Page 142 of Into the Isle

Ravinica

WE RESTED ON THE FLOOR of Mimir Tomes, naked, locked in a pretzel of limbs. Legs outstretched, uncaring, using books as hard pillows.

I was completely exhausted and satiated. Continuing our tryst had only shown me more ways for Magnus to bend me and dominate me. It was everything I’d wanted and more. I’d never met a man who took such care to make sure we both felt exquisite pleasure.

Grim had been lost in a trance when we’d fucked. Even though he’d railed me against a tree and was huge, he’d been surprisingly gentle for how huge of a man he was. Almost like he was worried he’d break me.

Magnus had no qualms about breaking me. He enjoyed the opportunity.

As I rested my head on his chest, I traced a finger over one of the scars on his arm that was coiled around the back of my neck, draping his hand inches from my breast.

“How about this one?” I asked, my voice low.

I could have slept here, if it wasn’t dangerous.

“Me. Again.”

“So you . . . give yourself these scars?”

“Not all of them. Just the ones you’ve pointed at. It’s part of my power. My blood amplifies my runeshaping, yet I have to draw that power to the surface. In this case, that means drawing my blood to the surface.”

“Gods. Sounds painful.”

He shrugged easily. “I’ve gotten used to it. I was born from pain and grief, silvermoon.”

I glanced up at him, watching the bump of his throat lift and fall. “What do you mean?” I asked, brow arched.

“When my mother died, I was trapped inside her. Stillborn.” His voice dropped to a throaty tenor. “I was literally ripped from her dead womb. Somehow, my blood had kept me alive inside her corpse.”

“Freya fuck me,” I choked, calling on the goddess of fertility. “Magnus, that’s horrible.” I hesitated to ask the next question, but he seemed in a content, answerable mood, so I pushed on. “How . . . do you know that?”

“From the scientists.”

My throat tightened. “The scientists?”

His nod planted his chin against the top of my head. “The first few years of my life, I was a test subject. Scientists wanted to figure out the mystery of my blood. No one came to claim me, thinking I was dead—and technically, I was—so the government took me for themselves.”

Gods above, I thought. Just like Grim. This story gets worse and worse. I wanted to cry for Magnus, to hold him close and console him. But his emotionless way of telling the story took some of the hurt out of it.

Magnus didn’t seem like a man who needed consoling.

“Did they ever figure out how your blood works?”

“I don’t know. I was stolen away—broken out—before my memory started working. Rescued, really. Then left at an orphanage so I’d have some chance at a normal life.”

“How did that work out?” I asked wryly.

He chuckled, his chest reverberating against my cheek. “You can probably guess. A ‘dead’ boy at a home for whining, lively infants?” His chin nodded toward the table—or rather the floor, where our books had tumbled during our intense coupling. “My memory is spotty at best. Some kind of amnesia overcame me from that. I can’t remember specifics. I have a feeling it was from my mysterious rescuer—mind-magic of some kind to try and soften the intensity of what I’d been through.”

I followed his eyes to the books. “That’s what you’ve been working on in here. Trying to find the man who rescued you?”

He nodded. “That was part of my mission. I have some leads now, though nothing concrete. I’ve been wrapped up in these books long enough. They’ve told me all they’re going to tell me.”

I hummed, nodding in appreciation. I could respect him knowing when it was time to quit. I was close to reaching that point myself. “What was the, um, other part of your mission, Magnus?”

“To identify the scientists who tested and tortured me as a whelp. That information is a bit harder to come by. Again, I think I’ve got some ideas.”

Damn. I respected his decision, though it was hard for me to justify him giving up when he was so close. Had the records truly told him all they were going to tell him about his past?

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