Chapter 23
A surge of panic rises in my throat, choking me.
Now that Orso’s man knows I’m here, it’s probably a matter of hours before soldiers show up to take me. I’ll be dragged back and trapped in marble, to await my death at the hands of a specter no one will believe is coming.
If I don’t act now, it will be too late.
I run. Back through the trees, across the bridge, through the door in the wall. My breath comes fast and ragged, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out the sound of my boots.
I skid into the kitchen and grab a pair of shears. My hands shake so badly it takes a few tries to tuck them into my pocket. I barely register the steps to his bedroom door. I knock, knuckles stinging from how hard I strike the wood.
“Come in.”
I swing the door wide. Alaris sits in a worn leather armchair, a book in his hands. His hair falls across his forehead, his shirt open at the top.
He raises his head. The moment his dark eyes lock on mine, he goes still.
“What is it?” He closes the book. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t speak. If I speak, I’ll start to explain, and if I start, I’ll unravel everything. The stone is under his shirt. There is only one way I can think of to get close enough to take it.
I drag in a deep breath and try to smooth my face into something that resembles composure.
“Nothing.” My voice is too high and thin. I step into the room and close the door behind me.
He starts to rise. I cross the space between us and put my hand on his shoulder, easing him back into the seat. His brow creases.
“Ly…”
“I couldn’t sleep.” I walk around the chair, transferring the shears from my pocket into the gap between the cushion and the frame. I end my circle in front of him.
“You’re shaking.” His voice is concerned.
I am. I lean forward, squeezing the leather armrests to steady my hands. “It’s cold in the aviary.”
He studies my face, but I need him unfocused. Distracted. I graze my fingers along his collar. His whole body goes rigid. I follow the edge of his shirt, my fingertips tracing the V of it down his chest, and I feel it. A cord is there, under the silk.
“What are you doing?” he asks in a low tone.
As an answer, I press my mouth to his.
His whole body locks. I feel his breath catch as his book slides to the floor with a soft thud. His lips are soft, but he is stone.
I pull back. My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
His dark eyes glimmer. “What are you doing, Ly?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I try for boldness, but my voice still doesn’t sound right.
He reaches up and closes his hand over my fist, gently loosening my grip on his collar. He doesn’t push me away, holding my shaking fingers between us.
“You look like something chased you in here.” His thumb traces over my white knuckles. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I can’t tell him what’s wrong. Alaris can’t stop the palace guards from coming for me. I need the stone. I need to get my hands inside his clothes, and the only way he’ll let me is if he believes I want to be there.
“Nothing is wrong.” I maneuver into the space between his knees. For once, he has to look up at me. “I couldn’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about what happened before. Between us.”
It’s true. The memory of his touch surfaces at the worst possible moments. But I’m wielding the truth like a blade right now, and the admission tastes sour.
“You’ve avoided my company for weeks. You barely looked at me these last two days.” He says it simply, laying a fact on the table between us.
My jaw grits. He pays too close attention.
“People change their minds.”
“Such a liar, Ly.” He tilts his head. Patient, even though I’m between his legs. “Something happened.”
I want to grab him and shake him until that maddening composure crumbles. But I know I can break him. I’ve done it before.
“Maybe I’m tired of fighting this,” I whisper. He is stunning in a way that makes my stomach drop. The lines of his face, the breadth of his shoulders, it makes it easy to want to touch him. Irresistible, even.
But I don’t touch him. I want him to touch me.
I unbutton my overdress and shrug it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
My fingers find the laces at my bodice and pull free the knot. His throat works as he swallows, the first crack I’ve seen in that perfect calm. It sends a flush of heat through me.
I draw the first crossed section of lace free from the eyelets. His eyes follow the movement, as if nothing in the world could tear them away.
“Ly.” My name comes out low, from deep in his chest.
I pull the second section free. His hands rise to my hips, hovering. As if he’s deciding whether to stop me or draw me closer.
I move on to the third section.
His gaze tracks every inch of the lace as I tug it loose, his focus lighting my skin on fire.
