Chapter 39
The kiss is far from gentle. It’s hungry, our cold lips meeting with fervor like our bodies refuse to believe we’re alive unless we prove it by drowning in the desire between us.
I could melt underneath this kiss, our wet clothes be damned. For one heavenly moment, I forget the tomb, the danger, everything except Desmond kissing me.
He cradles my cheek, then threads his other hand into my damp hair, making me moan into him. He stiffens for a heartbeat, as if he’s savoring the sound. Then his tongue licks mine, tasting me like he’ll never have another chance.
My body trembles, first from lust, then an uncontrollable chill that I feel down to my bones.
Desmond nips my lips. Then he pulls away, his fingers still entangled in my hair. We stare at each other, our breath fogging between us. The air is still so cold.
“The exit is still sealed,” he says quietly. “Our first priority should be warming up. Then we can work on getting out.”
The moment is over. As badly as I want to keep kissing him, my survival instincts are taking over. We’re not out of danger yet.
“I packed fire starters,” I tell him, so relieved that I had filled my enchanted pack with supplies from the carriage that tears sting my eyes. My pack was swept off my shoulder when the current became impossible to fight. I see it across the chamber and levitate it toward us.
Desmond digs through it with urgent abandon, then pulls out the fire starters, matches, and kindling. He lights a fire, and we kneel beside it. Then he pulls a clean cloak out of the pack and drapes it around my shoulders like a blanket.
We hold our hands dangerously close to the flames. The shock from cold to hot on my skin is a searing pain, but I force myself to endure it.
“I appreciate you sullying another cloak for me,” I murmur, remembering when he bandaged me in the market.
He seemed so cold and distant when we met, yet he’s always gone out of his way to show me kindness.
For the longest time I couldn’t figure out which was the real him—the cold fae prince or the golden-hearted man dreaming of peace.
He watches the flames, his gaze solemn. “Nothing is worth so much to me that I wouldn’t destroy it to keep you safe.”
I stare at him, and he looks at me with a softness that makes my pulse flutter. “No one’s ever—” I pause, nervous to admit it. “No one’s ever said something like that to me before.”
I feel a pang of shared sorrow through our bond. “You deserve so much more,” he says with a quiet reverence that makes my chest tighten.
So does he.
I’m never going to see him again once we leave the tomb. We’re alone now. So what’s stopping me from telling him how I feel?
I swallow, looking away to gaze at the flames.
It’s easier than seeing how he’ll react.
My stomach drops from nervousness. “You deserve to be held every night so nightmares never haunt you again,” I tell him.
“You deserve to travel, to find and read any book you want. And you deserve to see your people freed, to be adored by them as a prince who has sacrificed so much for them.”
His shock is palpable in the silence. All I hear is the faint crackling of the kindling as I sneak a glance at him. His throat works, like he can’t find any words. Then he finally says, “Take your clothes off.”
“What?” I squeak out. I must’ve heard him wrong. “Did you just say. . .”
“You’ll freeze to death if you disobey,” he says, his voice low as if raked over coals.
The gravel in his voice sends a shudder through me like an electric shock down my spine. Still, I glare at him. “I just bared my heart to you, and the first thing you say is ‘take your clothes off’?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re pale and shaking. Sitting in wet clothes is doing more harm than good.” His worry pulses through me, and finally, I relent.
“Fine,” I huff. I grasp the laces of my gambeson. “But you’re shaking just as much as I am.” As I try to pinch the cord, my fingers slip, too numb to feel it. “Shit, if I could only. . .”
Desmond gently grabs my hands and holds them out toward the fire. His brows pinch with concern. “Let me do it.”
This wouldn’t be the first time he’s unlaced my clothes, but it feels different now. I try to tell myself it’s because every last layer needs to go so we can dry off, but I know that isn’t it. It’s the kiss. As he swallows, reaching for the laces, the kiss is all I can think about.
“Go ahead,” I tell him, unable to look away from his lips.
His fingers tremble as the laces slip out of his grip. He bites his bottom lip in concentration, an endearing sight, and unweaves the grommets. When he finishes, he tosses my gambeson aside.
“Do you want me to. . ?” He holds the hem of my tunic but pauses, looking at me with a question in his wide eyes. Those velvet lips press into a tight line.
