My insides are a mess of tucked-away feelings and agonized longing. Once I cross that door, it all becomes real. My hand hovers over the brass doorknob, and I’m torn between knocking and just walking in. Not for long, though, because I press down on the cold metal, settling the debate.
Beau’s room is smaller than Sylas’s. The forest-green walls lean to black in the night light. Even so, the wall of books with golden spines shimmers. I squint to get a better look of the bed.
It’s empty.
I take a few steps forward, halting. Did Paltro send Sylas back out to Firstline?
“Viola.” His husky voice washes me with cold relief.
I whirl, and there he is, sitting on a chaise near the small fireplace, setting down a book. He drags his gaze over my body, and Ifeelmy cheeks burn. In fact, I’m certain they’ve caught fire.
“Nice shirt.” He smirks.
I look down, remembering that I’m wearing one of his shirts as pajamas. I tug at the seams, as if that would turn the shirt into a floor-length dress, suddenly grateful for the low light so he can’t see the panic on my face. “Thanks, I… will grab my own tomorrow.”
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
I look at him, and my breath hitches. The soft glow of the fire brings out the warmth of his skin, and Gods, he is devastatingly handsome. The reflection of the flame in his gray eyes consumes me with want, and I take a step forward.
“I know you’ve been here all along,” I say quietly. “But this”—I take another step, gesturing between him and me—“Paltro won’t stand for it.”
He straightens up. “What made you think I care about what Paltro thinks?”
“I might die any moment.” Another step.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’re to stop living out what remains?” The sharpness of his mouth is infuriating, so much so that I ache to seal it shut with my lips.
“You hate Mortemagi,” I say, as a poor attempt to give him one last out.
He smiles on an abrupt exhale. “I don’t hate you.”
“Just once.” I’m standing in front of him, the suppressed desire since we met pulsing beneath my skin. He tilts his head, eyes boring into mine, hungry and hopeful. I take in the painfully beautiful lines of his face, settle on the delicate curves of his lips, and the deep ache within me blooms into an insatiable need for him to touch me.
Reaching for my waist, he tugs me to him, the hunger in his eyes melting into quiet reverence. He looks at me like I am the answer to his every plea, like I am his salvation.
“Just once.” His voice breaks, and I straddle his legs, settling in his lap.
My shirt lifts, and his fingers trail from my waist to my hips, pressing into my skin. His shallow breathing matches my own, hesitating yet demanding at once. It whispersAre we really doing thisandPlease devour meat the same time. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I bite my lower lip, raw anticipation coiling my insides.
“Viola,” he moans, and I loop my hands around his neck, threading my fingers through his hair. It’s so, so soft. My thumbs rub gentle circles on the back of his head and he leans forward, his nose brushing against mine. Our hearts thump in tandem, his hands firmly pressing into my thighs.
“What are you waiting for?” I groan against him, our lips almost touching.
“Your permission.” He smirks, faintly brushing his lips against mine. It sends an electrifying jolt down my spine, and I arch into him. The next moment, my lips are closing on his. They are softer and warmer than Iimagined. He tastes like mint and vanilla, like the first snow of Albion’s winter.
Sylas kisses me like I’m the most fragile thing to exist. His lips take time to explore mine, his tongue tentatively teases mine, tangling it into a dance that unravels my core. And by Death, I would surrender to him, body and soul. He makes use of every inch of my mouth, kissing me like his life depends on it, like he’s been waiting for this moment forever. Every thing about him feels so right, I begin to panic.
It’s not him I should have been worried about. It’s the way he breathes life into my heart, the way my world begins and ends with him, the way time halts when we’re together.
The moment he notices my slowed pace, he pulls away, our ragged breaths the only sound cutting through the silence. A frown settles between his eyebrows, and he drags his hands from my thighs to my waist. His eyes are all over my face, searching, questioning, making sure I want this. And I need him to know that I do, that in his arms I feel safe in a way I’ve never felt before.
I answer him by leaning forward and trailing kisses along his throat, up his neck, and right above the bruise in the corner of his lips. He lets out a gasp, and I take his lower lip between my teeth, tugging, teasing until he breaks. He meets me with hunger and despair this time, like if he lets go of me, I will vanish. I kiss him with the same fervor, every movement a silent demand for more. He meets my ask with more, more, and more until we’re both out of breath. Still, we don’t stop. I roll my hips against him, and something fierce, almost feral flashes across his eyes.
“Please,” I murmur against his lips, and he claims my mouth again, his hands firmly pressing into my waist. Heat builds up in my lower belly, and I realize that there is nothing I wouldn’t give him. Under his touch, I feel alive, invincible, like he knows exactly which pieces to take apart and which to put together. And it’s terrifying. How my heart seems to want to beat only to the sound of his.
“Yes, but not here,” he whispers, pulling away, our lips still brushing against each other’s, and I let out an involuntary moan. “I will have you, Viola, but not here,” he says as he moves me so I’m sitting sideways in his lap now.
I don’t protest, the events of the day finally catching up to me. I settle my head in the crook of his neck, and he holds me so close, rubbing thesmall of my back as our hearts settle into a quiet rhythm. My eyelids feel heavy. I don’t want to let go of him. “Sy,” I mumble.