Page 8 of Feathers From the Sky

“Stunning, babe,” Clarke says, and Gwyn pulls the robe shut as she glances over at me.

“Why is he still wearing all his clothes?” she whispers, leaning toward Clarke, quietly enough I wouldn’t have heard her if I had human ears, so I pretend not to.

“Alright, big man,” Clarke says, and I snort. I get comments on my size frequently. Usually I hate it, but Clarke is easygoing enough, they don’t bother me. “Take that jacket off and bring it here.” We are in the lofted part of the studio where it’s staged for different scenes. There is a large stairwell leading down to the office and storage portion of the place. Clarke gestures to the railing overlooking the stairs, and I follow. The entire back wall of the building is a large window. Though it’s overcast, the rain has cleared out, and we face a wall of white clouds. I’m no artist, but I know well enough it will make a good backdrop.

The photographer positions me with a hand on the railing and the other holding my jacket over my shoulder before snapping a few pictures. Despite my vexation with her, I make sure to smile at Gwyn. I’m supposed to be flirting without coming on too strong. Even though I’m confident I could have her on her back before the sun sets, it doesn’t bode well for my plan. I need her trust.

She blushes and starts fiddling with the tie on her robe again. Are her hunter senses kicking in for once? My brother was murdered to protect this ignorant waste, and it makes rage rise like bile up my throat. She and hers have taken everything from me.

I did my research, know well enough that hunters have their own Ascension of sorts. Since she never took that final step—clearly, considering she didn’t try to kill me on sight—does that mean her senses aren’t fully developed? Perhaps she feels more vulnerable without that goddamn dress, and it’s tapping into her natural abilities. I want to meet that part of her, to drag it out of her kicking and screaming. Without the information I might find from her father, I have no leads on Remy, and I need to take my frustration out. I haven’t had to fight my way into or out of anything in a long time, and the thrill of the chase is taking over.

But I can’t do that. I can’t scare her off.

“Gwyn, hop on the railing,” Clarke directs.

“I’ll fall,” Gwyn warns, her heartbeat ratcheting up. The scent of her fear tickles my nostrils.

“I won’t let you,” I say, taking a step toward her. I can tell her face is unaccustomed to not smiling by the twitch of her lips, as if they seek their natural curved position. It only takes a moment for the muscles to win out, and she gives me a soft smile, her heartbeat calming. Trusting in me to not let her fall.

Poor thing.

Gwyn drops the robe off her shoulders, and now she is fully bared to me. It’s only a bit more skin showing than what she revealed in her viral shoot a few months back, but it’s about to be in my hands. The grainy images from the surveillance system didn’t do her justice at all. The black lacy bra barely holds her tits at bay: one light tug will have her nipples spilling out of the top. I close my eyes for a moment when I catch myself wondering if they’re rosy like her mouth. Her stomach is cute—soft and rolled—and I try not to imagine licking it. She wears two garments on the bottom—a lacy thong and a black strappy harness-type item which digs into her lush, round thighs. I am breathing heavily, and I let out a low whistle, hoping it’s not too much. Her lips twist in a grin as she tosses the robe onto the ground and kicks off her shoes. Even her black-painted toes are cute, for fuck’s sake.

Very little of this is acting. I’m attracted to her, so it’s making things easy. I can hate her and everything she stands for and still want to fuck her mouth. Or her tits. Whatever.

Gwyn leans back, putting both hands on the railing. It’s higher than her waist, and I know she’s going to have a difficult time climbing up there. Still playing the chivalrous man hoping to date her, I raise my hands to her hips, waiting for her permission to touch her. She lets out a breath and smiles.

“Yes, please,” she says after a second’s hesitation, cheeks darkening imperceptibly, and I lift her, placing her on the railing. She is a perfect height now—almost as tall as I am. I keep my hands on her soft skin until I’m interrupted by Clarke’s voice.

“Unbutton your shirt, Roman,” they instruct, and I do as I’m told, keeping myself close to the railing. When I roll my sleeves up, Gwyn lets out a little gasp.

“Your hands. I didn’t notice them before.” I’m surprised when she reaches out and traces over my knuckles. “I like them,” she says, a fingertip running over the tattoos on my hands and leading up my forearms. The one she’s paying attention to is a snake, the mouth made up of my thumb and forefinger before it twists up my arm to the top of my shoulder. “Does it have a meaning?” she asks, and I step closer, putting my hands on her knees.

“It’s something beautiful I wanted on my body. That’s all,” I say, and her fingers stop their perusal of my skin. I wish she didn’t until she lifts a hand and traces the cursive on my chest revealed after unbuttoning my shirt. I wonder if she thinks it is a lover’s name I wear. Her touch is faint—uncertain.

“What a lovely reason,” she whispers. Clarke is taking pictures, the sound of the shutter going wild somewhere off to my left.

Gwyn grabs my shirt collar and takes me by surprise when she pulls me closer. “I won’t kiss you, don’t worry,” she says, confusing my reaction for something it isn’t.

“I wouldn’t mind,” I quip, and her eyes flick up to mine. They’re much lighter than I thought. There’s only so much computer monitors and physical pictures can capture when trying to see what a person looks like. They are light brown—amber—and almost molten. Like liquid gold.

“We just met,” she says, cheeks turning rosy as she grips my collar hard. Watching her from afar, I knew I found her attractive. It’s the small intimate reactions which have my resolve fracturing. From behind a screen, I don’t know what makes her flush, what makes her heart beat faster. My usual cold indifference when it comes to taking a life for the coven became impossible when I jacked off last night and it was Gwyn I thought of. This only solidifies it.

She is her father’s daughter, and someone has to pay for his sins.

But does she have to pay before I spread her bare and fuck her rough? I can seduce her, and in those heaving breaths of uninformed trust after she comes around my cock, I can compel her to spill her blood for the ward. It might be difficult considering her walls, but as I slide my hands down her smooth, plump thighs, my dick is doing the thinking, and I decide it’s worth it.

Either way, I need her to spill her own blood, and my compulsion will be more thorough if she trusts me.

I grip her hips, sliding my body between her thick thighs, and I remind myself what I’m here for. Her patterns, her weaknesses—none of this will matter once I cut out her heart. It has become an unhealthy fixation, and I regretfully understand the motivations behind the average creeps who obsess over their mark. But I’m not like them. Those obsessions start out of desire—mine started out of the need to find my brother. The heat I feel radiating between her legs certainly won’t matter once I’m through with her. Her hands slide down, rubbing along my ribs, and I lean in, inhaling that warm scent at the crook of her neck. I shut my mouth tight so Clarke doesn’t catch my lengthened canines in the photos. Gwyn’s fucking blood is going to kill me. I’m hanging by a taut thread when my phone goes off.

“Sorry,” I say, pulling it out to silence it, and my father’s name flashes on the screen. A text waits for me.

You have 48 hours.

Frustrated with my lack of awareness, I close my eyes. I have been behaving without thought the past two weeks, only focused on Remy’s murderer. I’ve been in contact with a sorcerer, compelling humans, frantically searching for more information, and I haven’t stopped to think about Björn’s orders having a time constraint. He could have tugged on the leash, that blood vow between us forcing me to do his bidding the moment he wanted it, but he has gifted me with an order instead. I need to ask her more questions first. I’m not even close to being done with her.

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I shake my hair out of my eyes.

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