Frantic now, she leaned in and took his lips. His growl was fearsome, skating the edge of violence as he yanked one hand out from under her and palmed the back of her head. His tongue did not gently seek entry, it demanded and she obeyed, parting for him and moaning long and loud in the back of her throat when they touched. Rumpel kissed as he lived his life—without rules or conscience. What he wanted he took, and he took her.
Her head swam and her blood hummed as his power stretched her senses. She felt invincible, powerful. As though all the world were hers for the taking. Laughing throatily, she sipped at his soul, feasting on the endless yawning ocean of it. She could taste him on her tongue. His masculine, visceral potency consumed her.
Heat spiraled between her legs and a whimper purred from the back of her throat. She was just on the verge of climbing onto his lap when he shoved her away.
“Go!” he spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and glaring at her as if furious that she’d dared to touch him.
Confused, angry, horrified by her reactions to him, Shayera turned on her heel and ran. When she got to her room, her body still crackled, still buzzed with energy like she’d never known—energy she didn’t know what to do with.
Her skin ached, her bones felt as if they would splinter apart at the slightest touch. Crying, she clawed at herself as power she did not know what to do with continued to snap and pop through her all the night long.
Tears soaked her pillow and where before there’d been ecstasy, this was the longest night of agony, and as she moaned, wracked with the runoff as the power she’d consumed slowly leaked from her, she prayed that the gods would take her.
Chapter Nine
Rumpel had felt it and he hadn’t expected to. He’d thought himself immune to her charms, but the moment her flesh had touched his, it’d set off a fire spark of desire so violent, so needy, that he’d very nearly lost his composure. Very nearly tossed her to the ground just so that he could bank the heat, quench the thirst. His fangs had lengthened; he’d felt the fire in his blood turn his eyes red, felt the wavering of the flesh he’d clothed himself in begin to give way to the true form of his body.
And before he lost himself, he’d tossed her from him. For her own good, if not for his. Trembling, knowing she’d not only tapped into his dark essence but stolen a part of it, he shook with the bone-deep cold.
Breathing hard, he stared into the flames and knew that no matter how much he ached now, he’d do this again.
He was the moth, she was the flame. She called to him. Her simple touch. Her unpracticed charms. She was a siren and a potent one. He shook as the memory of her lips assaulted him, the way he’d felt his soul slip from his chest. Only his demone form could handle her touch. Licking his lips, heart hammering violently in his chest, he gripped the armrests of his seat and knew he had a serious problem on his hands.
Only once before had he known this kind of madness. Narrowing his eyes, he snarled. He would woo her, he would quench his desire, and then… if she was the one, he would end her.
Rumpel would not be swayed; he could not afford to be. Three months of this torture—what in the hell was he to do now?
Growling, he shoved to his feet and remembered Euralis, calling to mind his every feature. Slowly the chaotic beating of his heart settled into a semblance of control. Tomorrow he’d begin the wooing in earnest. Only by having her could he hope to get her out of his system. And once she was, then… then he could think again.
Shayera had zero desire to meet Rumpel for breakfast. After the catastrophe of the night before, the last thing she wanted was to see him sneer and be reminded of her lapse in common sense. She’d been wracked, as though by a high fever, for hours and had barely managed any sleep.
Dalia had tried her best to make her somewhat presentable. And while she looked pretty enough in the copper-colored Grecian gown, her skin was paler than normal and there were blue shadows beneath her eyes. Even her lion’s mane refused to be tamed. Dalia had finally stomped her foot in frustration and let it hang long and loose down her back.
Rubbing her aching skull, she took a deep breath before screwing up her courage and finally pushed open the massive mahogany double doors that led to the breakfast hall.
Anxiety soon gave way to disappointment. She hated to admit it, but that’s exactly the sentiment she felt when she noticed Rumpel’s spot was vacant.
A male servant she’d not seen before stood by the buffet with arms crossed. Feeling a little as though she were suddenly in the sights of a huntsman’s bow, she stood very still and studied the man who was studying her right back.
As with Dalia, he was ebony skinned, with the slightest curls of smoke tracing out from beneath his polished black shoes. He wore a long black coat and pants and a bow tie. His hair was brushed back, but with a small curl in the front that prevented him from looking completely aloof. His face was angular, jaw very square and nose regal, and he had the same red eyes as her maid. He was quite handsome in an elven sort of way.