Page 76 of Feathers From the Sky

“Youneed to drink more,” I retort.

He sits back, and I realize he’s on his knees on the ground. Between my legs. I grab his shirt and sit up, hauling him closer, and I press my mouth to his. He doesn’t kiss me back, and when I nip him and draw blood, he lets out a soft grunt. Sucking on his lip, I drink from his wound. It’s more subtle than human blood, but it tastes of him, and I find more comfort than I ought to in that. I pull away, pouting, and he’s frowning at me. The high hasn’t gone away, but it’s not getting any worse, so I don’t know why he’s so worried. When he pulls his lip into his mouth, staring at me with the most serious expression I’ve ever seen him wear, it clicks into place.

I’m like his brother in a lot of ways.

I should have figured it out sooner, but obviously I’m not thinking straight. It feels like something thaws inside of me, melts down my limbs and coats my veins. My face softens, and I wish I had my expressions under control. I’m reminding him of a painful time in his life, one which so many decisions and actions have hinged on. Fixing what I can is my top priority.

Throwing my arms around his neck, I lean in close. His aftershave has a hint of cedar and cinnamon, and I breathe him in deeply. It only takes him a moment to wrap his arms around me, and I don’t know if he means to nuzzle me back. How many of his actions are ones he’s failed to hold back? I wonder if each moment, each sweetness, is something he fights against.

God, I hope he does.

“Hey,” I whisper. “I’ll be alright. A-and this won’t happen again. I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

“I know, Gwyn. I know.”

He sounds so fucking sad. I need to reassure him. “I—I know I might seem like a borderline alcoholic, but I didn’t even like it, and—”

“You prefer gummies to smoking weed because the smoke hurts your chest, and it has to be the exact right strain or you get paranoid. I’ve only seen you pop one after a long day. You do drink too much, but you rarely do it to the point of losing control. Any substance you abuse isn’t because of enjoyment.” He hesitates, pulling away from me. He doesn’t meet my eyes when he says, “I’m not worried about you doing it for recreation.”

“Oh.” It comes out as a sigh. “Oh,” I repeat when I realize what he means. To numb my mind or to poison myself, it doesn’t matter; the outcome he worries about is the same. His jaw is tight, and the bob of his throat is more evidence of the crime I have committed.

I have damned us both.

“You can’t do that, sweetheart. Alright?” He cups my cheeks in his hands, thumbs smoothing over my heated skin. “This doesn’t become a backup plan.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” I whisper, looking into his eyes as I lie directly to his face. For most of my life, this lie has been easy, and I’ve found a sick comfort in it. Not this time. Of all the lies I’ve told him, this one is the most egregious. If I could make promises like that, I don’t think I’d be here now. If I could make promises like that, he wouldn’t feel the need to bring it up. Even so, there is a drop of oily truth coating the false promise, helping the words find their way out. I want them to be true, and I have to let that count for something.

“I meant what I said. You can’t leave me too.” Roman lets the words hang there, and this time it isn’t a plea. It’s a harbinger. It’s a warning I should heed.

I nod, unable to speak. When his lips press to mine, tender, I kiss him back. He wastes no time, his movements growing harsher. Ravenous. Returning the pressure, the urgency, I lick into his mouth. He grips my hair in his hands, tilting my head back, and then traces his tongue up my throat. “Fuck, I need this,” he says before dragging his fangs along my skin.

His hands grip my waist and he lifts, pushing me backward into the sectional. Nestled in the corner, he presses a knee between my legs and hovers over me. Roman only hesitates a moment, and it’s obvious he makes a decision in that time. His chest expands as he inhales deeply, and his jaw tightens. There is no relief in it, the pain of this choice etched on his timelessly handsome face. But then his grim expression softens infinitesimally as he leans forward. My heart nearly beats out of my chest when he kisses me again. I should stop him, knowing his pain, but I can’t. Or I don’t. Is it a decision if it would kill me to make it? Is it a decision if I’d rather die than let him stop?

