as my fingers move between her legs, as she leans back, spine arching, hair a blue waterfall on my sheets. She’s stunning spread out, languid, her mind working to explain the names of her ancestors, inked on a cypress tree at her elbow. Her eyes flutter shut and I stamp out the panic in my chest, the fear that she’ll forget who’s touching her, who’s holding her.

She won’t.

Not Leni. She refuses to, because I’ve become a game for her to play, a puzzle in her beautiful calculating mind, and she won’t free me until she’s won or turned over every piece.

A tremor runs through her voice when I make a necklace of her shirt and trace my tongue over the tiny flame bursting over her clavicle. I repeat the motion, and her focus constricts, stutters. She writhes under me.

I can’t wait any longer.

I am Tantalus, pinned between desire and restraint, as I lower my mouth to her core, as I indulge in the sweet and salty taste of her that ignites feral impulses.

Cock straining against my thigh, I proceed with her slowly, gentle, my muscles burning with the effort of control. Black shadows crawls up the windows, a tradeoff for my control.

“Sweet Hera.” Leni groans as my middle finger slides inside her, effortlessly, like a key finding its lock. So wet for me, so perfect. A savage sound rumbles in my throat. I thrust. Pull out, repeat. Gentle.

“Cross,” Leni gasps, back bowing to me, head thrashing side to side. A sharp intake of breath escapes her and my mouth gets a mind of its own. I suck on her, pull out my finger and plunge two in, deep. Hunger slams in my chest, as I swirl my tongue over her, feel her clench around me.

I am Tantalus, tempted to possess and seize, claim and indulge. Never satisfied with what I’m given.

It takes shackles and cuffs, and a pulse of power to get me to slow again, to gentle my touch, to give her what she wants. Methodical, even. Gentle.

Leni sputters beneath me, cries out, hips bucking against me. I thrust my fingers deeper, sensing the tension coiling inside her, kissing my way up her clit, circling gently before taking it in my mouth and sucking.

Her pants fill the air. The room is dark, lit by only the tealights. Cool air blows down my exposed back. Slow is a constant scream against the storm I feel under my skin.

“Stop!” she cries suddenly.

I break away from her, fall back, mouth and hands wet with her. “Fuck. Did I hurt you?” A sick lump lodges in my throat. Regret slams through me. “I’m so sorry. Leni, Gods. I’ll—”

“You didn’t hurt me,” she rushes out. Relief floods me, but the feeling is short-lived. She pushes up to her elbows, hair a crown of faded sapphire, and she tells me the last thing I want to hear, “I want harder.”