Page 32 of Burned Alive to Be His
“I must have,” I agree, my smile not faltering. “It must be this island. Or perhaps… perhaps it is because I trust you.”
The word,trust, lands between us with the force of blunt object to the head. He goes utterly still, his violet eyes widening, the fury and confusion replaced by a raw, unguarded shock. He looks at me as if he has never truly seen me before.
And then, he moves.
He crosses the cavern in three long, predatory strides. He does not roar. He does not threaten. He simply comes to me, his hands coming up to cup my face, his thumbs gently tracing the line of my jaw. His touch is hot, possessive, and yet, impossibly tender.
He lowers his head, and his mouth crashes down on mine.
The kiss is a maelstrom, a torrent of all the unspoken things that have been raging between us. It is the frustration, the confusion, the reluctant care, the savage possessiveness, the impossible, dawning tenderness. It is a searing kiss of desperation, of a hunger so profound it feels as if it could consume us both.
I do not just surrender to it. I meet it. I pour all of my own fear, my own defiance, my own strange, terrifying hope into that kiss. My arms wrap around his neck, my fingers tangling in hislong, dark hair, and I pull him closer, a silent, desperate plea for more.
He breaks the kiss, his breath a harsh, ragged sound against my lips. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his entire body trembling with a tightly leashed power.
“You will not die on that mountain, Judith,” he says, his voice a raw command. It is not a hope. It is an order. “I forbid it.”
He pulls back, his eyes simmering with a fierce, possessive fire that no longer terrifies me.
“I still have uses for you,” he growls.
The words are a threat. A reassertion of his dominance. But I hear the truth beneath them. I hear the desperate, unspoken plea.Do not leave me.
And as I look up at this beautiful, terrible, contradictory monster, I know that I will climb his mountain. I will face his goddess. And I will not fail. Not for the prophecy. Not for the clan.
For him.
16
XVITAR
The darkness before the dawn is a cold, dead thing. It is a silence filled with the ghosts of the night’s restless thoughts. I stand at the entrance of my cavern, the cool air a balm on my feverish skin, and watch her. She is already awake, already dressed in the gear I gave her, her small form a study in quiet, focused determination. She moves with a purpose that irritates and intrigues me in equal measure. She is not the same terrified creature I dragged from the beach. The fire I saw in her eyes then was the frantic, fleeting spark of a cornered animal. The fire I see now is a slow, steady burn, a flame that has been banked and tended in the darkness.
She finishes securing the bindings on her makeshift shoes and looks up, her eyes finding mine in the gloom. There is no fear in her gaze. Only a quiet, unwavering resolve.
“It is time,” I grunt, my voice a rough rasp in the pre-dawn stillness.
She nods, picking up the fur-lined cloak and the small pack of provisions. She walks toward me, her steps sure and steady. She stops before me, so close I can feel the warmth of her body, smell the clean, earthy scent of her skin.
“I am ready,” she says.
The words are a simple statement of fact, but they land with the weight of a warrior’s oath. I gaze down at her, at this impossible human who has turned my world on its axis, and I feel a strange, unwelcome tightening in my chest. It is the feeling of a predator who has suddenly realized that the prey it holds in its jaws has a heart that beats in time with its own.
“Do not slow me down,” I snarl, the words a reflexive defense against the strange vulnerability she evokes in me. I turn and stalk out of the cavern, not waiting to see if she follows. I know she will.
The clan is awake. They stand in the shadows of their caverns, silent sentinels watching our departure. I see Grakar, his face a swollen, bruised mask of hatred, being tended to by one of his cronies. I see Phina, her arms crossed, her expression a mixture of contempt and a strange, bitter jealousy. They are all watching, waiting for us to fail. Let them watch.
We leave the settlement behind, the path upward a dark, treacherous ribbon winding up the flank of the great mountain. Bloodstorm is not just a volcano. It is a living thing, a slumbering god, and we are trespassers on its sacred skin. The ground is a treacherous mix of loose scree that shifts underfoot and sharp, obsidian-laced rock that tears at leather and flesh. Steam hisses from deep fissures in the ground, foul-smelling plumes of sulfurous breath that cloud the air and sting the eyes.
I set a brutal pace, my long dragon-shifter legs eating up the ground. I expect her to struggle, to fall behind. I expect to have to drag her, to force her onward. But she does not. She keeps pace, her head down, her focus absolute, her small, determined form a shadow at my heels. She moves with the grim, enduring grace of a creature that knows nothing but hardship.
As the sun begins to rise, painting the eastern sky in shades of blood and fire, we reach the first of the great lava fields. Itis a desolate, alien landscape, a frozen sea of black, ropy rock, sharp as shattered glass. The heat is a physical blow, a wall of shimmering air that radiates from the ground, stealing the breath from your lungs.
“Stay in my footsteps,” I command, my voice a harsh bark. “The crust is thin in places. One misstep, and you will be boiled alive from the feet up.”
She nods, her eyes wide as she takes in the terrifying landscape. I lead the way, my boots finding a sure path through the treacherous terrain. I am a child of this mountain. I know its moods, its dangers. I can feel the heat of the magma flowing deep beneath the crust, a familiar, comforting thrum against the soles of my feet.
We are halfway across the field when a geyser of superheated steam erupts from a fissure just to our left. It shrieks from the ground with the force of a hurricane, a blinding white plume of scalding water and sulfurous gas.
