Page 31 of Haunted

Why do I feel this way?

Use your compassion to draw close to her, my dragon says.

I must take advantage of her vulnerable state. Obviously.

Before I can find a way to bridge the professional nature of our relationship and comfort her, the empress throws herself against me and wraps her arms around my neck.

That was unexpected. Unsure what to do, I mechanically lift my arms and bring them around her. Her bosom pushes against me. She tucks her face into my neck as she weeps. She smells of wind and dragon hide. I’m not prepared for this—for this softness in her. I’m not prepared for having her in my arms. I’m stiff and shocked. I don’t know what to do.

Soothe her. Seduce her, Neifion says. Do whatever it takes, but you must coax her from her shell and make her talk.

Seduce her? I can’t abase myself in such a way.

Find out her master’s plans. Where does the empress go every day?

I am not a man used to seducing women. I feel inadequate for a task that would demand outright acting, something so far from my character that it might tip the empress off. None of this is part of her normal character either. She shouldn’t have reached for me. She shouldn’t be crying in front of me. This could be a ploy.

Tread with caution. You are wise, Neifion says.

I’m about to leave her alone to deal with her grief, but her body goes limp in my arms, as if she’s overcome.

I can’t leave her.

She deserves to suffer. I should leave her, I tell myself.

I’m not that cruel.

My heart races, knowing what I am about to do. I brush her red hair back and stroke her temple. She pulls away to look at me, as if I’ve shocked her. I can’t fathom her need. Her deep brown eyes reveal nothing. Until she speaks and makes my heart constrict.

“Make me forget,” she whispers.

Forget. What does she need to forget? Her horrible deeds? Her wicked impulses?

The last murder at her hands?

Her fingertips press into my cheeks. Does she plan to gouge them? They slide higher and trap my face. My insides twist with warning. She knows only violence as a comfort. She will hurt me to make herself forget.

Then she comes to her knees so we are eye to eye. Her gaze drops to my lips. Hers part slightly as she closes her eyes.

As she pulls her body closer, leaving no space between us, a desire rises inside me. I want to fight it, know I should, but my duty, my loyalty, thoughts of Neifion’s suggestion, overrides every repulsion to her majesty.

I’ll be lying to myself if I don’t admit that her touch kindles a metaphorical fire in my veins, as I imagine an actual fire burns through hers because she’s touching me.

Just give in.

Her breath coaxes me forward.

Then my lips touch hers—her plump, pursed lips. I fight the impulse to pull back, but then the revulsion melts inside me as a hunger surfaces.

She is a banquet.

A bouquet of sensations that scramble my head.

None of this is rational.

The pressure from her lips increases. I groan. I never want to taste anything else. No. How can this be?

She drinks deeper from me. How my touch must burn her! Does she welcome the agony? Is this how she means to forget?

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