Page 75 of The Book of Legends
His hand flies close to my face, not touching, just near. Like he worries if he does, I will vanish.
“Kaine...” I start, uncertain of what to say. I ought to ask him to stop. I'm not a pawn in his game against Therion. That he needs not my heart to prevail in a fight.
But then I reply, “Then unravel.”
Before he kisses me once again, I see a flutter of something dark and eager in his eyes. Slower still this time, further. Like he is learning from memory.
We squander time.
He undresses me somewhere between quiet and thunder, like I'm made of silk and bone and secrets. I feel naked—body, heart, soul. Like he has spent a millennium looking for me.
I shudder under him, and he stops.
Chest rising and falling under control, he continues, “I don't want to take anything you're not ready to give.”
My lips part. I should mention my uncertainty. Though I'm not.
I grab his hand and gently lay it against my heart.
“You already own it.”
He seems not to believe me and glances at me, like those words are something he never considered he would hear once again. His forehead turns to meet mine.
“Selene, you have no clue what you are inviting. Parts of me not meant for someone like you exist.”
“Then show me,” I say softly. “Show me who you are.”
And he continues to do so.
Kainen lowers himself with a respect that scares me, and when his lips touch mine once again, it is not simply a kiss—it is a promise.
That transforms everything.
Later, twisted in blankets and him, the smell of fire and pine still lingers on my skin. His arm wraps around my waist defensively, his breath steady on my shoulder.
I let myself act for a little instant.
I pretend I am not imprisoned in a tower inside a universe apart from mine.
I imagine myself not stuck between a monarch with a crown and a prince bearing a curse.
Assuming I'm his.
And it is mine as well.
But reality has razor-sharp fangs. And dawn finds a way in every morning.
Eyes closed, he stirs next to me with a low, raspy voice. “Don't go.”
I approach him. “I wasn't going to.”
He opens his eyes—stormy gray, the type heavens wear before a fight. “Excellent.” Because before things get better, they are going to become worse.
I tighten. “What do you mean?”
He sits slowly, running a hand over his wet hair. His braids have come free, threads like ink dripping over his cheeks.
“I picked up word,” he says. “Again, the borders were under assault. The armies of Therion sent shadow creatures—species not seen in Nythia in more than ten years.”
