Page 129 of The Throne's Undoing

She smirked and walked forward as she spoke. "I have always known that you can be a dangerous person."

As she strutted forward, her hips sashaying with each step, Graeson could do nothing but watch her. His breathing grew uneven, heat flushed his cheeks, and his entire being beckoned to meet her in the middle. Yet he could not move as if each word she spoke put him more and more under her spell.

"I have seen you fight as if you were ten men. I have known since the beginning that you are not an ordinary man. You think you are a monster, but I am too."

She was only a couple of feet away from him now. If he reached out, he would be able to touch her. But if he touched her, if he placed his palm on her hip that was now hidden beneath the water, the little control he had left would slip through his fingertips.

"Kalisandre," he said in warning.

But she only chuckled as she edged closer, her knees brushing against his and sending a chill up his body. "I recall you saying my name that exact way in Pontia that first night. You know what I thought when you said it then?"

"What?" Graeson rasped, the question no more than a whisper in the air as he stared up at her. His gaze was fixed on her as if she had pulled him into the sea that existed within her eyes with no way to escape.

"That I did not care for those sorts of warnings."

Kalisandre reached out, her hands caressing each side of his face. She tipped his head up, and her gaze skimmed over his features.

Graeson didn't realize he was holding his breath until he inhaled sharply, the citrus scent of her bath oils spilling off her. As if he had no control of them, his hands finally found their way to her hips, his fingers gently dancing across her skin.

"And now?" he asked, his voice low.

"I still don't."

Then, her lips were on his, hard and bruising, and everything he needed at that moment.

The world around them vanished, and Graeson pulled her closer, bringing her thighs between his. She leaned against him, her hands gripping the back of his head, digging into his hair as their kiss hardened. Her lips were sweet, though the intensity with which she kissed him back was anything but.

She was a wild sea storm, and he was a reckless sailor yearning for a tempest to threaten to engulf him.

He nipped at her lip, and she groaned against him. He squeezed her hips, the skin soft beneath his palms.

Then, despite every bone in his body telling him not to, Graeson broke the connection, pulling away. Their chests rose in synchronicity, their breaths heavy. Kalisandre's lips were swollen, and tiny fires were aflame in her stormy eyes.

He pressed his forehead against hers and sighed.

"Don't," she whispered, trying to pull his mouth back to her.

"Don't what?" Graeson asked, his mouth brushing the corner of her lips.

"Don't ruin this," she muttered as she shifted and kissed the side of his face right by his ear. She shook her head, her nose brushing his cheek and tickling him. "Don't tell me we should go back." Another kiss, this one closer to his mouth. "I do not wish to go back."

"Then tell me what you are truly thinking."

Kalisandre leaned back and locked her hands behind his neck. Her teeth scraped across her bottom lip.

While they may have broken Myra's hold on Kalisandre's mind, Graeson could only imagine that there were still broken remnants in its wake. What was once black and white was now too many shades of gray. And more than anything, he wanted her to trust him. He wanted her to let him in.

"I'm still trying to work through a lot right now," she said at last.

"Then perhaps we should take a breath."

"We are taking a breath. Is that not what this is?" She took a deep breath for emphasis, her chest and shoulders rising.

Graeson rolled his eyes and chuckled softly. "That is not what I meant, and you know it."

Kalisandre grabbed his shoulder, pulling him toward her. "Gray, listen to me carefully: there may be many things I am confused about, but one thing remains perfectly clear."

"And what is that, Kalisandre?"

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