Page 182 of The Demon Tide

“We need to join with our pack,” Jarod growls, and Aislinn can sense the strength of the Forest rising in him, as well.

“I’m ready,” she affirms as the wild force of the pack-bond thrums inside her. She bares her canines and looks to Jarod. “I’m ready to fight.”

CHAPTER FOUR

BOOKSANDWANDS

Lucretia Quillen

Xishlon night, twenty-second hour

Lucretia finishes her tea, the bittersweet taste of the Sanjire root lingering on her tongue like a bright, reckless note of promise.

A match lit.

Her eyes lock on to Jules where he stands, leaning against his kitchenette’s counter, heatedly watching her, the Xishlon moon’s jeweled-purple light washing over them both.

Strains of music filter in from outside, the erotic rhythm quickening Lucretia’s desire for her longtime secret love. She glances out his open window at the countless rune-orb-decorated boats crowding the docks, a mix of laughter and festive conversation bright on the air.

Everything is so lush this eve, Lucretia considers, reveling in it. Even Jules’s cramped dwelling is lush in its own way. With books. She affectionately marvels at how Jules collects books so rapidly, two shelves already overfull. It charms her. It always has. It’s as if they love him and swarm to him, swept up in a draw to match Lucretia’s own.

Brimming with love, she sets her teacup on Jules’s scuffed, secondhand wooden table, the sound a final thing, and she can see the brazenness of her decision reflected in the glaze of steady want in his eyes.

She holds his gaze for a long, delicious moment, and she can feel it—the amorous pull of Xishlon’s glorious moon. Coaxing all her affection and love for Jules Kristian with its dreamy purple light, the words she’s never voiced falling easily from her tongue.

“I love that your glasses are always splotched and you only half notice it.” Her mouth tilts into a besotted smile as she gives in to Xishlon. “And I love how your clothes are always wrinkled because you’re so busy aiding people fleeing east that you have no time to iron them.”

Jules’s head bobs in a subtle, silent laugh as he returns her ardent look.

Her smile fades, a more serious passion rising. “I love that you have bad eyesight from staying up much too late for years now, painstakingly forging documents to help so many. And I love how you always smell of walnut ink and parchment and strong tea.”

Jules’s subtle smile turns serious as he steps forward, closing the distance between them. Lucretia’s pulse quickens at having him suddenly so near, after they’ve been so careful, for so many years, to maintain a polite distance. She takes an unsteady breath as he reaches up to trace a fingertip along the edge of her tunic’s neat collar, a current of warmth trailing his careful touch.

“You’re always such a contrast to me,” he teases. “Always so well pressed and tidy.”

Lucretia gives him an inviting look. “I think it’s high time you mussed me up.”

A husky laugh escapes Jules’s throat, and Lucretia’s flush deepens over her sudden boldness, unable to suppress a delighted smile as Jules’s gaze slides over her in a new way—as if she’s a Xishlon sweet he wants to devour. And when he raises his brown eyes to meet hers once more, there’s a molten light in them that shimmers her water power into a tingling rush.

Jules’s voice is pitched lower when it comes. “I’ve let my mind stray to the idea of mussing you up on more occasions than I’d care to admit.” The moon’s purple light glints off his glasses as Lucretia thrills to the suggestion in his tone.

His gaze drifts down as he gently fingers the white bird pendant hanging from the glittering silver chain around Lucretia’s neck. “You kept this,” he says, a question in his tone as his eyes flick back up to meet hers. “Through everything.”

Lucretia shrugs, heatedly aware of him touching her necklace, her collar, so freely. Taking his time. As if savoring the open invitation she’s laid out this evening. “I’ve cast so much of my religion away,” she says, “but...I still believe in this.” She gives him a meaningful look. “And in you.”

Tentatively, she places her palm on the center of his chest and slides it up over his soft, worn shirt. She can feel the heat of him through it, his strong heartbeat, his deepening breaths. It’s surprisingly soft to the touch, his deep-brown woolen shirt. A shirt she’s seen on him countless times over the years, his clothing as familiar to her as her own. But what lies beneath the clothes and what he would feel like in the throes of passion is a mystery she’s pondered more than the mysteries of religion.

Her own breathing unsteady, she traces a line over his shirt and fondles his top button, the polished mahogany wood of it sensuously smooth beneath the pads of her fingertips as she flicks it open. She meets Jules’s eyes, her pulse quickening as she thrills to the deep, shuddering breath Jules takes in response to her touch.

“Lucretia,” he says, a ragged edge to his tone. He cups his palm around her waist, then slides it up to caress her back, coaxing her closer, as he leans down and brings his lips to hers.

Lucretia’s water power surges toward him as she presses her mouth to Jules’s warm lips, the clean taste of bergamot on his breath. Heat blooms in her center and her magic eddies toward him, a small, eager sound of pleasure escaping her lips.

Jules’s mouth ticks up in response, his kiss slow and lingering, and Lucretia lets herself go pliant beneath it, immersed in their desire for each other laid bare. His lips skim over her mouth to kiss her cheek, his hand caressing the edge of her jaw, careful and deliberate.

His lips still on her temple. “Have you ever been with anyone, Lu?”

Lucretia smirks at Jules’s question, warmed by the sense of the desire that rides just under his careful touch, yearning to give way. “I’m a good and pure Gardnerian maiden.”

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