Chapter 64
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
ROSAMUND
I kiss him.
I’ve tried so hard to stay away from him. Every time I see him, I want to leave, run away with him and abandon this place and its cold-hearted owner.
But he hasn’t exactly asked me to be with him. “Run away” he says, but he doesn’t say “with me,” and I don’t know what exactly he means.
And leaving now feels like giving up too easily, like giving in to a physical and emotional urge, instead of using my mind to make decisions about my life.
My choices have often been taken away from me.
I won’t let my body or heart dictate what I do.
It’s a moment of passion, an impulse, and then what?
What if I hate being in the mountains with Valen? What if it isn’t any better than this?
But Valen isn’t like Lord Eorl, that smug voice whispers in my mind. You want him. You like him.
Gods help me, I do. Teeth and ears and tail and all. Animal form, grunts and growls, and flashing fangs.
All of him.
So I kiss him, and after a moment when I think I got it all wrong, he kisses me back, hauling me against his body. He captures my lips, and plunges his tongue into my mouth when I gasp. He twines his tongue with mine, that stud stroking the inside of my mouth.
It starts a flame in my middle, an urgent throb and a sweet ache only he can soothe. His taste… Gods, his taste. It fits the way he looks, the way he smells, all man, all strength and power, clean and wild like the mountains and forests he loves.
He’s the forest, the crisp air, the warm earth, darkness and life. He’s the mystery and the beginning of everything, and I want him.
Gods, I want him.
“I want to touch you,” I breathe. “Please, Valen, I need to touch you.”
“Or I could touch you the way you touched me,” he growls against my lips. “Show you what pleasure is. How a man can pleasure you.”
This is where I should say no. But I’m lost in him, his presence, his scent, his voice… His existence. And his offer.
I’ve been dreaming about him touching me. Pleasuring me. I want him.
What’s the harm in letting him touch you? the small voice whispers sweetly at the back of my mind. Only touching. That’s not the same as lying with him.
And it feels so good to be near him. He makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel whole.
One last time. One last pleasure. I’m getting married in a week. Once that is done, I’ll be the lady of this manor and will have to start on a new path.
Without Valen. Because once I’m married, he’ll go, and the thought of him leaving surges to the surface, spearing me through the chest.
Desperation has me clawing at his clothes in a quest to bare his skin, map his body, touch him everywhere.
“Not here,” he says. “Come.”
And I follow him, no questions asked, no doubts. I’ve come to trust him with my life, I realize, with my safety. My happiness.
It will kill me when he goes.
It will destroy me.
We cross the yard and stumble into the stables. Horses snort in their stalls. The air smells of hay, manure and animal. After the first assault on my senses, I find it oddly calming, and I know that after today, I’ll always associate the smell with Valen and this breathless, thrilling moment.
The thought fades, a bittersweet tang to it, when he drags me into an empty stall and closes the door behind us, then presses me to the wall.
“Fuck, I need to put my hands, my mouth on you.”
“Touch me,” I whisper. “Touch me everywhere. Show me.”
“Fuck, yeah. I’ll show you what it can be like, what you should expect as the minimum standard.” He grins wolfishly down at me. “The golden standard to hold other men to.”
“Other men?”
“Fictional men,” he clarifies. “Hypothetical men.” He growls. “Dead men if they ever touch you.”
“Doesn’t killing any other man who touches me defeat the purpose of a lesson?”
“This isn’t a lesson,” he says softly, “it’s a ritual where I worship you, as should any person who is deemed worthy of your presence.”
“Valen…” It’s funny that he’s so serious about this when I can barely function with his hard, tall body pressed to mine. “You’ve given this a lot of thought,” I whisper, “haven’t you?”
“Baby, it’s all I’ve been able to think about since I met you,” he breathes. “I’ve imagined it over and over, living off the images in my mind like a starving man.”
The things he says… Golden-tongued he’s not, but his rough, heartfelt outbursts sound like confessions and hit me like blows. He doesn’t try to bend me to his will but convince me. He doesn’t only talk but act.
He offers himself to me time and again, and all I have to do is decide. Accept him.
“Rosie,” he whispers, and my eyes fill up. I can imagine doing this with him, being with him every day and night of my life, and I want it. I crave it.
Hope is a dangerous thing to have.
But I don’t care. Right now, everything is as it should be. Me, him, the wide world waiting with bated breath outside.
Waiting to see if I will accept his offer and hold onto hope.