Page 81 of Cursed Dreams
His hands skimmed up her sides with aching reverence, bunching the fabric of her robe at her hips. The heat of his mouth trailed along her inner thigh, his breath a burning promise against her skin.
Her head dropped back with a shuddering sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as pleasure bloomed low in her belly. Her hands slid into his hair, threading through the silken strands, anchoring herself to the moment.
Gods…
No one had ever made her feel like this. She let herself drown in the warmth of it, her body already tightening with anticipation, every nerve ending sparking like starlight under his touch.
His tongue found her, slow at first, then more certain—drawing a broken gasp from her lips as her hips arched into his mouth. He groaned softly against her, the sound low and rough, vibrating through her skin.
“Gods,” he murmured, the words barely audible between breaths. “You taste like sin.”
His grip on her thighs tightened, holding her steady as he moved with growing hunger, each flick and press of his tongue deliberate, relentless. There was no hesitation in him, only heat and need and the reverent way he devoured her like he had dreamed of this moment for far too long.
Thalia couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. All she could do was feel—each stroke unravelling her, each moan from his lips dragging her deeper into the fire building low in her belly. Her fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring herself as the pleasure surged, raw and electric.
He worshipped her with every movement, and the way he moaned against her, for her, made her feel like she was the only thing that had ever existed in his world.
Blinding, searing light exploded outward from her chest, a force so powerful it ripped through the air like a shockwave.
Vaelith was thrown backwards—his body lifted from the floor and slammed into the far wall with a grunt of pain.
The fire in the hearth blew out. The room dropped into darkness, broken only by the faint, residual glow pulsing around Thalia’s body.
She collapsed against the wall, panting, eyes wide in horror and confusion. Her hands trembled as she looked down at her chest, where the magic had burst from her, the same place her necklace now glowed faintly against her skin.
In her mind, she saw Caelum’s face: soft, radiant, achingly beautiful, his eyes filled with a sorrow that cut deeper than any wound.
Thalia clutched at her chest the cold burn returning.
Vaelith groaned from across the room, slowly rising to his feet, face twisted in confusion and disbelief. “What the hell was that?” he growled, voice hoarse. “What did you do?”
Thalia stared at him, trembling. “I… I didn’t… I don’t know.”
Though she couldn’t explain it, not fully, one thing lodged itself in her mind with quiet, unsettling certainty, Caelum had stopped her. He had seen something, felt something, and whatever force stirred deep within her, ancient and instinctive, had responded to him. Chosen him. Even if she hadn’t meant for it to. Even if, just for a moment, she had almost given herself to someone else. The realisation left her reeling, more confused than ever
Vaelith stood there, eyes burning, not with gold this time, but something sharper. Something that cut without blade.
“Who is it?” he sounded incredulous.
Thalia’s stomach twisted.
“Who are you bonded to?” he demanded again, voice low and tight, like saying it too loudly might break something in him. “Give me a name.”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
Caelum.
She couldn’t say it. Not because she didn’t want to… but because it felt ridiculous.
How could she explain this? How could she say the name of a male who only existed in moonlit forests and dreams? A man who she couldn’t touch outside the veil of sleep? His face haunted her, etched in light and shadow behind her eyes. He had touched her soul. Spoken to her heart like he already knew its every crack and scar.
In front of her stood Vaelith. Very real. Very present.
This was the man who had been there when she broke apart after Aric’s diagnosis. The one who had steadied her, who saw her strength and pushed her to rise. The male who had offered her tea when she felt she had nothing left, who carried her on horseback when she was too afraid to admit she couldn’t ride, who had kissed her like the world might end and he wanted to burn every second of her into memory.
No, he hadn’t said love. But the weight of what had passed between them hadn’t been hollow. She had felt it. The need. The heat. The pull. This was a mess. A big, spiralling, tangled mess, she had no idea how to fix it.
“I…” she whispered, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to say.”
