Page 85 of Stolen
I frown at him. Amused, but trying not to show it.
“You look beautiful, Myrrin. I mean it. I like that we match now.”
That gives me pause.
I glance at him again and—huh?
I hadn’t noticed it before, but his raven-dark hair is streaked too. Threads of silver shimmer through it like moonlight cutting through shadow.
Ethereal and impossibly perfect.
The Fates didn’t just mark me. They marked him too.
And not just his hair.
Now that I’m paying attention, I can see it—on the curve of his horns, in the subtle glow on his collarbone glyphs, and even along the edges of his wings, which I’m just now realizing he can tuck in and out of reality at will.
Which, okay, is kind of neat. Especially for bedroom antics. Because wings. You know, they can get in the way of things.
Of course, it all suits him.
Of course, he looks like some seductive, post-apocalyptic fairy king.
Meanwhile, I look like I lost a fight with a glitter bomb.
He crooks a finger at me. “Come. Back. To. Bed.”
“Not until you explain why my hair looks like I got hexed by a glam rock witch.”
He chuckles, deep and amused. “It’s a mark of power. Of belonging. Of Fate.” He lifts a brow. “And if it helps, I think you look like a goddess freshly fallen from the sky.”
I try to hold my glare. I really do.
But he’s all lean muscle and silver-shadow and sincerity, lounging half-covered in silk like some decadent prince of sin.
And I’m just me.
Slightly freaked out and also hopelessly, stupidly smitten.
“Fine,” I mutter, crawling back under the covers. “But no more nookie. I don’t want to wake up with a tattoo of your ass on my forehead.”
Alaric chuckles low in his throat, already curling his massive frame around mine.
“Myrrin, I assure you, that will not happen.”
I shouldn’t love it when he cradles me close. But I do.
That velvet heat of his body pressed to mine?
It’s addicting.
He makes a contented noise and wraps his arms around me.
I narrow my eyes.
“Alaric.”
“Hmm?”
