CHAPTER FOURTEEN #3
Brennan looked stunned, like he’d awoken from a trance. His neck was flushed, his eyes hooded and glazed with desire, his mouth open. But there was some other emotion emanating. Something stronger. And that feeling was pouring into me with more force than anything I’d just felt in our kiss.
Not desire. Not wanting, or love. Not even the stirrings of lust that had sparked between us.
It was guilt. He felt guilty for kissing me. For kissing the woman he was betrothed to. The princess for whom his own king—his father—and all of Eskalon had commanded him to kiss, to marry, and bed.
The sensation intensified, his feelings coming toward me with such ferocity that his mind connected to mine, opening up to show me what he was seeing, what he was thinking—revealing the true source of his guilt.
Me. But not me as I stood before him. Not Olivay. But me on the first night we met. The dancer in the tavern.
Samara.
I leaned back against the wall of my bedroom, my long brown hair wild and curling in every direction.
My breasts were heaving and looked so tantalizing as they practically spilled out of my red coin bra.
He was imagining sliding it off of me and revealing my nipples, holding my breasts, sucking them into his mouth.
It was torture. Every move I made was sensual to him.
Every look into his eyes, every lick of my lips made him want me more, made a new fantasy come to life.
My eyelids were heavy, my desire laid bare as I stared at Brennan.
It was a flame he’d matched with his own wanting.
But it wasn’t just the way I looked at him, or even the way I looked at all—tantalizing as he found my appearance.
It was me, my soul. My mind. The way I danced, the way I spoke, and how easy it felt just to talk to me.
How comfortable I was for him to be around.
He wanted me, all of me, but knew he couldn’t have that.
And he already cared too much. So he was trying to find a way to protect me.
To help me. To make my life better even if it wasn’t with him.
Because it would never be with him. Because in his world there was Olivay, and duty, and the crown, and loyalty, and of course he was going to honor all of them.
It was his destiny. He knew he had to soldier on, that no matter how much he wanted to lay me on the bed, and learn how it felt to kiss me, he wouldn’t.
Because he was going to secure the throne for Eskalon and safeguard it against his family’s enemies.
He was going to keep his people safe from …
The vision stopped suddenly, before the final thought could reach me. But I could guess what it was.
He was going to keep his people safe from Eskalon’s enemies.
Witches. Demonos. Azete.
Me.
Brennan’s eyes met mine. Olivay’s. Not Samara’s.
The connection between us severed. He ran his fingers through his mussed hair, still looking halfway torn between guilt and desire as my heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it despite the thunderous roar of the crowd.
Then he took my hand, bringing it to his lips for one soft, final kiss.
Every nerve in my body lit up as he stared at me through his dark lashes, his lips feather-light against my skin.
The kiss may have been on my palm, but I felt it everywhere, felt it dancing across my skin, bringing every nerve to life.
The Azete stirred, knowing a source of food was near.
But even with his cheeks flushed, his lips swollen, and his chest heaving, Brennan still offered me nothing.
Not even as his lips dragged across my sensitive skin.
Nor as his green eyes lifted once more to meet mine.
At Geoffrey’s Tavern, one minute into our meeting, he had whispered in my ear like we’d shared a dozen secrets between us.
Like we’d known each other for lifetimes.
But standing there with him on the field, after what had been the most intense and passionate kiss of my entire life, he was acting like a stranger.
He cleared his throat, offering me a kind, yet formal smile.
One that was still so Godsdamned beautiful, I wanted to cry.
I wanted to wrap my arms around him so I could shake him and tell him the truth—tell him it was me.
Tell him to kiss me again. Tell him we could run away together, tell him we could forget duty and honor.
But even that wouldn’t save him. Only bring about his ruin faster. And mine.
My wrist already burned, just from the mere fantasy of it, from the memory of what we’d just done—and the Azete was rioting inside, demanding more.
I felt crazed and split apart. I’d become so addled with lust, so turned on that my own hunger had sparked, and while my body wanted him and my mind rebelled, the Azete raged.
And there was nothing I could do about any of it.
The Hermit’s prophecy was already unfolding. The crown prince was betrothed to a princess. Soon our baby would be conceived. The reign of his bloodline would end. So would his life.
And it was going to come to be from my hands, my lips, and my touch.