Chapter 25
Croesus avoids me for two weeks.
Not physically, the house isn't big enough for that, and the binding makes it impossible to truly escape each other's presence. But he doesn't seek me out. Doesn't summon me for assignments. Doesn't appear at mealtimes or in the library or anywhere I might reasonably expect to find him.
Through the binding, I feel him, a constant, cold presence somewhere else in the house. Angry. Hurt. Working through something he doesn't want me to see.
It pisses me off.
I'm not sure why his withdrawal bothers me so much. I should be relieved. Should welcome the space, the reprieve from his intensity and possession and that golden gaze that sees too much even though he's blind.
But instead, I'm furious.
Because I can feel what he's feeling through the binding, jealousy and hurt and possessiveness all tangled together, and he won't even face me. Won't talk to me. Just broods somewhere in his golden fortress like a sulking child.
On the start of a third week, I've had enough.
I track him through the binding, following that thread of gold until it leads me to his private study, not the formal office where he conducts business, but a smaller room where he goes when he wants to be alone.
The door is locked. Gold, like everything else in this house, with intricate swirls carved into its surface. I knock anyway.
"Go away, Raven."
His voice is muffled through the thick metal, but I hear the edge in it. The warning.
"No."
Silence. And finally, "I'm not in the mood for company."
"Too bad. We need to talk."
"There's nothing to discuss."
I try the handle. Still locked. "Open the door, Croesus."
"No."
Fine. If he wants to be childish about this, I can be childish too.
I kick the door. Hard. The impact sends pain shooting through my foot, the door is solid gold, reinforced with magic, but I don't care.
"Open. The. Door."
Another kick. Another spike of pain.
"Raven..." There’s an edge of warning in his tone.
"You don't get to do this!" I kick again. "You don't get to drag me into your life, bind me to your house, make me feel everything you feel, and then shut me out when you're having feelings you don't like!"
Kick.
"You don't get to be jealous of Ash and then pretend you're not!"
Kick.
"You don't get to fall for me and then hide from it!" Shit. Did I just say that out loud?
The door swings open.
Croesus is standing there, gold eyes blazing, jaw tight with anger. "What did you say?"
"You heard me." I push past him into the study.
It's smaller than his office, lined with shelves holding ancient artifacts and books bound in leather.
Golden walls catch the firelight, making the whole room glow.
There's a desk, also gold, covered in papers, and a fireplace burning low.
"You fell for me. You're sulking because you hate that you feel this way. "
"I'm not sulking. I do not sulk."
"You've been avoiding me for three weeks almost!"
"Because I needed space!" He slams the door behind him, and the sound echoes like a gunshot.
"Because every time I see you, I smell him on you.
Cigarettes and cheap cologne. The demon blood who's fucked you, who's touched you, who has a claim on you that I can't erase." I hear what he doesn’t say. A claim I can’t match.
"He doesn't have a claim on me."
"He does!" Croesus moves toward me, and there's something dangerous in his movement. Predatory. "He's in your head. Your history. Your body. And I can't stand it. Can't stand the thought of anyone else having touched you, tasted you, made you scream their name."
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair!" He's close now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.
"I'm the angel of greed. I've spent three thousand years acquiring everything I want.
But you..." His hands clench into fists.
"You, I can't have. Not really. Not the way I want.
Because in ten months you'll leave, and another angel will have you, and I'll have to feel you through the binding while someone else claims what's mine. "
"I'm not yours." And that is a whole lot of assumptions in one sentence.
"You are mine!" The words come out raw, furious. "You bound yourself to me. To my house. You told me you belonged to me. And now I can feel you, always, constantly, and it's driving me insane because you're here but you're not mine enough."
Through the binding, I feel it, the desperate hunger, the jealousy, the self-loathing that he feels this way at all. He hates wanting me this much. Hates needing anything. Hates that three thousand years of perfect control have been shattered by one human who won't belong to him completely.
"This is killing you," I say quietly. "Wanting me."
"Yes."
"You hate it."
"Yes."
"You hate me for making you feel this way."
