Page 91 of Song of the Dark Wood

Rowan opened for him like the bloom, and he sighed in relief. She’d been so bound up and worried. Seeing her relaxed felt like a reward. Not only did she let him touch her, kiss her, steal all the breath from her lungs—she pulled him closer, like he couldn’t take enough from her. Like she couldn’t get enough of being had.

Her fingers curled like claws in his hair as he bit her lip. They played a strange game of chicken. He advanced, bunching up her dress, and she helped him hike it higher.

He caught glimpses of her face between kisses. Her eyes were full of questions and anger, like she was frustrated by her lack of control.

Conor blessed the recklessness that let him kiss her fiercely, all while he cursed himself for the restraint it took to not suck the life out of her as he drank up her gasps and sighs.

He wanted to drag Rowan down into the dark with him. He wanted to watch her react to every dark thing he introduced her to. It was wrong, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her in all manner of compromising positions—tied to his bed, bent over his desk, on her knees, looking up at him, waiting for instructions.

Would she give him the same petulant pout she did when he sent her away, or would her eyes light with excitement? Where would she draw the line? Would she draw it at all?

He thrilled at the thought of having to draw it for her—having to teach her exactly where it was. She’d enjoy those lessons so much more than the ones she’d been taught by tutors growing up. He wanted it too much.

It was all wrong. Rowan was warm, sweet, ethereal, angelic, and he wanted to dirty her up. Conor never realized how utterly starving he was until the first time he’d kissed her. He’d drawn enough power from people’s fear and faith alone that he hadn’t needed to devour a Maiden in a long time. Now, he felt like he might lose his mind if he didn’t taste every part of her.

It’s just magic, Conor.She tastes like everything you’ve ever desired because of magic. You’ve seen it before. You’ll see it again. Get it together. She’s just a pretty girl with a lot of fire.

She sighed against his lips and slid her hands up his shirt, and he flinched away from her.

“Stop! I don’t want this, and even if I did, it’s just magic. You can’t trick me into taking you to bed,” Conor bit out.

The defensiveness was a reflex, like ripping a hand back after touching a hot pot.

Rowan looked surprised by his casual cruelty, which made it clear that was the exact thing he needed. The harsh words were a violent flail in the dark, less to remind her that she should resist him than to prompt her to want to. She didn’t look wounded, but she took a breath, scooting away from him, her hands fisting in the dry grass like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

The sweetness of her in his mouth turned to sour regret. Still, he knew it was the right move. He needed control more than ever, and Rowan shredded his to bits. Even now, as she looked at him with eyes full of familiar frustration and pouty lips bruised from his kisses, he faltered.

She read the shift in his body, her own coiled for action, though it was unclear if she meant to fight, run, or just let him kiss her senseless.

What he wanted wasn’t really relevant. What heneededtook precedence, and right now, he needed that beautiful woman and the feral look in her eyes as far from him as possible. Her proximity was dangerous, like sparking a flint near a powder keg purely for the thrill of seeing if it would spark. It was foolish, but he couldn’t seem to stop chasing the high of it.

“You have to go home now,” Conor said. He rose to his feet, and she stared at him in disbelief.

She stumbled to standing, looking around the garden. “How will I take care of my garden if you just send me away again?” she said after a long time.

The fear on her face was not at all commensurate with fear for her garden. There was something else that she was afraid of. He cursed himself for shoving her away yet again when he wanted to know so badly what weighed on her.

In some ways, he’d been right about Rowan when they first met. She was delicate, but not in the way that she would break under cruelty. It was more like alchemy. She took a delicate touch because the wrong move could be explosive, and that volatility was incredibly compelling to Conor. He wanted to cultivate it, wind her up, and watch her melt down—not to drive her mad, but just to watch the ease with which she accessed passion—like she had an endless supply of it.

Living for centuries had a way of taking the fire and urgency out of everything. Rowan was a reminder of what it was like to be so blessedly, vibrantly alive. He was mesmerized by it.

“Okay.” She said it as if she was trying to convince herself.

Conor studied her, searching for what was different.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Are you sure I can’t stay, just for a few more days?”

Conor hated the desperation on her face, the racing of her heart, the high, tight pitch of her voice.

“What aren’t you telling me, little Red?” he asked. He tilted her chin up, but she stepped back out of reach.

“Please—please just do this for me, Conor,” she murmured. “Please just let me stay.” She took his hands in hers.

“I’ve already told you what will happen. Why are you so intent on welcoming oblivion?” he asked.

She shook her head and turned away from him. She looked toward the garden gate, and he caught the scent of fear.

“What are you afraid of?” He grabbed her arm.

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