Page 131 of The Ashes and the Star-Cursed King

The blood was sweet and flat, slightly bitter with the added alcohol. Biology meant that human blood would always taste good to me—no moral stance could change that. It seemed like a fucking injustice that human blood, even taken against someone’s will, would always taste good, while a perfectly seasoned steak now tasted like ash unless it was bloody-rare.

Still, since the Kejari, even human blood didn’t hold the same appeal. It tasted… one-note. Either too savory or too cloying.

Since the Kejari.

No, since a certain cave, and a certain woman, and a slew of tastes and sounds and sensations that I’d probably be chasing for the rest of my damned life.

I swirled the blood around in the glass and my eyes fell to my thumb—the faint jagged mark on the pad, mostly healed.

I didn’t want to admit how many times I’d looked at that mark these last few days.

How many times I’d thought about the exact sensation of Oraya’s tongue against my skin. And fuck, the look of primal pleasure on her face—that was something I could drink up for the rest of my life.

It was pathetic, the things I clung to with her. The soft, hungry press of her tongue. The lash-flutter of pleasure. The moan when I’d touched her wings, the way her legs had fallen open, the way her back had arched—the way she’d fuckingsmelled, so aroused, like she—

Ix’s tits. What was wrong with me?

I snapped myself out of that train of thought with another long drink. I wished there was more alcohol in it. I craved beer. Human beer.

Another set of nobles arrived and bowed before me. I gave them impassive stares, polite greetings, and waved them away, accepting their submission as I should—like a king who expected nothing less.

They glided across the ballroom to pay their respects to the couple of honor. Vale accepted their congratulations as I had, while Lilith stood somewhat awkwardly at his side. Cairis had told her, a little rudely, not to talk if she could at all help it, and she was following his orders for the most part. Still, every time a guest walked away, she would whisper in Vale’s ear excitedly—no doubt peppering him with constant questions.

Vale didn’t seem to mind, though. Seventy years with the man and I’d never seen him smile so much.

I watched them, frowning, brow furrowed.

“You’re staring.”

Mische’s voice almost made me jump.

I glanced at her and did a double take.

She grinned, spinning around.

“Right? Cairis let me pick it out myself.”

She looked like a literal ray of sunshine. Metallic gold fabric wrapped around her body, the skirt layered and flaring more than typical House of Night style usually dictated. It had no embroidery, no accents, but what it lacked in decoration it made up for in that brilliant color, extra striking against the bronze of her skin. It was sleeveless, the neckline open. She wore a pair of long black gloves that reached her upper arms—I couldn’t help but linger on those, knowing why she was wearing them.

Even her face glittered—gold over her eyelids and dotting on her cheeks, complementing her freckles.

I’m sure she expected some kind of dismissive joke. But maybe I was an old sap after all, because I couldn’t bring myself to make one. It had been a while since I’d seen Mische shining. It was nice.

So I said, honestly, “You look fantastic, Mish.”

She beamed, cheeks glittering.

“I do, right?”

I chuckled. “So humble.”

She shrugged. “Why should I be humble?”

Hell, why should she?

She looked me up and down. “You look… uh…kingly.”

Her tone, rightfully, did not indicate that to be a compliment.

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