Chapter 10
MOIRA
The pillow smells like him. Shadow and expensive cologne and something wild underneath. I flip it over, press my face into the cool cotton, but it doesn't help. Behind my eyelids, Elspeth's face floats in dark water. Dead eyes watching me. That terrible child's laughter echoing through my skull.
My body still remembers the press of his against the wall. His mouth on my throat. His hands sliding under my shirt.
The memory sends heat through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.
I throw off the covers and pace. The room is too small. Too quiet. Too full of thoughts I don't want to think and feelings I'm definitely not ready to name.
The clock on the nightstand reads 11:47.
Rafe said he'd be in his study, working on the evidence. Part of his private quarters, across from the guest room where I'm supposed to be sleeping. Probably hasn't slept either. Probably sitting there alone, hunting for patterns we might have missed.
I should stay in my room. Keep my distance. Not complicate things further after I already kissed him and then pushed him away like a coward.
I leave the guest room anyway.
The guest room and his bedroom bookend the space, with the study between them. Light spills from under that door.
I knock softly. "Rafe?"
"Come in."
He sits behind a massive desk covered in evidence bags, photographs, maps. The ritual markers spread out like accusation. His shirt sleeves are rolled up. Dark hair falls across his forehead. Those amber eyes track me as I close the door behind me.
"Can't sleep?" His voice carries no judgment. Just understanding.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see her. See all of them. The man we couldn't save. Elspeth laughing. All those deaths building toward something we can't stop." I move deeper into the room. "What about you?"
"Same." He gestures at the evidence. "Thought maybe if I looked at it long enough, something would click. Some pattern we're missing."
"Any luck?"
"None."
The space between us feels charged. Electric. Like standing too close to lightning about to strike.
"We should get some rest," I say. "Can't hunt a necromancer if we're both exhausted."
"Probably." He doesn't move. Just watches me with predatory stillness. "Is that why you came in here? To tell me to sleep?"
"No." The admission costs me. "I came because I couldn't stand being alone with my thoughts anymore. Because the only thing worse than seeing Elspeth's face is seeing yours and knowing I pushed you away when what I really wanted was—"
"Was what?"
The air between us thickens. Charges.
"This."
I close the distance. Circle the desk. His chair turns to face me as I approach. He never looks away.
"Moira." My name carries warning. "You were clear earlier. You don't want this. Don't want the complication."
"I was scared earlier." Close enough to touch now. "I'm still scared. But I'm more scared of what happens if I don't do this. If I let fear make my choices again."
"And what exactly is 'this'?"
"Honestly? I have no idea." Truth tastes like salt on my tongue. "I just know that when you kissed me, I felt something besides grief for the first time in ten years. And when I see you, I want things I haven't let myself want since Gran died."
He stands slowly. Deliberate. The movement brings him close enough that his body heat wraps around me. His scent surrounds me.
"Tell me what you want." His voice drops lower. Rougher. "Be specific."
My pulse hammers in my throat. "You. I want you. However I can have you. Even if it's just tonight. Even if it's complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea."
"It's definitely a terrible idea." His hand comes up to cup my jaw. Thumb brushing across my lower lip. "But I stopped making good decisions the moment the summoner left blood on your doorstep."
He kisses me.
This time there's control behind the hunger. His mouth moves against mine with deliberate intent, coaxing rather than demanding. Testing. Learning what makes my breath catch, what makes me lean into him. When his tongue slides against mine, it's a question I answer by fisting my hands in his shirt.
Heat builds slowly. Different from the desperate clash earlier tonight. This is a choice we're both making with clear heads and open eyes.
My hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers threading into the hair at his nape. The sound he makes vibrates against my mouth. Low. Rough. Want condensed into a single note that echoes through my body and settles between my thighs.
His teeth catch my lower lip. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make me gasp, and he uses the opening to deepen the kiss. Tongue sliding against mine in slow, deliberate strokes that mimic what we both know is coming. What we both want.
The taste of him floods my senses. Coffee and something darker.
Something that tastes like midnight and power barely leashed.
His body radiates heat that seeps through my clothes, into my skin.
Everywhere we touch burns. My breasts pressed against his chest. His thigh between mine. The hard length of him against my hip.