"No." The word comes out sharp, definitive. "I hate myself for feeling it. For being weak enough to want something I can't keep. For falling for a human who's going to leave me." His jaw works. "But I don't hate you. I couldn't. Not when you're..."
He stops. Shakes his head. Turns away.
"Say it," I demand. "Finish that sentence."
"No."
"Say it, Croesus."
"Why?" He spins back to face me. "So you can have more power over me? So you can know exactly how deeply you've gotten under my skin? So you can use it against me?"
"Because I need to know if I'm the only one losing my mind here!
" The words burst out of me, raw and desperate.
"Because I can feel what you feel through this binding, and it's making me crazy because I'm starting to feel the same way and I hate it.
I hate that I'm falling for you. I hate that the thought of leaving in ten months makes me want to scream. "
The silence that follows is deafening.
"You're falling for me," Croesus says slowly.
"Yes. And I hate it. Because you obviously hate that you're falling for me, and this whole thing is a disaster, and we're both going to end up destroyed by this."
"Yes." He moves closer. "We are."
"So what do we do?"
"I don't know." Another step. "I've never wanted anything I couldn't have. Never felt anything I couldn't control. This," He gestures between us. "This is uncharted territory."
"For both of us."
"Yes."
We're close now. Close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. Close enough to feel the heat and fury and desperate want radiating off him in waves.
Through the binding, I feel his restraint. Paper-thin and crumbling.
"Tell me to leave," I whisper. "Tell me to go back to my room and we can pretend this conversation never happened."
"I can't."
"Try."
"I can't." His hands come up, cup my face. "Because you're right here. Finally, after three weeks of staying away, trying to get control of this, you're right here and you're telling me you're falling for me too and I can't, I don't—"
I kiss him.
It's not gentle. Not tentative. It's fury and frustration and weeks of feeling his emotions through the binding while he avoided me. It's claim and counterclaim, taking what I want because I'm tired of pretending I don't want it.
For a moment, he freezes. Then he's kissing me back, and it's not sweet or romantic or anything like the lastkiss on the balcony.
This is a fight.
His hands tangle in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails finding purchase through expensive fabric.
Our mouths are brutal against each other, teeth and tongue and barely controlled violence.
I bite his lower lip hard enough to taste blood.
He makes a sound low in his throat, half growl, half groan, and kisses me harder.
"This is a mistake," he says against my mouth, but his hands are sliding down my back, pulling me closer.
"I know." I kiss him again, deeper this time.
"This is going to ruin us both."
"I don't care."
He backs me up until I hit the wall, golden, solid, cold where my skin touches. The impact drives the air from my lungs. His body pins me there, all hard muscle and desperate heat. One hand stays in my hair while the other braces against the wall beside my head.
"Tell me to stop," he says, pulling away just enough to look at me. His gold eyes are blazing, almost glowing. "Tell me this isn't what you want."
Instead of answering, I grab the front of his shirt and pull him back into me.
He makes that sound again, the one that's pure surrender, and kisses me like he's trying to consume me. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, down my neck, finding the pulse point. His teeth scrape against sensitive skin and I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair.
"You're playing with fire," he warns, his breath hot against my throat.
"Then burn me. Bake me. Brand me. It can’t be worse than this ache. "
Something snaps in him. I feel it through the binding, the last thread of his control breaking.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing against bare skin. The touch sends electricity through me. He pauses, giving me one more chance to stop this, to push him away.
I raise my arms instead.
He pulls my shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. For a moment, he just stands there, his hands hovering over my skin like he's afraid to touch. Like he's memorizing this moment.
"I can't see you," he says quietly. "But I want to know you. Every inch. Will you let me?"
It's the asking that does it. The vulnerability underneath the possessiveness.
"Yes," I whisper.
His hands settle on my waist, warm, certain. They slide up slowly, mapping the curve of my ribs, the soft plane of my stomach. His thumbs brush the underside of my breasts through my bra and I arch into the touch, wanting more.
"So soft," he murmurs. "So warm. How are you so warm?"
"Croesus," I warn. Because now he’s just teasing me, especially with how we started.