Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“I never had anything with Grace,” he said gently. “Nothing that was real. You are my first, Cordelia. You are all my firsts.” He closed his eyes. “We can keep talking, if you desire, but tell me now, because I am going to need to go into the adjoining room and run cold water on myself for at least—”

“No talking,” she said, and locked her hands around the back of his neck. She drew him down, so their bodies touched, which made her writhe and squirm against him. He gasped a curse and caught at her hips, stilling her while he bent his head to explore her throat with his lips and tongue. Somehow he kicked his own trousers away, and she realized she was holding him naked in her arms as he slipped the straps of her chemise from her shoulders, his kisses following it as it slid lower and lower, baring her breasts. And when he kissed those, too, she could no longer control herself. She sobbed and she begged him for more, and he gave her more: harder kisses, his hands all over her, touching her where she had expected to be touched, and in some places where she had not imagined it.

And all the time he watched her face, as if he fed off her incredulous delight, her pleasure. He was urgent with her, but careful and gentle, as if terrified of hurting her. In the end, she was the one to urge him on, to kiss him harder, to try to shred his control, until: “Are you ready?” he whispered. His voice was dry and rasping, as if he were choking on his own need for her, and she arched up against him and said yes, she was ready, yes please.

She had been told, nebulously, that something would hurt, and at first there was a moment of glancing pain. She saw the fear on his face and wrapped her legs around him, whispering for him not to stop. She said things to him that would later make her blush, and he cradled her in his arms and kissed her as they moved together, the brief pain turning into a pleasure that wound tighter and tighter inside her until she was clutching at James’s shoulders with desperate, searching hands, until her voice was rising and rising as she begged him incoherently to stay with her, until everything in her head came apart in a kaleidoscope of shimmering fragments more perfect than anything she had ever known.



* * *



“Pass me the soap,” James said good-naturedly, dropping a kiss on Cordelia’s bare shoulder.

“No,” Cordelia said. “I’m too comfortable to move.”

James laughed, and Cordelia felt it all through her body. They were in the bathtub together—however unsure of his feelings James had been, he had had the foresight to arrange a tub large enough for two people, bless him. James reclined against the wall of the tub, Cordelia leaning against him, her back to his chest. He had put something in the water that made it foam and smell of lavender, and she was happily covering herself with suds.

Lazily, he slid his hands through her wet hair. Outside, snow was falling; lovely sleepy white flakes tumbling past the window.

Cordelia had not, she thought, ever been utterly naked with another person who was not her mother, and that not since she was a small child. She’d had a moment of shyness before, in the bedroom, as her chemise had come away and she had lain before James, entirely naked. But the way he’d looked at her dispelled it—as if he had never seen anything so miraculous.

And now, here they were, man and wife in absolute truth. Man and wife in the bathtub, covered in slippery bubbles. Cordelia turned her head against James’s shoulder and arched up to kiss his chin.

“There are things we still have to talk about, you know,” she said.

James tensed for a moment, before picking up a handful of bubbles. He placed them carefully atop her head. “Like what?”

“What happened,” she said. “At the meeting, after I left with Christopher.”

James sighed and drew her closer. “My parents are going to Idris. Charlotte and Henry as well, and my aunts and uncles. And Uncle Jem. There will be a trial by Mortal Sword. It will be grim, but it should exonerate them.”

“They’re all leaving?” Cordelia was startled. “What about Thomas, and Matthew and Christopher—”

“Everyone will gather at the Institute tomorrow,” said James. “Thomas and Anna are old enough to be on their own, but they’ll likely come as well, as it will be more pleasant if we’re all together. They’ll put someone in charge of the Institute for the few days they’re gone—I’d like it to be Thomas, but more likely some bore like Martin Wentworth.”

“Well,” said Cordelia. “If everyone’s going to be under the same roof, then, it will be easier for you to tell them all about the bracelet. They’ve all worried about you so much, James. It will be a relief to them, to know what happened, and that you are free.”

James leaned forward to run more hot water from the tap. “I know I must tell them,” he said. “None of the lies I’ve been living have brought me anything but misery. But what will they think?”

“They will be angry on your behalf,” Cordelia said, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “And they will be proud of your strength.”

He shook his head. His wet hair made a cap of sleek waves, the ends, just beginning to dry, curling in against his cheeks, his temples. “But the telling of the tale, even knowing I will be glad, once it is done, to have told it—when I speak of what happened, I live it again. The violation of it.”

“That is the most terrible part,” Cordelia said. “I can understand it only a little, for I felt it when Lilith controlled me. The poisoning of one’s own will. The trespass of it. I am so sorry, James. I was so ready to believe you loved someone else, so ready to believe you would never love me, I saw none of the signs of it.”

She turned around so she was facing him. It was slightly awkward until she found the right position, almost in his lap, her knees on either side of him. Her hair was a wet cloak draped over her back, and she could not help but wonder if she had suds on her face.

If so, James gave no sign he noticed. He traced the line of her bare shoulder with a damp finger, as if it were the most fascinating thing he ever examined. “You could not have known, Daisy. The bracelet had its own odd powers; it seemed to prevent not just me, but those around me, from truly seeing its consequences.” The water sloshed in the bath as he moved, taking hold of her hips under the water. She leaned into him. She could see desire rising in his eyes, like the first lighting of a fire, the embers beginning to smolder. It made her feel breathless, that she could have that effect on him.

“You look like a water goddess, you know,” he said, letting his gaze roam over her, lazy and sensual as a touch. It was rather overwhelming, the manner in which he seemed to admire, even worship, her body. She admitted to herself that she felt rather the same way about his. She had never seen a man naked, only Greek statues, and when she looked at James, she began to see what the point of the statues was. He was lean, hard with muscle, but his skin when she touched it was fine-grained and smooth as marble. “I never want anyone to see you like this but me.”