The King’s POV, Ch. 44

The High King of the Unseelie Court—the World-Render, Gwyn ap Nudd, the Lord in Shadow—was jealous of a godsdamn book. 

Specifically, the book Raegan Maeve Overhill had thrown at the wall. He sighed and stooped to retrieve the slim clothbound from where it lay crumpled in a heap on the gray stone floor of the archives. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the shadowed hallway remained empty. Tucking the book under one besuited bicep, he stalked to the now-vacant armchair and settled into its open arms. 

What precisely, the King wondered, had a simple book done to deserve Raegan’s ire? Was he not a better receptacle for all her sacred, shimmering rage? He had a long, muscled back for her to rake her nails down, expensive suits she could sink her teeth into, and perfectly pale skin for leaving behind whatever bruises she wished. There was little Oberon savored more than the taste of blood in his mouth. Was it not obvious he could handle all of her?

The King tongued the inside of his cheek and let out a long, heavy exhale, crossing his ankle over his knee. For Modron’s sake—he needed to get himself under control. He dug long fingers into the soft leather of the armchair, staring into the fire as if answers might linger there. And why not—was she not all spitting flame and endless heat, so bright he could go blind? She had yet again roared back into his life like a wild blaze with little consideration for the walls of ice he had spent centuries building. Oberon forced a measured inhale, closing his eyes. He would not allow her to burn him again. 

Movement stirred in the corner of his vision and all his senses prickled expectantly. The King slid his eyes—only his eyes, his body still and unmoving—to meet Raegan’s gaze. She stood just beyond the hallway to the living quarters, gowned in a dress that seemed specifically designed to destroy him. She held his eyes and began to prowl closer, high heels ringing out on the stone floors. Before he could say anything—and certainly before he could prepare himself—Raegan was on him, gripping either side of the chair just as he had done to her earlier. Bergamot, sensual musk and oud rolled onto his senses, sharp and soft and tantalizing. 

  “Is this good enough?” she demanded, gesturing to her outfit. She spoke in that softly hoarse tone that always seemed to cut straight into him, one eyebrow arched as she held his gaze. Desire spread broad wings inside his chest, brushing featherlight against the few tender places he had left.

The King set his jaw and inhaled, furious when his breath caught at the back of his throat. He fought to keep his face impassive as he trailed his eyes up and down her body in evaluation, like he was seriously considering her question. As if the answer—that she wore her rage with a sensuality so sweet and rich he wanted to drown in it—would not be obvious to anyone with eyes. When he lingered on the exposed swell of her bust, Oberon told himself it was only to see how Raegan could react. 

His head swam. The fabric of her dress clung sinfully to the curve of her full hips and the softness of her belly, swooping upward to cup heavy breasts in the very same way he wished to. Instead, the King dug his fingers deeper into the armchair. A pity, really, that his destiny could not be to die at her hands, her long curls wrapped around his neck, her generous thighs suffocating the air from his lungs.

“It will do,” he finally responded in what he hoped was an unaffected tone, sliding his eyes back to meet hers. The King’s heart thudded faster at the molten heat he saw in Raegan’s gaze—autumn sunshine on a green meadow, thrumming with life and defiance of the winter that always came. “But do leave my books out of your tantrums in the future.”

Too soft, too close to pleading, so she pounced. “Oh, I’m so sorry about your book,” Raegan pouted in a way that drew his attention to her small, shapely mouth. She cocked her head to one side. Heavy auburn curls slipped from her shoulders like bolts of silk, exposing more golden, freckled flesh. “I suppose they are your only company, aren’t they?”

The King wanted to play her game. What a beautiful thing it would be to break completely for her. She was so close now, too, her flames licking at him from all angles, threatening to set his defenses ablaze. It took every ounce of the King’s self-restraint to hold Raegan’s eyes as her long locks hung down like a curtain, brushing his forearm. How easy it would be, he knew, to reach up and wrap his fingers around those curls, gather them at the nape of her neck, and with a twist of his wrist, pull her mouth to his. 

“This title is quite rare,” he said instead, the statement entirely unconvincing to his own ears. She smirked at him, one eyebrow arching higher as if to call his bluff, backlit by the hearth like a divine creature. Something about her expression pulled the next words out of the King without his consent. “It should be treated with more care. There are some things, Overhill, that demand a finer, more experienced touch.”

A mistake, because a pretty blush spread across Raegan’s chest and cheekbones. Her gaze narrowed, dark with want, beautiful lips parting. The look in her eyes—reckless, starving, half-mad—sent warmth racing through his body, chasing out the ever-present chill. Words curled in the back of the King’s throat: I would sate all your desperate, yearning ache. You need only ask. 

