Page 57 of Ivy & Bone

He grabbed Prue’s arm and dragged her off the road, their boots slipping on the snow as they hurried to the shelter of the trees. Just before hiding behind a thick oak tree, Prue waved her hand and whispered, “Abscondo.”

The roots from under the earth shifted, and tufts of snow drifted over their footprints, masking their trail from view.

Cyrus lifted his eyebrows, impressed. Prue just shrugged a shoulder, though a satisfied smile tugged at her lips. “My magic has its uses.”

They both ducked behind the tree, pressed up against each other to stay fully out of sight. Though the tree trunk itself was massive and thick, it felt far too small for the both of them. Cyrus had her pinned up against the bark, his face inches from hers, her breath tickling his face. Despite the layers of clothing between them, the curves and shape of her body molded against his, tucked so perfectly like pieces of a puzzle. He felt her rapid heartbeat from within her chest. Her breasts rose and fell against his abdomen, betraying her fear. But when Cyrus glanced down, he found her eyes dark with need and hunger. Not a trace of terror on her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted. She held his gaze, unabashed.

Cyrus’s fingers seemed to move of their own accord, lifting to stroke her throat, then to dip under her scarf where a sliver of her collarbone was exposed. She shuddered, her eyes closing as a look of pleasure crossed her face.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to incite that same pleasure in other more sensitive areas . . . To hear her moan and cry out with delight and rapture. His own skin heated at the thought, and his arousal pressed against her. But instead of mocking him, as she had last time, she leaned into him, grinding her hips against him, the friction making him go mad with desire.

“Over here!” called a voice.

Cyrus snapped out of his intoxicating fog, realizing he hadn’t heard the wagon approach because he’d been so consumed by Prue. She was like a poison to him, weakening him when he needed to be alert. He turned his head away from her, sliding sideways so their bodies weren’t flush against each other any longer. He ignored the absence of her heat against him and the way his body yearned for hers.

She was a weakness he couldn’t afford.

Instead, his eyes closed and his ears strained to pick up the noises of the newcomers. Several pairs of boots clomped in the snow. At least half a dozen. Metal rattled, indicating they were either armed or wore armor. Or both.

“He said they would be well hidden,” remarked another man. “Stay alert.”

He who? Cyrus wondered. They couldn’t possibly be looking for Cyrus and Prue . . . could they?

The footsteps continued. At one point, they drew close enough for Cyrus to hold his breath. Prue went completely stiff next to him as they waited . . .

But then the steps withdrew, and Cyrus exhaled slowly.

“We need the witch dust,” said a third man.

Prue sucked in a breath, her face draining of color. Her horrified gaze met Cyrus’s. They have witch dust.

How?

Terror filled Prue’s eyes, conveying an unspoken question: What do we do?

Cyrus set his jaw and gave her a fearsome look in response. We fight.

His fingers curled into fists, and Prue’s hand went to the pomegranate necklace at her throat. Something shimmered in the air close by, and the familiar gold sparks of witch dust floated into view.

Cyrus looked at Prue again, his eyes widening expectantly. Get ready.

“This way,” said the third man.

Several sets of footsteps drew nearer, the crunching snow growing louder and louder. Anticipation hummed in Cyrus’s ears, a persistent buzzing that made his blood pulse with power.

When the first soldier came into view, Cyrus sprang into action.

EMPIRE

PRUE

Time seemed to slow in that split second when Cyrus attacked. And as he moved, only one thing occupied Prue’s mind.

The god of the dead was horrifyingly beautiful. And she was absolutely mesmerized by him.

Despite the soldiers surrounding them, she couldn’t look away from Cyrus and his jets of black flame. Transfixed, she gaped as he swept forward, a blur of silver hair and black mist. A soldier raised his sword, but Cyrus darted under the man’s swing, sending a slice of flame straight into the soldier’s chest. The rippling black seemed to pierce through the man’s armor and paralyze him entirely. He fell, and Prue wasn’t even sure if he was dead or not. Three other soldiers lunged for Cyrus, clearly identifying him as the bigger threat, but Cyrus danced out of reach, his body twisting and turning with all the grace of the most lithe of dancers.

Prue jerked her gaze away from Cyrus as the remaining soldiers came for her. Alarm jolted through her, and she mentally cursed herself for her hesitation. Cyrus’s powerful movements had been so distracting . . . She flexed her fingers, and her trusty vines sprang from the earth, winding through the snow and tugging at the closest soldier’s legs. He grunted, jerking his feet and snapping several vines, but more ivy climbed up his leg, rooting him to the ground. Another man hacked at the vines with his sword.

---