Page 148 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

“Then don’t stand by,” she said softly. “Standwithme. We study the rite together, build safeguards, draft contingencies. You of all people should be able to keep me safe. If the crown tries to devour me, you drag me out. If I falter, you steady me. What you don’t get to do is lock the door because the risk frightens you.”

She slid the tome back into my hands.

I exhaled through my teeth. “We study it—in detail—before either of us bleeds into ancient jewelry. Agreed?”

A fractional nod. Tension eased enough for a darker, hungrier current to surface. The memory of her hand that morning—and the glorious loophole we’d discovered—flooded my mind.

“Argument time is over,” I murmured, dropping the book on the desk and sliding my hands up her calves. “Come here.”

Her breath caught. “Here? Now?”

“Consider it practical research. If the Heirloom objects, it can file a complaint.”

She laughed—low, eager—and scooted fully onto the desk. I knelt, pushing the dress to her hips. It’d been too long since I’d tasted her properly. Warm, intoxicating scent drowned the scent of ink and parchment. Easing her undergarments aside, I ran a finger down her slit, then replaced my finger with my mouth. She sucked in a sharp breath and braced her hands on the desk. My grip tightened on her hips as I dragged my tongue through her folds and across her clit in a deliberate circle. Her fingers found my hair, tugging me closer. I rewarded her with dipping my tongue inside before replacing it with my fingers.

The tug of her wild, golden magic curled around me—sweet, perilous temptation. In response, my runes glowed faintly with raw, wicked pleasure. I drew back a fraction. “Steady. Control it.”

“I’m trying,” she gasped, hips rolling. “Stop lecturing.”

I eased my fingers back inside. Her magic lunged for mine, hungry and intoxicating, wrapping my shadows in molten gold. The rush was exquisite—and catastrophically unsafe.

A pulse of power skittered across my nerves. It was too much for the Heirloom. Ignoring her whimper, I pulled away and stood, rearranging her dress with shaking restraint.

Arabella grabbed a fistful of my shirt and yanked me toward her. She glared, cheeks flushed, eyes dark. “I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

“I’ll bring the knife.” I gently disentangled myself from her grip. “But until you can control your magic?—”

A brutal knock saved me from retaliation.

Thorne barged in. “Mylord, an emissary from the Hero’sGuild awaits. Says it’s diplomatic.” His gaze flicked to Arabella’s rumpled state, but the bastard wisely kept silent.

War first, desire later—story of my cursed life. I ran a hand over my mouth. “Great Hall in ten. Shadow retinue, full armor.”

Thorne exited.

Arabella hopped down, smoothing her skirts, fire banked behind composed eyes. “We are not done discussing that ritual.”

“Or finishing what you started this morning,” I growled. “Lightning bridge in five minutes. Wear something that saystouch her and die screaming.”

“Black and silver, then.” She left with the book clutched to her chest.

My possessiveness surged so fierce I could taste iron. The Lifeweave might save the Heirloom... or hollow Arabella from the inside. A chill scraped down my spine, and I locked the reason for it in the darkest vault of my mind.

I snatched the ledgers, shoved them into a drawer, and stalked after my wife. War could wait. Protecting ArabellaBlackrose could not.

59

REJECT UNWANTED RESCUE ATTEMPTS (AND MAKE YOUR VILLAIN PROUD)

KAZIMIR

I lounged in my seat, watching as the Great Hall filled with courtiers and nobles, all eager to witness the Hero’s Guild emissary.

Arabella took her place on my right, looking suitably menacing draped in a black-and-silver gown stitched with roses along the hem. The sight of her tugged at the runes carved into my bones, a jolt of attraction I felt through muscle and marrow. It still surprised me how, after everything that had happened, she now sat beside me of her own will.

If that wasn’t proof I could bend fate, I didn’t know what was.

The massive black doors groaned open. A broad-shouldered man in gleaming armor stepped in, his retinue at his back. Their polished silver plate bore the Hero’s Guild emblem, a sword wreathed in golden flames. My shadow warriors escorted them. One flickered at the edges like it strained to maintain solidity, a side effect of Solandris’s wretched golden rose magic. Irritation prickled in my ribs. I clenched my fist, forced the warrior to hold its shape, and felt a faint twinge for my trouble.

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