Page 73 of Thorns from the Fall

“If anyone is killing you, it’s me, ma petite cafarde. My kill, my business. But I’ll decide, do you understand?”

She says nothing, only closing her eyes to avoid looking at me. I squeeze tighter.

“Do you understand me, sweetheart?”

I ease my grip and slow my motions. My thrusts into her are both harsh and precise, and each one makes her gasp.

“Roman, I—” she begins, breaking off to gasp.

“This isn’t over until I say so, Gwyn. Tell me you understand.”

Her eyes are wet when she finally looks into mine. “Okay, Roman. Alright,” she says, and her body bows as she admits defeat. Back arched, she moans, but she doesn’t break eye contact with me.

“Promise me. That you won’t…” I trail off.

“I promise.”

Porcelain skin and soft lips and golden eyes will haunt me until the end of my days—whether she’s dead or alive. As I bracket my arms on either side of her, I’m tempted to tell her what I already know. Ever since I saw my father, dead, and found Gwyn coated in his blood, there’d been a tightness between my lungs. Like something has wrapped around what little bit of heart I had and has slowed its motion. With each beat, thorns tear holes in vascular systems and ventricles, but the thought of killing her isn’t what loosens the constricting grasp. Ending her would ruin me more than I already am. The thought of keeping her though? The tightness ebbs away.

I’m fucking her hard, one of her legs hooked on my arm, and she’s writhing from the force of it. With my hand on her throat, I bring her to the brink. And when she cries out, I follow her siren song into the dark.

27

GWYN

Tears formin the corners of my eyes, and I wish I could stop them. It’s been the way of it since Roman got here, and I’ve let him see far too much. Just like I did that night when he’d asked me about my own depression, I feel as if my skin has been peeled away. All the muscle and tendon and blood and fat is on display, and I’m more vulnerable than I’ve ever been.

I wish he didn’t interrupt me during the worst of my own self loathing. He has seen too much.

He sits up, positioning his legs beneath my bent knees. I don’t think I could move if I wanted to, so I lay there, looking up at his imposing figure. Most of his hair has fallen out of the tie, and it hangs loosely on his shoulders. His chest heaves as he comes down from orgasm, looking like a fallen god who just led a battalion into war. He’s still inside me and he’s fixated on the spot where our flesh meets. Slowly, he pulls out—just a fraction—before pushing back in, and then he repeats the action. Somehow he’s still hard and I’m so sensitive and the tears seem to find the simplest excuse to fall. It feels too good. All of this has felt like too much.

But I am no good. I don’t deserve it.

He caresses my thighs, watching his length in fascination as he drags it out of me. After a moment, his gaze moves higher. He reaches for me, palming my stomach, grabbing it as he continues the slow thrusts, and I almost smile. Each time he’s seen my body, been with me, he’s grown more bold. Roman has never refused the parts of me that past lovers have avoided or ignored. His touch moves higher and grows delicate, fingertips dusting gently over my skin. His thumb presses against my sternum, hand cupping the underside of my breast.

Finally, he looks at me, and the tenderness that had grown familiar to me has reappeared, and I think there’s something stuck in my throat.

“I thought you were too beautiful, you know,” he says, voice low.

“Too beautiful for what?”

“To kill. Like my father wanted.”

“You don’t think that anymore though?” I ask, and I hate how pitiful it sounds. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. The minute Roman leaves, I plan to find another way to do what I’ve contemplated for so long. Though he wants that kill for himself, what’s just one more betrayal between us? What’s one more thing I rob him of?

“Now?” He finally slips out of me, hauling me up to sit. His hand gently cups my face and he thumbs away my unwanted tears. “Now, I think you’re too beautiful not to. But I can’t bring myself to do it just yet.”

Roman’s warm eyes darken, dipping down to my lips. It’s almost as if he moves in slow motion when he leans forward. I can’t help but hold my breath. I’ve wanted this since the moment I knew I could no longer have it. A sigh slips free when his mouth caresses mine. His lips are still just as soft as I remember, and a whimper escapes me. A pleasant hum resonates low in his throat, and he grips the back of my neck to deepen the kiss.

I brush my tongue over the seam of his lips, seeking entrance, and he grants it. Tentatively, I explore his mouth, grazing my tongue against his, and our kiss turns into something sweet and slow and sensual. It’s not hurried. It’s not desperate. It’s sure and steady. It’s a first kiss of many kisses, not a final goodbye.

This kiss makes Roman just as much of a liar as I am.

Abruptly, he pulls away. We’re both nearly breathless—and I don’t think it’s because of the act itself. That kiss was a conversation between lovers, and I don’t want it to end. Desperately, I want arguments and confessions with Roman. I want soliloquies and songs.

“I missed you,” he says, leaning forward to press another quick kiss to my lips. “But I can’t forgive you. The coven, my father, hell, even taking Remy? I would’ve done the exact same thing. But you know what I wouldn’t have done, little cockroach?” he asks, and I know where he’s going with this.

I’ve regretted so much since I stole the coven from him. Since that night in the dungeon when he’d told me he loved me and I didn’t say it back. When I kept him in the dark and betrayed him. When I spilled his father’s blood and took what belonged to him.

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