Page 71 of The Forgotten Prince

As though aroused by the taste of her, he closed his eyes, and sank only the tip of one glittering tooth into her shoulder, drawing a speck of blood.

Gwendolyn blinked, confused.

And no matter… her body flushed with a different kind of hunger.

Her skin tingled.

Every part of her convulsed.

Her cheeks burned.

The tips of her breasts ached.

And before she knew what to say, a sense of certainty arose. Come what may, she would give herself to Málik and Málik alone, and if he would not take what she so willingly offered, she would beg. Death was a possibility, and she could not allow it to come for her without taking this small moment of joy. To say just that, she meant to speak—to tell him all that was in her heart, but words failed her as his fang sank a little deeper. Gwendolyn watched haplessly as he lapped a speck of blood.

“Gods,” she groaned.

It was the only word she could have possibly uttered as he suddenly lifted her by the waist, pulling her hard against his body as he walked her back into the room, his intentions unmistakable…

30

This was what her wedding night should have been.

Like a never-ending slice of Hob cake.

Like a sweet drop of dew in a baby bird’s beak.

Like the cool crash of the tide over sun-warmed flesh.

Like riding her sweet mare, her air billowing in the wind.

Like standing atop the prow of a ship, sails unfurled, arms wide, embracing the wind.

Like the first wink of night after a blistering day, bathing nude under the moon’s soft caress.

Beautiful moments to inspire bards—it was… everything.

Gwendolyn’s heart was full even if her stomach was empty, and when her belly grumbled in complaint, she daren’t stir—not yet. Sated and spent, she reveled in the weight of Málik’s leg, hooked lazily over her own, possessing her even in slumber. They’d spent the entire morning and afternoon with Málik exploring every curve of her body as though her form were a riddle to be solved. He’d kissed her gently and not so gently, and even now, she blushed over the memory of all they had done. It was… the most magical… titillating… wonderful… passionate… enriching experience she had ever known. At long last, she understood what it meant to lie in the arms of a beloved, to feel beloved.

And yet, tempering the joy she felt was the fact she had not come here to live joyfully ever after. She had a task to perform—one she could not afford to ignore, no matter how heavenly it felt to lie in his arms.

Nor, despite his professions of love, could Gwendolyn forget all that Esme had revealed…

Even so, she dared to linger abed, greedy for more.

In the half-light, she studied Málik’s face, exquisite in slumber. His hair spilled over his shoulders like molten silver, pooling behind him atop the bed. And his face, perpetually youthful, appeared flawless with eyes closed and his mouth at rest. His iridescent skin was… perfect. His lips—ruby red, even after hours of putting them to wicked use—were magnificently formed, making her long once more to press her mouth to his, only to tempt him.

Every inch of him was as splendid as his face… and, in all ways that mattered, he was like any other man, but there were a few things he could do—and did—that left her breathless and craving more.

The one thing tainting this time together was the fact that all too soon, she and Esme would leave this village, but until then, she would cherish every moment.

Emitting a half growl, Málik turned and stretched out his arms, yawning… the gesture so utterly normal, and yet, so wonderfully feral. He then turned to her and grinned, revealing all his teeth in all their fierce glory. “Good eve, flower.”

His voice was husky with sleep, and Gwendolyn returned his smile, certain as she was that he spoke from his heart. Málik had always seen her as something more than she was. He saw the good and the bad. And even when he had disapproved of her, he’d regarded her as a thing of beauty—unlike Locrinus, who’d revealed his true thoughts on their one and only night together.

Unconsciously, she reached to catch a lock of her hair, and twirled it. It was growing quickly now, and sometimes she was glad of it. Other times, she missed the fierceness of having it shorn. Even Caradoc had viewed her differently.

Málik seized her hand, drawing it to him and laying it atop his smooth, warm chest, holding it fast, and Gwendolyn smiled, remembering how, in his moment of most heightened pleasure, his horns had appeared. “You are a beast,” she teased.

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