Chapter Forty-Two
“ W hat you did during the second test was reckless,” Draven says while effortlessly dodging my attack. “But…it was also impressive.”
“Oh?” I respond through ragged breaths, reorienting my hands to cover my vital spots. “An actual compliment from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Draven huffs, circling me. “I’m capable of compliments—they’re just rarely earned.”
“Right,” I drawl, mirroring his movements.
“But I’d advise you from doing anything as reckless as that again. One wrong step, Lyra, and you would have been dead.” I’m caught off-guard by the tightness in his voice.
I shrug. “There are worse things.”
He stops, frowning. “Than dying ?”
“Oh, yes.” My brows furrow at his expression. “What? Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the age-old adage: dying is easy, it’s living that’s the harder task.”
His brow arches with a deep curve. “Yes,” he says tentatively. “But I’ve never had someone actually use it against me before.”
My shoulders rise and fall once more. “You have now.”
Draven studies me. But then without warning, he moves—faster than a blink. He twists my arms and pins them behind my back, tugging me back into his bare chest. His breath caresses the skin on my neck, and my stomach turns molten—my pulse immediately skipping a beat as it starts working overtime.
“Your life is not so worthless that you should be willing to throw it away that easily.”
I tilt my chin up to meet his eyes in defiance, bringing our lips way too close. And I swear I catch Draven flicking his eyes at my mouth, his lips tightening. “Careful,” I warn, my voice tangled with a teasing tone. “Say anymore, and I’ll think you're starting to care about me.”
His grip on me tightens. “And who said I don’t?”
It’s the same conversation we had on the roof the night he caught me reading Casimir’s journal. With coals burning in my stomach and an ache throbbing between my thighs, I continue playing it through, somehow managing to hold his gaze despite the intensity resting within it.
“Do you?” I challenge, breathless from him touching me—from being so close to him.
Something shifts in his expression, and the corner of his mouth kicks up. Yet instead of answering, he releases his grip on me. I immediately whirl around on him, ready to strike. But he moves before I get the chance, swiping my legs out from beneath me.
I land on my back, and the air rushes from my lungs.
“Gods,” I say through a cough. “Kiran wasn’t being dramatic. You really do love doing that.”
Draven offers me his hand, a far too smug smile on his face.
I click my tongue. “Again,” I demand, placing my hand in his as he helps me up. As soon as I’m upright, I retract my hand as fast as I can. His touch is too…explosive.
He dips his chin and slides his feet into his stance, a smirk playing at his lips. He flicks two fingers, beckoning me. “If you think you can handle it, then come for me.”
Oh.
Oh.
Why did his choice of words feel distinctly…intentional?
My breathing hitches, and I have to shut my eyes against the immense heat rushing through me—the overwhelming ache threatening to split me. When I reopen them, Draven has the sharpest, most amused smirk I’ve ever seen resting on his lips.
I narrow my eyes.“Could you at least put your shirt back on?”
“Why?” he croons, tilting his head. “Is it distracting you?”
I bite down on my irritation. “I’m under the influence of an aphrodisiac. Obviously it’s distracting me.”
He folds his arms over his chest, and every muscle on him ripples from the movement. My breathing stutters with desire.
And then the bastard chuckles. He actually chuckles .
“Just consider it another lesson on control.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Your ability to accommodate others is truly a marvel.”
He shrugs. “Never was very popular in the sandbox.”
I tilt my head and mock sympathy.“Gee, can’t imagine why.”
His lips curve up. Again, he motions for me to attack. “No more talking.”
“But I enjoy our conversations so thoroughly.”
He shoots me a look. “Last chance.”
“I —”
Draven charges at me, throwing a punch I know is not with his full force nor with his full speed. I block it with a bent arm, and parry when he swings with his other.
He smiles. “Good.”
His leg swipes at me, attempting to knock me over again. But I dodge easily this time and counter with my own attack, landing a blow on his quickly moving forearms, swinging together to form a protective wall over his face.
He drops his arms and smirks wider. “I think the aphrodisiac makes you move better.”
Then, with zero warning, he rolls his neck slowly before charging at me, tackling me to the ground.
He leans back and draws his arm like one would when drawing a bowstring. But before his punch can make contact, I kick at his shoulder, stopping the force of the blow and jarring him back. I buck at him, just like he showed me, and seize upon his momentary unsteadiness.
Draven’s mouth curves with approval, but unlike during our previous training, he does not fall off me.
Instead, he stacks his fists as if holding an imaginary dagger over his head, ready to plunge it into my chest. We’ve trained for what to do in this position many times, and it’s like he’s testing me.
He thrusts his imaginary dagger down to strike its intangible tip into my chest, but I turn my elbow out and brace one arm horizontally, stopping the make-believe dagger in its tracks.
Then, in one, swift motion, I brace my feet against the ground, bridge my hips forcefully, and step over when his body inevitably tilts.
Now, it is him who is pinned underneath me.
Feeling bold in my triumph, I lean down, my lips grazing his ear, and whisper, “How does it feel being the one put on their back for once?”
