Chapter 52
Chapter Fifty-Two
Emmeline
Emmeline drifted in and out of sleep on the sofa in Roremar’s family’s sitting room as he spoke with his uncle and Lyra Isle Guard. Gruff voices surrounded her, but she hadn’t entirely been able to tell which were real and which were in her drug-induced dreams.
His family prepared to temporarily move to the Academy—a fact she knew they were both grateful for. Siena had been fascinated by the excitement, of course, and hadn’t understood why Emmeline couldn’t help her pack. Thankfully, Nico had taken over, allowing her to rest.
“Get them to the Academy,” Roremar said to his brother. “I’m going to take care of her. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good luck,” Nico said to them both.
Every so often, a cold cloth would swipe across her forehead. Warm lips would press against her hairline.
It was always those gentle touches that lured her back to sleep. That reminded her she was safe.
“Whoever is doing this is going to come back,” she heard Darcy saying to Roremar and Falliare after the guard returned from the cave tunnel himself. “We’ve got him.”
“Arrange to have men on every entrance, even ones that may not lead directly there,” Falliare said. “Have them hidden, but alert. We don’t know where this culprit will hide if he notices Isle Guard on his tail.”
Falliare’s instructions melted together as she slipped beneath the darkness again, but she wanted to talk to him. To ask him if this meant she’d be transferred to Valyn finally.
She couldn’t help the grief that clenched her heart at the idea of it. And the feeling that while she knew she had to go—the satisfaction at finally getting what she’d worked so long for—she’d be leaving so much more behind.
By the time she traipsed into the bathing chamber in the apartment and stood before the mirror, her head was entirely clear, but there was a cocktail of emotion in her stomach. Shock and fear. Elation at finally getting her transfer. And mourning over…
Roremar’s image swam into view in the mirror, grey eyes tracing every line of her stoic expression. She had the impression of him seeing right through her, like she was made of glass.
He stepped closer, and greedily, she leaned into his warmth at her back.
“Are you all right?” Roremar asked. She swallowed, and his gaze tracked the bob of her throat in the mirror, his eyes a brand on every inch of her skin.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Because she should be. Soon, she’d be off to Valyn. The killer would be found any day now, and Lyra would be safer.
The swirling in her gut didn’t calm with that knowledge.
Roremar took a step closer. “Truly?”
“Back to normal,” she breathed, biting her lip to keep from saying more, giving him more pieces she couldn’t afford to lose. But with Roremar, they all slipped through her fingers.
Gently, he reached around her, pressing his thumb to her bottom lip and tugging it from between her teeth. In the mirror, his eyes tracked the motion like it was the most addictive sight he’d ever seen.
Stars, she nearly panted from that one touch. Was tempted to let him closer.
That’s what Roremar was for her—temptation, and all the things she couldn’t indulge. As he assessed her, she knew he saw her in a way she wasn’t ready for. But Fates, after all they’d been through and with how little time was left, she just wanted to give in.
Spinning, Emmeline pressed back against the counter, looking up into eyes turning more silver by the second. Tonight, it made her think of the stars and all the secrets she gave up to them.
And she realized that while it scared her, she did want to give more to him.
Holding Roremar’s daring stare, Emmeline untied the knot securing her top. The cotton unwound, falling open at her ribs so her breasts were on display, nothing beneath the thin fabric.
Roremar’s gaze dragged over her, her nipples peaking at his attention.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice husky.
“I want…” Her words trailed off, need clogging her throat.
Roremar lifted a brow, one corner of his lips quirking up. “What is it that you want, Emmeline?” He took a step closer, confirmation that whatever it was, if it was in his power, he’d give it to her. “Tell me.”
With those two words, her blood ignited.
And the rest of the world fell away.
There were so many things she could have said. So many ways he could take her, to make her forget for one fucking night about all the reasons they shouldn’t do this. People close to her ended up dead, but she was leaving soon now.
He wouldn’t be close for long.
And it was that realization that made her whisper, “I want to remember.”
“Remember what?”
“This.” Whatever this fire was between them. She couldn’t keep it, but she never wanted to forget it.
“And you want me to help you with that?” The silver in his eyes scorched through her, the scar above his lip twitching. She wanted to know what it tasted like. What every part of him tasted like.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“How?”
