Page 73 of The Forgotten Prince

The smile faded from his face, and he looked at her—or rather, his gaze lowered to the breasts she’d so easily bared to him, the silver points in his eyes flaring like the cooling rays of a dying sun. “No,” he said. “I did not.”

“But you would?” she asked, merely curious.

“I would,” he confessed, with a half-smile. “Are you offering yourself to me, Gwendolyn?”

Gwendolyn’s brows collided. “Why did you not?” she persisted.

“Because it wasn’t appropriate.”

“When would be appropriate?”

“If you offered,” he told her.

“Is it sustenance for you?”

“Of a sort.”

“And do you crave it?”

“I crave you,” he replied, his lips curving ever so slightly, this time without a trace of mirth. His eyes narrowed to slits, and the points in his eyes grew thick and black. “It is the first step of our mating ritual.”

“So, if you partake of me, and I of you, we are mated?”

His eyes flared. “There’s more to it, but yes.”

Gwendolyn couldn’t stop herself. She pounced on him, drawing her hair back, pressing her naked breasts against his chest, offering him her throat. “Have me,” she demanded.

“Nay.”

“Why?”

“You do not understand,” he said, and despite what he said, he groaned inwardly—the sound tormented—and didn’t resist. Like an animal starved, he unerringly lifted his lips to the pulse in her throat, his tongue flicking out to caress the throbbing vein. The feel of it gave Gwendolyn the most wicked sensation—a ribbon of pleasure that tugged at her body in unexpected of places.

Her voice was husky when she spoke again. “Then, help me understand.”

She leaned into the points of his teeth, seeking the same liquid drogue he’d injected so stingily all throughout the day—a little here, a little there, only teasing her when she knew there was so much more. Even as she did so, she felt his body respond, and she sighed with anticipation.

“Make me yours,” Gwendolyn demanded, and Málik complied by sinking the tips of his teeth into her tender flesh and sucking gently from her vein. But even as he drew from her, he once again returned the elixir of life, mixing aether with blood…blood with aether, and Gwendolyn cried out as liquid joy rushed through her veins.

“Ohhh,” she sighed. “Málik!”

Without distraction, he did this another moment, and then lifted his head, lapping tenderly at the slight wound as he withdrew, then licked his lips. “You may come to regret this,” he said, but Gwendolyn could hear the remnants of his gratification in the raspy tone of his voice.

“More,” she murmured, sighing as she felt liquid fire trickling through her veins and she grew reckless with desire.

Once more, he lifted his head, and before he consumed her, she saw the blue in his irises brighten to the hottest shade of a flame. His pupils elongated, then thinned, like that of a viper’s, and he whispered, “By Dagda’s hammer, you have been my weakness for a hundred thousand years, Gwendolyn… alas, I may well be your death.”

Gwendolyn didn’t care. “More,” she whispered, and he said, “No.” Then he forced her head down to rest against his bare chest and kissed the top of her head. “Do not tempt me, Gwendolyn. No more,” he pleaded, and there was again that note of finality, only tinged with despair. Disappointed though she was, Gwendolyn didn’t press, perhaps understanding without being told that whatever it was he had been trying to avoid… she already felt stirring in the marrow of her bones. There was no regret in her for the things they had done, but perhaps there was some reason he could not share, and if she ignored his warning, they would both regret it—especially since this changed nothing: she still must go.

Amidst the drunken haze of pleasure, Gwendolyn didn’t immediately recognize the sound that awoke her.

“Danger!”

Then again, more urgently. “Danger!”

Piskies?

Once more.

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