Page 15 of Wings of Cruelty and Flame

I jerked away. “You really are insane.”

“It didn’t kill me the first time; it shouldn’t kill me this time, either.”

“Shouldn’t,” I hissed, pressing back into the dresser, a little annoyed on his behalf. Did he think his life meant so little he could throw it away on a gamble? “You might be severalkhobzshort of a bakery, but I will not indulge you in this idiotic—”

He grinned and grabbed my hand, touching me with both hands, unfurling my fingers from their clenched fist with care and consideration.

“This is lunacy,” I breathed, my lungs tight as he entwined his fingers with mine, his several shades darker brown, wide and short where mine were long and slim, the callouses on his fingertips whispering over my skin like torture.

“Go on,” he said, still smiling like a fool. “Try to kill me.”

Well, if he insisted… I reached through the slit in the skirt of my takchita and grasped the ceremonial dagger usuallypresented to a bride by her mother or grandmother. It had been a tradition since Aleena Saber’s traitorous first husband married her at dawn in his desert town clad in cotton enchanted to be silk and rocks enchanted to be diamonds. The moment they retired to her palace bedroom in Old Morysen, he wrapped his hands around her throat and tried to suffocate the life from her body. It was only a nearby knife she’d used to open her correspondence with a Kaldic gentry that morning that saved her. She killed her traitor husband, married the noble whose letter had saved her, and the tradition had been set for brides to carry a blade on their wedding day.

I whipped that ceremonial knife from its hiding place now and pressed the sharp tip to Varidian’s throat. “Perhaps this will convince you to have some sense.”

“Doubtful,” he replied, a shadow darkening his eyes until they were smoky and sensual. Oh.

“That is not the normal response to being threatened at knifepoint, Varidian.”

He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. “It’s the most natural reaction whenmy wifeputs a knife to my throat. Are you going to use it, dearling?” His thumb stroked the pulse in my wrist, making my heart jump and quicken.

“Aren’t you going to use your magic to control me to drop the knife?” I whispered, his reaction making my body spark with flame. I felt the slow caress of his thumb on my wrist in other places, too.

“Fuck, no,” he laughed. “Aren’t you going to use yours?”

“I thought I had,” I admitted, “but you’re too stubborn to die.”

“Not the first time I’ve been told that.” He lifted my wrist, and my hand faltered on the knife when his lips feathered over the sensitive underside. The butterflies were back with a vengeance.

I could touch him, and nothing bad happened. No screaming, no silenced heartbeats, no empty eyes. The realisation made me giddy. “You really—you feel fine? You’re not dying from a slow poison?”

“I’m fine, Ameirah,” he promised, so softly that my heart melted, too. “I feel no different than I did this morning.” He paused. “Well, I’m fucking delighted to have a wife as brave and fearsome as you, but otherwise unchanged.”

I’d never thought of myself with those words before, but I liked them.

“I’m quite tempted to give you all my weapons,” he told me, unprompted. “I like the sight of you armed.”

“Mad,” I whispered to myself, shaking my head, remembering just how close together we were. The heat of him was like a slow, sensual brush to my body.

“Dearling, my eyes are up here.”

Shit, I was staring at his chest again. But it wasright there,all bronzed and sculpted and glorious.

“I know where they are,” I replied, trailing my stare very slowly up his chest. “I’ve seen your face before.”

His laugh was abrupt and loud. When my stare reached his face, he was grinning crookedly. “Do you want me to find a tunic, Ameirah?”

I rolled my eyes. “I can function quite well even with your naked chest in front of me.”

“Just not without drooling on it,” he said slyly.

“Hey!”

He flourished a single eyebrow. “You’re almost shameless in your perusal of my body.”

“You’re the one not wearing a shirt,” I protested. “And you’re my husband; I’m legally allowed to look.”

“Say that again,” he groaned.

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