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. He lifts a surprised brow—something indiscernible passing through his features—before he effortlessly breaks free of my hold, reverses our positions, and pins both my wrists above my head with only one hand.
His answering smirk is sharp. “You were saying?”
I can’t even answer. My body is sent into an incoherent frenzy the moment I feel his hips pressed against me. My skin is buzzing— humming —from his touch. And it screams at me, loud and demanding. More. More. More.
Draven’s brows rise with amusement as he cocks his head, studying me with a wry smile.
“Your face is as red as Kiran’s hair.” A cruel pause.
“Tell me, is it really just from the powder, or…” He lifts his hand and, with a torturously soft touch, glides a finger from one side of my cheek, over the slope of my nose, down to the other side of my face, tracing the red stain mottling my skin. “Is it me who makes you blush?”
The ache between my legs becomes almost unbearable as my skin erupts in flames.
But I set my features in a mask of cool indifference, huffing a hollowly arrogant laugh. “Anyone could make me blush right now,” I counter. “Even Finlay Fjolla, and I loathe him. ”
Draven’s eyes darken, and I swear I feel him stiffen. His grip on my wrists tighten, and he shifts his weight back onto his heels, allowing me to feel even more of him pressed against me.
Oh gods— yes .
His mouth tightens. “You know, I’ve never cared for hearing another man’s name on a woman’s tongue when I’m on top of her.”
I’m not sure where my reply comes from—if it’s the effects of the powder, or my pulsing need, or something else. “Would you prefer to hear your name on my tongue instead?”
I watch Draven’s throat bob as he swallows, his jaw flexing after. It sends a wave of satisfaction coursing through me, seeing him react.
So I press it further.
“I wonder which would have the better taste—your name, or Finlay’s? I guess I haven’t said yours yet, but Finlay, his—”
Draven curls his fingers around my jaw, gripping it lightly.
He lowers his lips until he is mere inches from my face.
“Say his name again while I’m touching you, and I’ll see to it that you forget every other name but my own.
” Lazily, he lifts his hand, exposing only one finger.
“Because this?” he challenges. “This is all I need to make you forget about every other name.”
Holy gods.
Something coils in my stomach, desperate for release. My body is a vessel composed of licking flames setting my every nerve-ending on fire.
I release a trembling breath. “And is that a promise, or a threat?”
His eyes flare with challenge. His breath caresses the sensitive skin of my mouth, and despite myself, I bite down on my lower lip. My body pulses with an overwhelming, incomprehensible need that only Draven can fill.
“It is a fact.” Draven flicks his gradient eyes to my lips, something burning in the rich color of them. “Because it is a fact, Lyra, that my finger is all it would take to have my name tattooed on your tongue.”
I melt.
“Right,” I breathe, hearing the shakiness in my voice. “But you don’t have an ego problem or anything. ”
He leans closer, and the movement presses his hips deeper into mine.
And Draven is either naturally blessed, or he is beginning to harden.
Because his bulge presses against his pants and thus against me, nothing more than this oversized shirt keeping me from him.
Without thinking, I grind against him. And something as trivial and friction-filled should not feel so unbelievably divine.
“I assure you,” Draven murmurs, his voice rough-edged and thick. “Ego has nothing to do with how I would make your body sing.”
Something white-hot coils in my stomach, and my willpower is seconds away from snapping completely.
Draven, breathing deeply, watches me for a moment longer, something sharp still simmering in his gaze as he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. But eventually that sharp intensity dulls into something soft, and the hand containing both my wrists tightens its grip before releasing me altogether.
He blows out a long sigh and rises. Then, without a word, he scoops me up into his arms with astonishing ease, cradling me to his chest, and walks toward the water.
The feeling of his touch on my bare thighs sets me on fire, and I am burning, burning, burning. Aphrodisiac be damned, I want him to take me right here. I need him. I—
In a fell swoop, he lowers his arms and tosses me into the sparkling pool. The cold is a shock to my system, but I take a few seconds and sit beneath the surface. A newfound clarity washes over me, and oh gods…
What the hell had I been thinking ?
Did I really grind against him?
Pulsing desire is replaced with absolute mortification.
I stay beneath the water for as long as my lungs can manage. When I resurface, I swipe the moisture from my eyes and find Draven standing off to the side of the pool, his arms crossed and…laughing. He is actually laughing.
His smile is breathtaking.
It’s like glimpsing a perfectly preserved snowflake. It’s impossible not to inspect it—to savor and cherish the beautifully delicate details of it, knowing how fragile a thing it truly is.
“You needed to cool off,” Draven supplies with open palms.
The humor leaking from his words makes me grit my teeth and glower at him. I push back the wet hair from my face and challenge, “And what about you? I have the aphrodisiac as my excuse. What’s yours?”
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “I don’t need one.”
I arch a brow. “So you just…what? Like toying with people who can’t control themselves?”
“Only you,” he replies, still smiling.
I cross my arms in the water and huff a breath. “Lucky me.”
Draven studies me, a soft curve on his lips. “Funny,” he says gently after a passing moment. “I was just thinking the same thing.”