Her cheeks heated. “Touch me.”
“By the fucking Fates,” Roremar exhaled, pure relief deepening his voice as his head dropped to her shoulder and his hands gripped her waist.
Before she knew what was happening, her skirt was falling down her legs, and she was being propped on the counter.
In only her lace undergarments, the cold marble bit into her thighs, and she gasped at the contact.
It fueled the fire roaring through her, unquenchable now that she’d let it spark. The hunger, the burning need.
She could drown in it.
Roremar stepped into the cradle of her thighs so he was pressed against her and dropped his lips to her neck. Her legs automatically locked at his waist as he rocked into her.
The graze of his lips drove her wild, his tongue and teeth as they dragged her top off one shoulder, then the next in slow, reverent movements that heightened every sensation. Every brush of his hands roaming her skin called up more and more waves of pleasure within her.
He trailed kisses between her breasts, circling a callused thumb around one nipple, his tongue teasing the other.
“Please,” she begged, arching into his palm.
With a satisfied growl, Roremar gripped her ass, pressing her closer, and sucked her into his mouth. The contrast of his heated flesh and mouth with the cool marble beneath her had her writhing.
“Fates, Roremar,” she breathed. He’d barely touched her, and it was the most alive she’d felt in years. Ever, truly.
The scrape of his teeth over her sensitive skin was almost too much. Her head dropped back as a moan escaped her throat. She dug her heels into his back, needing to keep him there.
“How do you want to be touched, Emmeline?” His breath was hot as he dropped lower, mouth traveling down her stomach. “Tell me, and I’ll do whatever it is you need.”
Fates, those words. She had a feeling Roremar the Reckless had a sinful mouth, and she wanted to experience every bit of it.
Gripping her knees, he spread her wider as he lowered. She could hardly get words out.
“This?” he asked, and his teeth grazed her waistband, placing a gentle kiss over the lace covering her center. She shivered.
Emmeline forced her gaze to his as she tried to speak, but that was a mistake.
Because she couldn’t think of anything beyond him looking up at her from between her legs—an image she’d never forget.
One that should be memorialized in history but also kept privately for her; no one else to see that crazed, starving look darkening his silver eyes.
“Or this?” Trailing kisses up the inside of her thigh, he teased one hand over her center, pressing down where she was most sensitive. Emmeline writhed on the counter. “Fates, Huntress, I bet you taste divine. Is that what you want? My tongue?”
She wanted to feel him—his fingers, his tongue, his cock, whatever he was offering. She wanted—no needed—to give this piece of herself to him, to allow him a sliver and give them both something to remember because she couldn’t give him more.
No one could be close to me.
And as that reminder clanged through her mind, she knew that while she needed him in all those ways, there was one boundary she couldn’t cross.
Not with how desperately she wanted him, not with how the image of him smirking up at her from his knees was already tattooed on her memory, his touch an inky stain she’d never scrub from her soul.
“No kissing,” Emmeline forced out, as his mouth pressed to the lace again.
Roremar froze. He rocked back, eyes burrowing into hers from between her legs. “What?”
“No kissing,” she repeated, breathless.
Roremar’s silver stare was calculating, peeling her apart piece by piece. His hands braced on her thighs as he rose to his feet. “Is there a reason?”
And Fates, that voice. It was rough, but it purred over her skin like the most decadent silk, heady as the richest wine. Like every side of him she’d experienced so far had been.
What would it feel like against the crook of her neck? Buried between her thighs? How would the faint shadow of stubble he hadn’t shaved today scrape against her skin? Her breathing came quicker at the thought.
But despite all those questions, there was a new edge to Roremar’s voice, too—it was raw. Vulnerable.
“Em,” he repeated, her name rolling in the way only he said it.
That, paired with his gravelly tone, made her breath catch.
“I need to know if there’s a reason. If there’s something that happened”—his hands tightened possessively on her thighs—“you don’t need to tell me what, but tell me if I need to stop. ”
“I don’t want you to stop,” Emmeline said hastily, and his thumbs stroked over her inner thighs. At his touch, she widened her legs. His eyes darkened with the shift beneath his palms, but Roremar kept his stare intent on hers. “I want you to touch me. But no kissing.”