I reach for the last section. His hand closes over mine, stopping me. His eyes are pitch, and we are both breathing harder. “Why do I still feel like you’re lying?”
Because I am. My pulse beats against his cool palm. I say the truest thing I can: “I want you to touch me.”
I pull the last inches of the lace free, and the top of the dress opens, revealing the curve of my breasts, the cotton only loosely covering my nipples. I have never been this bare in front of anyone. I want to cover myself and I want him to keep looking.
I sense the moment he breaks, just before he moves.
His hands close around the back of my thighs, and in one smooth motion he pulls me into his lap. My knees settle on either side of his legs in the chair.
“I should torture you for last time,” he murmurs. “But I am having trouble denying you anything you want.”
He leans forward and presses his mouth to the center of my chest. Then his lips trail to one side, my breath quickening with every gentle kiss.
He nibbles my skin as his cool fingertips ease the dress off my shoulders. He skates one thumb over my nipple. Heat drops straight through me and my hands close hard on his shoulders.
Then he replaces his thumb with his tongue.
I let out a breathy moan.
“S…sorry,” I say, embarrassed.
He pulls back. The cool air on wet skin makes me shiver. “You should be sorry. That sound is going to haunt me.” His voice is low and rough.
He circles his tongue over the peak, his hand pressing flat against the small of my back to hold me steady. I cover my mouth as more small sounds leak out. Each pass of his tongue sends a pulse straight between my legs, building an ache there.
My hips rock against him, and I can feel how hard he is.
Then his mouth moves to the other side. One flick and I fold with a whimper, gripping the back of the chair.
He peels my hand away from my mouth and I raise my head, bleary-eyed. My lips find his, the press of them as essential in this moment as breathing. His tongue slides against mine and my mind goes white. His cool hands stroke down my bare back, everywhere they touch trailing heat.
I grind against him, unsure how to get what I want, but desperate for more. I need to get his hands lower, to touch me where I’m burning. I need to get out of these leggings…
The stone. I’m here for the stone.
I gasp for air. I’m losing myself. I have to act now, while I have him in the right position and half my wits.
I lift myself on my knees, putting an inch of space between us. The air hits where I am wet and aching, and I almost sink right back down.
I keep kissing him and let my hands wander. My palms run over his shirt, feeling the hard lines of him beneath the silk. My fingers brush the cord through the cloth. I map it up to his collarbone, and around the back of his neck.
I reach one hand behind his shoulder, fumbling to find the shears, while the other twines in his hair. I tug down through his curls until I grasp the cord just below his collar.
His thumb finds my nipple while he kisses me, and I gasp against his mouth, my concentration fracturing. He is making this very difficult.
I press myself against him as I tangle my tongue with his, and he answers with his whole body, pulling me closer. I lift the cord just above his collar and cut.
The cord parts clean. I drop the shears behind the cushion.
I run my fingers along his waistband as I untuck his shirt, and he hisses in a breath, muscles tensing.
I kiss his jaw, his neck, then return to his mouth.
My movements are clumsy, motivated less by heat now and more by desperation.
But something about them feels true as well—with every kiss, I’m saying I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
I slide my hands under his shirt and sweep them over his chest. I need him distracted, hoping my tongue is enough. I keep my touch moving over his skin, until one hand finds and closes around the loose stone.
I kiss him with everything I have then, pouring every ounce of need and panic and unspoken want into it. He gathers me up, lifting me higher. I breathe him in as I draw out the stone and slip it into my pocket.
I take his face in shaking hands, and press one last, slow kiss to his lips.
Goodbye.
I pull away from his mouth, panting.
He is breathing hard too, watching me, ever responsive to my unexplained moods. If I let him stare too long, he will figure me out.
When I shift away, he releases me, and I ease myself off his lap. My legs barely hold. I turn my back as I pull my dress over my shoulders and fumble with the laces, looping it just enough to keep it from falling open.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?”
I glance at him, his hair and shirt mussed from my hands. Every part of me wants to climb back into that chair and forget I ever came here for any other reason.
“Goodnight, Alaris.”
I flee the room before he can read my face.