“I don’t turn red,” I argued, but this might very well have been the exception. Every drop of blood was rushing to my cheeks. I had endured a tainted elixir, poisoned sap, the talons of Al Anqa’a. They paled in comparison with the sheer effort it took to extend the fig necklace in the Nizahl Heir’s direction. “I bought this for you,” I said in a shower of syllables. “You don’t have to wear it, of course, I just thought. If you wanted. The violet color reminded me of the ravens on your coat.” I didn’t say that figs reminded me of safety and comfort. Two things that—in a painfully ironic twist of fate—I had come to associate with Arin.
Arin stared at the necklace. Two more seconds and I would pretend to faint, or maybe hurl myself on a wandering soldier’s sword. Anything to keep him from reviving me to this fervor of mortification. What was I thinking? The Commander didn’t wear jewelry, and certainly not a cheap Omalian necklace with fruit on it—
A gloved hand closed around the necklace. He tied it around his neck without looking away from me, patting the spot where it settled. “As though I would turn away a gift from Suraira herself,” he mused. A shake of his head, as though the very concept thwarted rationality. “From the Alcalah’s Victor.”
The redness spread from my cheeks to my scalp. I laughed, fumbling with the cloak. “Consider me flattered. The great and mighty Commander accepting my humble offering! The true victory to celebrate.”
Arin’s fingers convulsed around the fig. “Stop.”
Did he think I could control this burgeoning panic? Stem the epiphany that I wanted more of Arin, more of his life, his time, his rare smiles? I wanted to be known by him. To lay my shame and regret in his confidence and trust he would hold them firm.
“Come now, my liege, modesty doesn’t become you.” My limbs had a separate agency from my mind, gesturing at nothing and everything. “I’m only rejoicing in the honor and high dignity of such a gesture from—”
“Enough!” Arin shouted.
I dropped the cloak. He advanced, a complex array of desperation and anger warring across his features.
“I am not immortal, lofty, mighty, or magnificent. I cannot be, because I am just a man.” Every word was bitten off, drawn from a place that simmered in neglect for too long. Ice-blue eyes, eyes that saw too much, saw through my careful pretenses, searched my own. “I am only a man.”
Later, I wouldn’t recall who reached first. Those details faded to make space for the rest.
We met in a collision that should have rocked the very foundations of the Citadel. Arin’s mouth slanted over mine, arms weaving steel bands around my waist to pull me tight against his chest. I buried my hands in his soft hair, dislodging his circlet.
A tightness inside me went slack, and a thousand coils of tension sprung to take its place. Coils of blind need, of pure demand.
Arin tasted like nothing I could name. I had made a vow against intoxication, but I would recant immediately for the chance to savor the decadence of him. I barely registered my back hitting the wardrobe. My legs wrapped around his waist, and I tore one of Rory’s gloves in my hurry to take them off. I traced Arin’s scar, the shadows under his eyes, yanked at his collar. Ravenous to touch him, to spell my name in his skin, leave him as thoroughly and irrevocably marked as he would leave me.
Arin kissed me with the same singular attention and skill he displayed in every facet of his life. He took me apart with each drag of his lips against mine. His clever hands found their way beneath my skirt, the leather press of his fingertips against my thighs hard enough to bruise.
And I wanted it. I wanted to press my fingers against the evidence of him and thrill in the throb of pain.
An echo accompanied every beat of my pounding heart, a hollow sound in the cacophony. We had done something terrible to each other. Unraveled the core of a shared monster.
Cursed knowledge, Raya would say. How could I walk away after knowing how he felt in my arms? My name whispered in his wrecked voice—how could I allow anyone else to say my name after him?
I scrambled at the lacings of Arin’s vest, cursing against his lips. I finally managed to loosen the laces and shove up his tunic. I traced the ridges of his stomach, digging my nails into his hip when he shuddered. Heat spiraled through me at the strangeness of him. This unreadable man, who never reacted to my insults or my temper, yet so responsive under my touch. I needed more of him. More of this. Needed to drive the unshakeable Commander to madness under my fingers and lips and skin. To stop picking through the debris in my head and lose myself in him.
“Do you have the faintest clue how you frustrate me?” His mouth found the pulse jumping at my throat. The solid contours of his body pressed me to the wardrobe, pinning me in place. “How you fascinate me?”
My magic thrilled when leather palms skimmed higher up my thighs, tumbling alongside the heat bolting in my veins. “Bed. Now.”
The feral glint in Arin’s smile sent anticipation shuddering through me. I would never feel fully secure with him. He would never be completely safe with me. “Is that an order, Suraira?”
I tightened my legs around his waist in response.
The world flipped as Arin wrapped an arm around my waist and turned. I hit the bed with an oomph. Arin braced a knee against the bed. He gazed down at me with hunger and something quieter. A far more dangerous emotion.
The way he looks you at sometimes. Like you are a cliff with a fatal fall, and each day you move him closer to its edge.
I reached for Arin and drew him down to the bed. I cradled his face between my hands. I ensured I had his full attention before brushing my lips over his forehead. He caught my wrists, holding tight. He didn’t pull away.
I wanted to peel him open and memorize him from the inside out. I’d had it so wrong. Arin was not a coil without a spring. Pressure had compressed Arin into the sharpest, coldest parts of himself. The parts most likely to withstand the pressure. Under an identical force, I broke. I tore myself to pieces to avoid it, knowing I might never be able to build myself back the same way again. But I wanted to hope what we’d lost could still be saved. That despite what we’d become, we could learn to be soft again.
I kissed his left eye, then his right. The corner of his mouth. The bolt of his jaw. Arin began to shake. “Sylvia.” It was half plea, half pain.
Vaida’s voice found its way through the fog of want. He withholds his heart out of self-preservation.
“I despise you.” I brushed my fingers over his hair, relishing the weight of his body against mine. He was holding himself carefully, as though he might crush me if he lost focus. Silly man. I kicked his ankle out and huffed a laugh as he caught himself, rolling me on top.
I followed the sharp line of his nose. “I dream of killing you.”
Arin pulled my fingers away. Worry lashed me. Had I gone too far?
Eyes dark with amusement searched mine. He smoothed the furrow forming in my brow with his thumb. “My demented Suraira, we have much to discuss about seduction.”
A knock against the door startled a yelp out of me. Arin covered my mouth.
“Victor Sylvia? Are you in need of any assistance?”
I bit his glove. He withdrew with a smirk. “No, thank you!”
His lips sealed over mine in a sensual slide. I cupped the back of his neck, winding myself around him like a snake trapping its hunt. I hooked my thumb into his waistband, tracing the curve of his hip.