One of his hands caresses my body, sliding from my neck down my shoulder, the side of my breast, my waist, my hip, my leg. His lips are so soft, but his kiss is rough, his beard grating against my chin. I raise my hands, rubbing his chest and shoulders, squeezing his biceps. Roman grabs beneath my knee, opening my legs so he can slide between them. He rolls his hips, and I feel his cock straining at his zipper. Pulling my lower lip into his mouth, he sucks before pressing his tongue farther. Gentle, he slides it along mine, and then brings it up to the tip of my sharp fang.

I whimper when he touches it, my new teeth still sensitive, and then moan when he scrapes his tongue along it. Sharp, it draws blood immediately, and as the hot droplets land on my tongue, I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer. One of my hands threads into his hair while the other rests on his chest, and my hips lift against him. I swallow the taste of him as he nibbles on my lip, and I need more.

“Petra’s gone,” Margot says as she barges back into the room. “Fucking hell,” she mutters, and the door slams behind her. When I glance past Roman, I see the room stands empty. Should it surprise me I didn’t notice anyone leave? I am drunk more on Roman’s attention than anything else. I can already tell the blood I drank from the pretty blue-haired woman has diluted whatever I took from Petra.

He sits up on his knees, staring down at me. His hair frames his shadowed face, the glow of the lights behind him creating his powerful silhouette. Roman is beautiful, like a vengeful god. His chest rises and falls fast, and I swear I notice a tremor in his hand as he plucks at the buttons on his cuff. “Take your dress off,” Roman says, quiet. “I don’t want to rip it.”

“I can just pull it up.”

“I need to see you.” All desperation, his words come out harsh as he starts on the buttons down the center of his chest. “All of you, Gwyn.”

I don’t meet his eyes, staring at his fingers. He means more than what he says, and I can’t look at him for a moment. I sit up straighter, tracing my hand down his exposed chest, fingertips lingering over the bloom of a flower on his rib. I’m pretty certain it’s an iris, and I wonder if it has any significance. His shirt falls from his shoulders, and my gaze trails down to what bulges beneath his belt buckle. “Help me with the zipper, then?” I whisper.

Roman slides my hair from my shoulder, bending down to press a kiss to my collarbone as his hand reaches around me and grabs for my zipper. His lips move over my exposed skin as my dress falls to my waist. Ink-covered hands contrast against my bare skin as he pushes me back into the corner of the sectional once more. “Lift your ass, sweetheart,” he says, and then he’s pulling my dress over my hips, snagging my thong as he strips my clothes off. He rubs a hand up my leg as he lifts it, his rough touch running down to my feet as he removes my shoes.

Roman stares at me as his hands move to his waist, and I hear the clink of his belt. Feeling them harden under his gaze, I let my hands drift to my peaked nipples. He stands, tugging his pants down, and if he told me I was drooling over him, I wouldn’t question it. Beneath his boxer briefs, one of those thick, dangerous thighs is covered in vines and leaves, a continuation of the plants swirling over that side of his body. The other thigh features a grim reaper figure, a closeup of the skeleton beneath its cloak. Its bony hand is outstretched, and I’m not sure if it’s reaching for something or if Roman just hasn’t finished the tattoo.

He spreads my legs wide to accommodate him as he climbs back over me, bracketing one arm on the sofa behind me while the other hand grips my chin.

“What have you done to me?” he says, and then his lips are on mine once more. He doesn’t linger, kissing my jaw, moving down my throat, and when his fangs press against the crook of my neck, I shiver. Roman chuckles against my skin, drawing his tongue over that spot. His hips punch forward, and he grinds his length against me. When I slide my hands up and down his sides as he sucks on my neck, a sigh slips out of him. It’s almost sweet, and it makes me smile.

“Same question,” I whisper. It is Roman who has broken down walls I once thought insurmountable. I had little to do with it. It is Roman who makes me feel understood more than anyone else ever has. It is Roman who has turned me into a fool. He curses, lips whispering some sort of confession against my flesh. And then I feel the sharp press of his fangs. What I don’t expect is for him to break the skin.

“Roman!” I gasp, shocked by his decision as he pulls my blood into his mouth. He has sworn himself to me with this one action. “What are you doing?”

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