Page 85 of Prince of Night and Storm
I close my eyes a moment, focusing on my knees. Growing dread crawls along my skin, adding fuel to the near combustion level of my need to lash out. If I resume the feud, I'll have to face my father with an explanation.
“I told myself I would be patient. But my control is. . .challenged.” He speaks softly, voice too gentle, the hidden crouch of a silent predator before a strike.
“Baba will send my guards for me.”
“No one can reach us unless I allow it.”
One beat, two.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
A DANCE WITH A MONSTER
“What do you really want from me?” I ask, failing to claw back the desperation in my voice.
“What do you think I want, Aerinne? Other than what is obvious.”
The evening deepens, the air a touch too chill on my bare skin, or maybe that’s the company I currently keep. Trees rustle, night creatures begin to sing. I know these lands, these forests, but the male holding me against a tree makes this place almost mythic, and he uttered the word scent.
Maybe I'm overreacting.
A long nail brushes the valley between my breasts then his hand slides up, fingers spreading until he comes to my throat and gently squeezes. The tip of his nose grazes the line of my jaw, stops right where jaw meets earlobe, and once again his chest expands as he inhales.
I don't move.
I'm not a fool.
If I twitch before he shakes himself out of this, I'll be taken down like prey. Scenting is the first sign he's given that this may be the beginning of a true rut—and it came on like flipping a switch.
Damnit.
It's not something any male would mimic for show. They don't like to be in it, and we don't like to be the recipients of it. Only stupid humans think it's romantic or flattering.
“I asked a question,” he says softly, his lips on my jaw.
“I. . .don't remember the question.”
“Ah.” His breath warms my skin then he lifts his head. The thumb pressing against the side of my throat lifts, caresses my bottom lip, presses down. “What do you think I want?”
Old, years counting into the thousands. Powerful, will made manifest almost as if by thought alone.
What Low Fae in history has waged a war against an Old One and survived? I can't think of a single name. And I am barely Low Fae.
“I can't begin to guess,” I say, hyperaware that if he leans even slightly forward his entire body will press along mine, of how he must be able to feel the flutter of my pulse, how he must be able to hear the uneven exhalations of my breath. “I don't know you.”
An undecipherable emotion crosses his face, gone as quick as a shooting star, leaving only intensity behind.
I stare up into a penetrating gaze edged with the kind of desire that should be impossible between a High Fae Prince and a lowly halfling, but there's no such thing as impossible when a rut is involved.
“And you don't know me,” I continue. “What is this about? Idon't for a minute believe you took one look at me and decided you wanted me.” Though a rut can be instantaneous, or it can take years to manifest. Every couple is different. Maybe his will be a slow burn, and that will give me room to maneuver.
“One look? No, not one.” He nuzzles the side of my neck.
I have to get him to stop scenting me without triggering his aggression. “Wait. Let's think about this logically.”
Faint amusement in his gaze when he lifts his head. “My halfling, since when do you pause in your headfirst rush towards chaos to assess logic?”
