Page 107 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

“Oh, Basten,” I breathe, hearing the pain in his voice.

I want to go to him, but there’s still this space between us. This void.

I can’t help but feel that I’m to blame in part. It was me that Iyre was after when she cut a portal into Astagnon. The fact that Basten was there was only bad luck. He was collateral damage. It aches down to my bones to know that every beautiful moment we’ve sharedis burned into my brain, and yet, to him, I’m still a stranger.

“It breaks my heart for you,” I whisper, fighting the urge to reach out to him. “If there was anything in my power to?—”

He cuts me off by suddenly cupping my jaw, leaning in.

A gasp cuts across my tongue. It draws in the earthy, deep aroma of honey cakes. Basten towers over me, lips an inch away, as heat floods my lower half to the point that I have to squeeze my legs.

Kiss me. Please. Do it.

I find his shirt collar and bunch the fabric in my fist, feeling the overpowering urge to hold onto him. My arms ache to hold him. I pledged every one of my days to this man. Every night in his bed.

Still—he doesn’t kiss me.

Doesn’t hold me like he used to.

I swallow, hard, easing my grip on his shirt. “We can find another way. A godkissed person with the ability to restore memories, maybe. Or a potion.”

I feel his jaw tense against mine. “They’regone, Sabine.”

My head falls back against a sack of pears. I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth as I place both my hands on his chest, needing to feel the steadiness of his heartbeat. Memories flood me like flipping pages of a picture book. All our best days together. For him, now, all those pages are blank.

I whisper, “I don’t want to be a stranger to you.”

He shifts his stance, his knee brushing against my inner thigh. He considers his words carefully. “You aren’t a stranger—you’re just a dream that hasn’t happened yet.”

My toes go numb as all the blood rushes to the apex between my legs. It’s all I can do not to clutch his shirt. If itwere up to me, his shirt would be unbuttoned right now, my dress bunched around my waist.

But this is all new to him. He’s grieving his lost memories that can never be recovered. He’s hurt.Give him time.

My head bobs in a nod.

Slowly, his lips brush my temple as he whispers, “I dreamed such things about you. Filthy, sinful dreams. I’ve never hated the gods more than when I saw you bent over one of them, your hot lips against his skin…” He stops short as though he’s spoken out of turn. Clearing his throat, he says more measuredly, “I thought it must be one of my dreams. You can’t fathom how insanely jealous I was to see you like that, to realize it was real.” He hesitates. “Wishing that it wasmebeneath your mouth.”

My eyelids sink halfway closed, lips aching.

I can feel his breath.

He’s so close.

I slowly slide my hands over his chest, near his shirt collar, where his matching birthmark resides. His skin is hot to the touch. Everything in Volkany is so cold. The wind. The floors. The fae. So, now, feeling his hot blood churning under my palm, I feel warm for the first time in weeks.

“You’ve been in the caramel pot, haven’t you?” he suddenly tuts, and before I can think, he pops my finger in his mouth and sucks off the sticky remnants.

My whole body pulls in a gasp as heat from his mouth radiates straight to my middle, legs squeezing until it aches.

“I skipped breakfast,” I blurt out.

He laughs as he releases my finger and, testingly, trails his lips over the back of my hand. His tongue darts out to lick my knuckle. “You taste like powdered sugar. It’s turning me into a salivating mess. This damn place—the scents aretoo tempting. I wish you could smell what I can smell. Ripe pears. Cloves.Violets.” He shifts again, his breath rasping. “Listen, Sabine, we don’t have to—to rekindle how we were. If you don’t feel comfortable with me?—”

I twist my hands in his shirt, jerking him forward. My voice is husky as I bark, “Iwantto.”

The silence stretches, our breaths strained, our muscles tense, wondering who will break the awful tension first.

Quietly, he runs his thumb over my collarbone and purrs, “Tell me—where did I touch you the first time that made you feel good?”

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