One of his hands slides into my hair. Fists. Pulls just enough to angle my head back, exposing my throat. His mouth traces the line of my jaw. Teeth scraping sensitive skin. Each touch sends electricity straight to my core.
When the kiss finally breaks, we're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, amber reduced to thin rings. The bulge pressed against my hip tells me exactly how affected he is.
"Last chance to change your mind." His forehead rests against mine. "Because once this starts, I'm not stopping."
"Then don't stop."
His pupils dilate. The amber darkens to near-black. He backs me toward the desk with purposeful steps. My thighs hit the edge. Papers crinkle beneath me as he lifts me onto the surface.
His mouth finds my throat. Teeth scraping across sensitive skin. The gasp tears from me before I can stop it. Head falling back. His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my ribs.
"Tell me if I'm too rough." The words rumble against my neck. "Tell me if you want me to slow down."
"Don't you dare."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. Reads permission there. Then his hands are dragging my shirt over my head. Tossing it aside. His gaze drops to my chest, covered only by lace.
"Not what I expected." His thumb brushes across my nipple through the fabric. The arch comes involuntary.
"What did you expect?"
"Something fancier. Silk." He unhooks the clasp with practiced ease. "But this is better. Real."
Cool air hits my skin. Then his mouth follows. Hot and demanding and exactly what I need. His teeth close on my nipple just hard enough to make me gasp. His hand cups my other breast, thumb and finger rolling and pinching until pleasure borders on pain.
My nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt. "Off. Get this off."
He complies. Strips the shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Smooth olive skin stretched over lean muscle. Scars from knives and claws and things that wanted him dead. The shadow-walker gift makes him naturally more cut than bulk. All predator grace and lethal efficiency.
My hands explore. Tracing the planes of his chest. His heart hammers under my palm. A particularly nasty scar cuts across his ribs.
"Knife fight in Barcelona." His voice comes rougher now. "Lost but survived."
"Seems to be a theme with you."
"Surviving's what I do."
The scar tastes like salt when I kiss it. Then another. Then the hollow of his throat. He groans, fingers threading through my hair.
"Moira."
"Yes?"
"I need you to understand something." He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "I'm not gentle. Not really. And right now, after tonight, after everything, I need—"
"To take control." I finish for him. "To have something you can actually control for once. I know. I need the same thing. So take it. I can handle it."
His jaw tightens. Nostrils flare. He catches both my wrists in one hand. Pins them above my head against the desk. The position arches my back, pressing my bare breasts against his chest.
"You tell me if it's too much." Not a request. An order. "Promise me."
"I promise."
His free hand slides down my body. Tracing ribs. Waist. Hip. Fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants. "Lift up."
The command in his voice sends electricity down my spine. He drags the fabric down my legs. Drops it on the floor. Leaves me in just plain cotton underwear that suddenly seems inadequate. Flimsy.
His gaze travels over me. Hungry. Possessive. Like he's cataloging every detail to remember later.
"Beautiful." The word comes out reverent. "Even more than I imagined."
"You imagined this?"
"Since the first time I saw you." His hand slides up my inner thigh. Stops just short of where I need him. "Wondered what you'd look like spread out for me. What sounds you'd make. How you'd taste."
His fingers brush across cotton. Already wet. Already aching. The lightest touch makes me gasp.
"Sensitive." Satisfaction colors his voice. He does it again. Watching my face. Learning my reactions. "Very sensitive."
"Rafe." His name comes out breathless. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Touch me. Really touch me."
He hooks one finger under the fabric. Drags my panties down. Then his fingers slide through slick heat. Finding every place that makes me gasp and arch and plead.
"Like this?" One finger circles my clit. Not enough pressure. Just enough to drive me insane.
"Yes. God, yes."
He releases my wrists. "Hold on to the desk. Don't let go unless you want me to stop."
The edge digs into my palms behind my head. The position leaves me completely open to him. Vulnerable in ways that should terrify me.
Instead, heat races through my veins.
His mouth returns to my breast while his fingers work between my legs. One slides inside me. Then two. Stretching. Filling. Setting a rhythm that has me panting and writhing against the desk.