Page 50 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
Her touch is warm and grounding. I find myself leaning into it almost imperceptibly. “No, it’s a fair question. I’m just not sure I have an answer.”
But I want to.
She nods, understanding in her eyes. “Well, I’d like to hear about it when you figure it out.”
I watch as she sips her drink, her throat working as she swallows. The sight stirs a savage hunger in me that has nothing to do with food. I think it’s at this moment I realize Legion is right. She is a distraction but a good one.
Chapter 21
Willow
Bodin stares at me from across the round table, tense and looking like he wants to say something. I hope he’ll open up about what’s worrying him, but he abruptly presses another berry against my lips. His gaze darkens hotly when I open, allowing his offering partly inside.
“Nibble the tip.” His gruff voice sends shivers down my spine.
We’re mere yards from the music and dancing, yet the noise and crowd melt away. Why is he so mesmerized by my mouth? It can’t be that enticing . . . can it?
“Tell me what it tastes like,” he murmurs, nudging the berry deeper.
I bite down, and juice bursts, trickling with abundance down my chin.
“Oops.” I try to catch the spill.
“Gentle,” he scolds, brushing his thumb along my chin to catch the drip. He licks his thumb and brings the berry to my mouth again. “Once more. But savor it. Yes, like that.”
My second nibble is softer, allowing the juices to pool on my tongue. There’s something in how he looks at me, eyelids heavy, pupils blown, breath shallow. I feel an echo of it myself, lowand hot in my belly. Lower. Between my thighs. I press them together with a moan.
His eyes crinkle. “That good, huh?”
I nod.
“What does it taste like?” he asks.
“Sweet. Tart.”
His brows pucker. “What is sweet and tart?”
“You don’t know?”
“Most things taste like dirt to us,” he explains absently, tossing the crushed berry, licking his fingers, then finding another ripe one on the plate. “Fox plays a game sometimes to guess what it’s like for those more alive than us, but . . . ah, this one. Here.”
“Why?” I stubbornly avoid his advance. “You seem alive to me.”
“It is not the same.” He scowls. “It’s hard to explain without my memories.”
His expression shutters, and I feel like I’ve lost him. He turns his vigilant gaze to the crowd and asks, “We shouldn’t dawdle. Where has Styx gone?”
“He’s on the dance floor,” I grumble, then blush when he gives me a questioning look.
How has he not noticed Styx with his arms up, his muscular torso glistening with sweat as he stares at the stars and sways hypnotically to the music? Every female in his vicinity can’t take their eyes off him and his body. Chasers circle like sharks. Yet he’s oblivious to all of them as he sucks on that heady cigarillo, lost in his own world, nodding to himself every so often as if he’s . . . I gasp.
“Is he sneaking into people’s minds?” I ask.
“Naturally.”
I smile despite myself. Fox was averse to entering minds without consent, but something about Styx doing it makes methink he’s just curious about these people, their customs, and their desires.
The dance floor is filled with mortals. The flute and rhythmic drums keep pulling into familiar glimpses of tunes I recognize from my time in Crystal City. Rory had an old tiny brick that played music, and Nero had something he called a granniphone—no, a grandmaphone. No, that’s not right either. Whatever it was called, it recorded music for later play. The nightly shows at dinner featured music from the old world. They used old-world songs to remember humanity’s history. I liked that part of their society—they honored the beauty they lost.
