Page 104 of House of Crimson Hearts
Our legs entwine and she rolls onto her back, pulling me on top of her. I crush my lips to hers trying to savour every mouthful of her sugary skin.
Just as I thought, she tastes like sweet wine, like summer breezes and clouds made of gold. She tastes like a hint of iron and magic and like the hottest desire I’ve ever experienced.
She tastes like I want more.
Like I never want to let go.
She tastes like a thousand years of history and a thousand more to come.
And I know in that moment that I can’t give her up.
That no matter what my mother says, no matter how much she pushes and chides. There is no going back from this.
I will not marry a man.
I cannot.
For a woman has stolen my heart, ripped it from my beating chest with a single kiss. And I can tell from the way she’s staring at me, that she has no intention of giving it back.
When I finally pull away, I remember she had a confession.
“What was that secret you needed to tell me?” I whisper, running my finger along her rosy-pink swollen lips.
She lowers her eyes, as if she’s afraid to tell me.
“You told me your surname, but I didn’t tell you mine…”
“What is it?” I ask, frowning down at her.
“Randall. My name is Eleanor Randall, and I am the heir to the Randall estate.”
The daughter of my enemy.
And there, in a summer field, my heart cupped in her hands, my world falls apart.
Chapter27
OCTAVIA
Iactually slept. I rarely sleep. We don’t really need to. Or at least, I know I don’t, being born this way. I think Mother does a little more than me. The ones she’s turned too, they sleep more than I do.
But I rarely sleep. Once a week? Once every couple? There’s just no need for it. I live forever, my brain function doesn’t slow or suffer, and my healing comes from another part of my biochemistry. Sleep, then, becomes indulgent, an utterly pointless exercise. A waste of life—despite the fact I have ample amounts of that.
But sleep I did, and I have an awful suspicion that I slept because of her. Verity wrapped herself in my arms, curled in tight like I was her comfort blanket. It was too hard to keep my eyes open. I shut them against the pleasure of having her with me.
It reminds me of before.
I wonder where she is, but when I lean over the bed and look for evidence of her having been here, the only thing I find is the discarded strap-on and my clothes. Hers have vanished.
I sigh and pad to the bathroom, showering and applying lipstick and getting dressed. When I’m ready, I exit my room and find Red by the door, hovering just outside, her suitcase beside her.
“You’re moving out?” I say, raising an eyebrow, trying not to let the tinge of irritation seep into my tone.
“In. Actually. You said I should—” she points inside the room.
“Oh.” I relax instantly, I’m so used to her telling me she’s leaving that moving in was the last thing I expected.
A surge of adrenaline rushes to my stomach at the prospect that maybe, maybe after all these years I could be winning her over.
