Page 81 of Enslaved

Something in my chest burns. That same place where that jolt of power had burst from me the moment his true name crossed my lips.

“You knew what would happen,” I whisper. “You knew it would come to this.”

“I had an inkling, yes.”

“Yet you gave me your name anyway. Why?”

He shakes his head.

“Why?”I demand more fiercely.

He looks at me. Really looks. No barricades, no masks. I see everything there in his face. Gone is the insolent charm, the uncaring ease. He is all heat and fire only just held at bay by a bare thread of will. It hurts, it physically hurts him to restrain the force of his feeling. But restrain it he does and answers only: “Does it need to be said?”

“Yes,” I reply.

Then I grab him by the lapels of that dressing gown and pull his mouth down to mine.

I’ve thought of this moment so many times. Dreamt of it both idly and in the dead of night when the walls of my room seemed to close in around me, and my body warmed with aching need I scarcely understood.

But those thoughts, those dreams, they were private. Foolish things, intended only for me. And when I shook myself awake, when I rose from my bed and went about my day, they could be locked down inside the vaults of my brain, ignored and, to an extent, forgotten.

This—this is different. It’s no dream. Nothing about this moment can be locked away or forgotten. This is a moment that changes everything.Everything.

He’s frozen under my touch. It’s like kissing a statue, so hard, so immobile are his lips. That first thrill of contact is followed quickly by a thrill of terror. Terror that yet again I’ve misjudged him, misjudged what I thought was happening between us. Terror that this burning need inside me is mine alone and I only imagined I saw it reflected in his eyes.

But I don’t stop. I redouble my grip, slip a hand around the back of his head, and pull him against me, pressing my body into his. It doesn’t matter anymore what he thinks. I’m here. All of me: heart, body, and soul. He may not take, but he cannot stop me from giving, from throwing myself into that yawning gulf between us in desperate hope that he will catch me. This is our last chance. There will be no tomorrow. There’s just here and now and us.

Suddenly his resolve snaps.

He grabs my face. His hands are so large they cover both sides of my head, his strong fingers digging into my hair as he pulls me closer and opens his mouth, deepening the kiss. Now I feel it—all that heat, all that pain, all that hunger roaring up from inside him, engulfing me in the inferno. I welcome it, relish it. Let myself sink into that blaze. My body erupts in his fire.

When at last he draws back, it’s only by an inch. Only enough that we can both gasp for air. He stares down at me, the violet of his eyes vanished behind dilated black pupils.

“I love you,” he rasps. For a moment he looks shocked, as though he cannot believe what he just said. “I love you,” he repeats, both declaration and confession. “Clara! Clara, my darling, I love you. To the very depths of my worthless heart and being. The battle is lost—the war is done. You’ve won. You’ve conquered and destroyed me. Love me or loathe me, it makes no difference now.” He strokes my cheek, my neck, smooths hair from my forehead. Gazes at me as though beholding the very source of all life. “Though you cut me a thousand times, still would I come back to you. I’d crawl on my knees, pleading the grace of just one glance. I’d dare any risk, renounce any prize—crown, kingdom, my very hope of heaven—for the chance to make you mine.”

Then he pulls me to him, crushes me in his arms, and kisses me. Kisses me like it’s the last moment of our lives, and all the fires of endless hells are ready to consume us. I wrap my arms around his neck, bury my fingers in his hair, answering his kisses in kind, again and again and again.

Suddenly he scoops me up, hands firm about my waist, and sets me on his desk, heedless of the spells and debris scattered there. An inkstand topples; black ink stains my dress. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything now. Only him and his arms and his lips and his body, so warm and close and strong. The split in my skirt allows ample room for him to draw near. I wrap my legs around his waist, but it’s not enough. It can’t be enough. Not with him about to face death, not with me bound to a monster, not with everything between us teetering on the brink of oblivion.

Hands shaking, I yank his robe down from his shoulders. It falls, hanging from the loose belt, displaying his damp, naked torso to my hungry gaze. I rest my hand on his heart, then smooth my palm down, gliding over the chiseled muscles of his chest, his abdomen. He tries to catch me in another kiss, but I pull away, laughing, too quick for him. Instead I lean forward and press my mouth to the hollow of his throat. That first touch is trembling, tentative. The second is desperate, eager, needy. I kiss his throat, his collarbone, down to his chest. Indulging the impulse which has been brewing in my mind for far longer than I care to admit.

He groans. His fingers slip through my hair, down my neck, trailing sparks of sensation with a mere glancing touch. They play along the curve of my shoulder, toy with the gold trimming of my sleeve. Gently, he slips his finger under that trimming and draws the sleeve down, exposing my shoulder.

He stops. Steps back a pace. Gazes at the expanse of skin revealed. As though he would memorize this moment, make it last a lifetime. Then slowly, almost reverently, he traces one fingertip lightly up the smooth skin of my upper arm. Around the bone, across the curve of my shoulder. Brings it to rest at the hollow of my throat.

I shiver, my eyes half-closing, breath catching, and take hold of his hand. Raising it to my lips, I kiss his fingers—those long, elegant, strong fingers, which I have so long admired, so long yearned to feel against my skin. I lift my lashes, catch his gaze. His eyes are hot, melting my insides.

Slowly, deliberately, I press his palm to my breast, covering my beating heart.

His breath shudders, rough against my forehead. His hand trembles, but he does not pull away. He stares deep into my eyes. Studying me, reading me. Learning my every secret desire.

Finally, with agonizing slowness—as though we have all the time in the world—as though I might not be yanked out of this room any moment by my Obligation—as though he isn’t planning to get himself killed in a vain attempt to save me—as though I’m not crying out with my whole body and soul for him to hurry, hurry,hurry—he inclines his head. Kisses my shoulder. My throat. With a moan, he ventures lower still, exploring the curve of my breast.

Sensation explodes across my skin. I’m dizzy, intoxicated. Drunk on his touch, drunk on my own desire. With each brush of his lip, each nip of his teeth, each stroke of his tongue, I grip the desk’s edge for support, desperate to keep myself from tumbling. But why resist? Why not simply surrender?

“Darling,” he murmurs, his breath hot and panting. “Darling Clara, I beg of you . . .”

“What?”

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