But Raegan only knew how to take what she wanted—which he hardly minded—and so she leaned closer, pressing her knee against his inner thigh. The King clenched his jaw. If he let her too close, she would burn him, just like she always did. But that thought only brought a surge of desire, thick and hard and keening, as if Oberon’s own body wanted to remind him how much he loved the pain.

“I’m not used to being gentle,” Raegan breathed, leaning even closer, grasping either side of the chair, her fingers brushing his forearms. “You’ll have to show me what you mean.”

Every muscle in the King’s body stilled. He stopped breathing. He could forsake everything, let this deathless witch destroy him instead of succumbing to the weight of the Unseelie Throne and war and destiny. He could simply reach for her, wrap his hands around her waist and lift her from the ground. The work table was only a few steps away. There, the King could make a new vow—he could bury his face between the generous thighs of this villainous thing and give them both what they so desperately wanted. 

The need to touch her, to feel the living heat of her skin, became unbearable. And so like a moth to flame, the King raised one hand from the book’s cover, trailing his fingers up the sensitive skin of her inner arm. Raegan shivered beneath his touch, goosebumps racing away from his fingertips. He marveled at the reaction. Despite everything, the vessel she wore was so delicate, so fragile. The King could crush her without a thought, send her back to the dark where she would no longer remind him of the dormant flame curled low in his core. It would be simpler. A kindness, even—for was she not shrouded in pain?

And yet every fiber of his being yearned only to worship her. Perhaps he should not have let her conquer him completely. All that unmet hunger pulsed low and insistent in his body, and the rest of the world fell away as she devoured him whole. The King would know her taste again, he would hear his name thick on her tongue, he would bury himself deep inside of her and nothing else would matter. Raegan’s breathing quickened, eyes wide, body pressing closer against his, like perhaps she finally understood he had never been more than dry tinder to her ferocious spark. 

The King stood in a long, languid movement, his arm sliding around her waist, intentions clear and single-minded. Her leg caught between his and Raegan stumbled into him, her soft curves against his hard, aching angles. All the breath left his body, the cold and the ice banished by the heat of her. 

The King did not think he was breathing—what use was oxygen when there was her—as he gazed down at the deathless witch that had defied every law of the universe to rise from her grave again and again, just as hungry for him as she was for revenge. The King faltered, hard. If he did what he wanted—cradled her jaw between his large hands and kissed her—he knew nothing else would matter. He knew he would let the entire world burn if it meant he could have her back. The gods be damned, Oberon would set the fire himself and watch his own people beg for a salvation he would not grant, as long as she would live.  

I belong to you, the High King of the Unseelie Court nearly said, a tender treason. It was only four words, no witnesses save for the dark, hushed sweep of the archives. His body keened, hard and wanting, all steel and shadow against her velvet and fire. And then delicate silver bells chimed in the distance and the truth of it all nearly crushed him. The King could not set the world aflame for her any more than he could dampen the inferno searing her name into the cold, hidden places of his chest. 

“Come,” Oberon said instead, his expression heavy-lidded with a flirtatious amusement that he hoped would disguise the vast chasm of his desire. “We are due at Gossamer.”

She tilted her head up to look at him, curls tumbling down to the small of her back. The long expanse of her neck glimmered in the hearthlight. For a moment, her lips parted and he thought she might finally make the request he knew sang just beneath her skin. But then Raegan only closed her mouth again with a small shake of her head. That possibility slipped away like a snake’s shed skin, and the King let it go as best he could, stepping forward to usher her out into the evening. 

Outside, the cold October air dampened the blaze low in his belly. Good—it was past time to realize that he could follow her to her grave no longer. He could not keep giving her pieces of himself if they were only to rot somewhere beneath river silt and funeral ash. Besides, this heat and want and flame he felt like a fever flush against his skin would not last. He could not hold onto her. He had never been able to. For all his power and might, the Unseelie King could not save her. 

So it was better, he thought as he opened the car door for Raegan, to not have a taste at all. Such sweetness would only turn bitter on his tongue. Oberon slid into the other side of the car as she turned to look at him, asking a question he barely registered. Her dress had hiked up around her thighs and his entire body keened in response. 

The King set his jaw and willed the bright shimmering thing in his chest to sputter and die. He had no such luxuries. He was, after all, one of the most powerful beings to ever walk the Earth—two goddesses had torn a wound in the midnight sky and crafted him from the obsidian jewel it bled. And yet he was nowhere near strong enough to love someone he knew he was going to lose. 

And so, Oberon promised himself, he would not try. Not again. Not ever again.