Page 51 of King Among the Dead

He let out an explosive breath, face going blank with shock, and how could he be shocked? How could he think she wouldn’t see these for the beautiful works of art they were? How could he think she wouldn’t love the special care he’d taken – for her, always for her, and the ache in her chest was like a wound.

She set the knife aside with the reverence it deserved, and reached, with the same devotion, to rest her hand against Beck’s chest.

Beneath the softness of his sweater, and the firm, warm muscle it covered, she felt the steady pounding of his heart: elevated. A fast tempo that betrayed the stillness of his body.

“Beck.” Pleading. She didn’t know how to voice what she wanted with any sort of eloquence, not like the heroines of the books she read. She leaned into him, fingertips digging into muscle, felt herself going soft and pliant for him.Kiss me, she thought.Touch me, want me.

But he held still, unblinking, frozen like a prey animal in a trap.

The moment stretched, and her face flamed. He would refuse her again; would step back, put space between them, and a man could only do that so many times before it inspired shame. Maybe the blossoming she’d seen in the mirror had been an illusion, tainted by bias and naïve hopefulness. Maybe she was a child in his eyes. Unpretty, unwanted. Maybe…

His eyes flared, her only warning, and then he moved.

But not away.

As she started to draw back, resigned to having overstepped, his hand moved, lightning-fast, and closed around her wrist. Gripped it tight and held her in place. His chin tucked, his gaze sharpened on her face – and then hetugged.

He yanked her forward, and she lost her balance – gasped, tumbling in toward him.

He still held her wrist, and pulled her arm up, around his neck. His other hand caught her face; slid back to her nape, fingers threaded through her hair. Gripped tight, blunt pressure against her scalp.

She had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact, her body pressed flush to his, all of her open, and vulnerable, and entrusted to his care – readily so. Her pulse thumped wildly, her lungs refused to work, and his face hovered above her, all she could see – all she wanted to see.

His hair had fallen forward, and tickled at her cheeks; framed honey eyes that seemed to glow in the dim, close space between them. His breath, harsh and heated, struck her mouth, fanned down her throat, raising goosebumps of anticipation.

“Rosie,” he breathed, his voice raw and full of gravel.

His hips shifted forward, and –oh. That wasn’t disinterest she felt against her belly.

She clasped the collar of his sweater with one hand; took a grip on it at his chest with the other, and it felt like all that held her up – her grip and his, his hands knotted in her hair and locked on her wrist.Hold on to me, his hold said.Don’t let go.

His gaze was…everything. He’d pulled back the mask, and was letting her see all that he felt. It was so much; so dizzying in its depth, and violence, and passion. She opened her mouth, as if she might drink it down, feel it mix with her own thundering want, and give it back to him. He deserved that: to be wanted in the way that he wanted.

They hovered there, right on the precipice. If he kissed her, that would be it. She knew there would be no turning away and walking things back after that. It would be the match to the oil, and there would be no resisting; she felt it with a tug at her breastbone, a certainty that was ageless and uncivilized.

And then…

He let go of her.

He released her hair and yanked his hand back like it had been burned. He turned loose of her wrist, sucked in a breath.

Her own grip went slack, and when he stepped back, she let him go. The shock hurt; was devastating. She felt it high in her chest, a splintering pain that sent shards outward; through her ribs, and down into her belly. A cold pain that left her wanting to curl into herself. She banded her arms tight across her middle, and watched him spin away from her and pace across the room, pushing his hair back with both hands and holding them there, cupping his skull, knuckles white as he pressed with his fingertips.

This moment stretched, too, but the precipice was an ugly one, the rocks below jagged, the wind fierce and biting. A fall here wouldhurt.

Could shatter them.

Rose drew in a shaky breath. “It’s okay.”

Beck whirled again, and dropped his hands. His hair stood up, fluffy and ruffled, at odds with the stricken look on his face. His cheekbones could have cut glass, his face hollow, haunted. Bereft.

“It’snotokay.” His voice was rougher than she’d ever heard it. “It’s not–” He bit his lip so hard she was afraid he’d draw blood. Closed his eyes, and let out a groan that was mostly a growl.

He took a few deep breaths, and opened his eyes. His stare pinned her in place, hot and searching and hungry. “I want you.” Like a raw confession; like she’d hurt him.

She swallowed. “I wantyou. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t…” He glanced away, throat moving as he swallowed. Breathed harshly through his mouth, chest heaving. All his usual polish had abandoned him; he was stripped down to his most basic, animal layer, and it excited her, even as he refused her. “I don’t know if I can – keep my distance.”

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