My stomach squeezes. I’ve never seen him look so flustered.
I nod.
The soaked tunic slides against my body as he pulls it off me. The rowan berry necklace comes off with it. I hiss as the cold air meets my bare arms, but then the warmth of the fire cradles me. “This is better,” I admit, but I fail to suppress another shiver.
My drenched pants feel glued to my thighs and my white bustier is as translucent as a wet sheet against the swell of my breasts, my nipples hard from the cold. The clothing blocks any of the fire’s warmth from reaching my torso or my legs. It’s miserable.
I peel my bustier off my body. I set it down, hesitate, and turn to look at him.
Desmond isn’t looking at my bare skin, despite my breasts being shamelessly exposed. Instead, he brushes his thumb across my lips, meeting my gaze with a quiet wonder that makes my chest ache. “Your lips are warmer already,” he says. “Do you feel better?”
I lean into his touch, then catch myself and pull away. “A little.” I glance down at myself, flustered even though I’ve been shirtless with a man before. Yet it’s different with him. It’s always different with him.
He grimaces at the fire as though wishing he could make it burn hotter. Then he shifts, reaching for the cords of his gambeson.
I stop him. It’s foolish, and I know we’re only undressing so we don’t freeze to death, but underneath the unyielding cold, desire burns me.
My hands aren’t so numb now, and as I unlace the cords, Desmond sits very still, as if one sudden move might startle me. I peel the gambeson off his body so only his drenched tunic covers his torso. Then I unsheath one of the knives he gifted me.
He arches a brow. I run the blade down the center seam, slicing his tunic open. He sucks in a breath as a shiver rolls through the tight muscles of his stomach, and when he looks up at me, a small smile dimples his cheek. “I’ve always loved a woman who knows how to use a blade.”
At first I laugh, and then my face flushes as I think the sentence over. He didn’t mean it that way. I can’t afford any blood rushing to my cheeks when I’m still chilled to the bone. It’s these damn boots. My toes are blocks of ice inside them.
As if reading my mind, the humor snaps off Desmond’s face. He pulls each of my shoes off and then my stockings. I draw in a breath to speak, expecting that he’s done, but then he grabs my feet and rubs them, warming my soles.
Gods, he’s good at it. If I weren’t so damn cold still, I’d be lost in the sensation of it. Rough, then slow and soft along the sensitive curve of my arches. I close my eyes, letting the fire warm my toes as he massages them.
Still cold. Still so cold. Even with the water gone and the air in the chamber growing warmer, my pants are a sheet of ice around my legs.
Desmond gently releases my feet. Then I gasp as his touch sears against my hips, his thumb hooking into my waistband.
His jaw tightens as I watch him. “Is this alright?” he asks me.
I lift my hips in answer, helping him pull my pants down until nothing covers me but silken underwear.
Desmond swallows. The firelight catches in his hazel eyes as his gaze drifts lower, lingering for one reckless second too long on my thighs. Then he tears his attention away so abruptly it’s almost violent, as though looking at me is dangerous.
I bite my lip and pull the cloak tighter over my shoulders. It’s foolish, but I liked the way he looked at me, as if my body could unravel his careful restraint. I want him to stare at me that way again.
The clack of a belt buckle makes me stiffen. Desmond grunts low as he pulls his shoes and stockings off, then his pants and sword holster. Out of the corner of my gaze, I see him discard the cut remains of his tunic. I swallow, my pulse quickening as the realization sinks in.
We’re sitting beside each other—almost naked—and neither of us is saying a damn thing.
I never dared to fantasize about this. Especially not cutting his clothes off him.
He was supposed to be in love with Auri.
I’m supposed to avoid any attachment and leave for Nettlerock after the tomb raid.
Look how that turned out when my heartstrings pull at the thought of leaving the guild behind.
Of leaving Desmond behind.
“You should drink something warm,” he says in a gravelly tone that makes my toes curl. He stands, the sinuous muscles of his back rippling as he stretches his arms behind his head. I unabashedly stare as he walks across the chamber to fetch his flask. The current must’ve torn it free from his belt.
As he walks back toward me, I quickly avert my gaze. “I could’ve untethered it, you know.”
He frowns as he sits beside me. “You’ve taken care of others your whole life. Let someone take care of you for once.”