Page 132 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“You’re either mad or stupid to think it was,” Emrys continues. “I would rather sink my fangs into your juicy heart to drink up that persistent song before it gets stuck in my head.”
“Aw,” I pout. “You say the most romantic things. Tell me more.”
I rattle my sword on another door, incensing the beast within. When its screeches die, I start reciting poetry to myself and inspect the next stall. “Oh, Willow, my Willow, how does your skin glow?”Clang clang.More ticking and tapping answers me inside. Curious. “With silver bells and moonbeam shells, I’m making this up as I go.”
I pivot, grinning at him, waiting for an applause.
He grinds his teeth audibly. “Fine. I’ll tell you about the Nightmares. Anything to shut you up.”
“Excellent. What’s this one?” I tap the door of a quieter stall. “It smells familiar, like rotting flesh.”
His eyes narrow briefly as if I surprise him, and he doesn’t like it. He’s probably forgotten I grew up around the undead. I made them.
“It’s a Graftspawn,” he explains, then gives me no more.
“Okay . . . if you’re not elaborating, then I’ll just make up something. Hmm. What would a Graftspawn look like and do? Graft-spawn. Grafts-pawn. Graaah-fftah. Spooorn.” I play with the words on my tongue as ideas run through my head. “Ooh. Does it look like a winged monkey with poop for eyes and?—”
“Sit down before you hurt yourself.”
I don’t sit.
He gives me a disparaging look, but I see a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Imagine, if you will, the most grotesque amalgamation of flesh and bone, driven by an insatiable hunger for more parts to add to its patchwork body.” His voice takes on a dark, almost reverent tone as he continues. “Born in the House of Flesh, they represent the fear of bodily corruption, of losing one’s identity to a monstrous transformation. Each seam, each mismatched limb, is a testament to the fragility of our physical forms.”
I suppress a shudder. “So definitely not a monkey with poop eyes.”
His lips twitch.
“And you’re definitely good with your words. I’ll bet you read a lot, too.”
He shifts uncomfortably at my observation. Inwardly, I’m fist-pumping the air in triumph. His awkwardness means my Christmas gift for him is suitable. I continue my path along the partition to give him a moment. Each stall I pass, the Terror inside throws itself at the door. I don’t even antagonize them. It’s almost as if . . . they scent my pheromones. The doors are solid, from bottom to top—except for that thin gap below and above. It’s enough for me to smell them and vice versa.
The fever curdles in my stomach, making me feel sick. I startle when the crash against a door is so violent that a whiff of coppery blood washes out from the crack beneath it.
“A Chimera.” Emrys’s voice is now so close that his breath tickles my skin. “A shapeshifter.”
My eyes flutter closed at his nearness. I didn’t hear him move from his spot by the door. His very scent wipes out all fear—sweet, tobacco, pepper. My body recognizes him as my mate despite his desperation to be something else. Awareness ripples through me, pulsing that need again.
Gloved fingers brush my neck as he shifts my braid to the other side, away from my ear. The rasp in his deep voice is a direct line to every feminine instinct I own.
“It takes on forms,” he says, “tailored to your deepest, unspoken desires and uses seduction to lure its victims closer. It fulfills your favorite erotic fantasy and then warps it into something terrifying right when you’re about to—” He nips my ear lobe. Pleasure shivers through me, and I gasp. Or maybe it was his.
“How do we kill it?” I ask, trying to maintain focus.
Leathery fingertips swipe down my neck and curl around my throat. “Did you know the inspiration for their creation came from us Sluagh? From the sexual cravings we instill in our victims?”
“So you understand, then. This thing inside me I can’t control?”
His fingers flex against my throat, gentle but firm—a reminder he has me caught—much like his prey behind the stone door. My head drops back to his shoulder. Our bodies are flush. Every haggard breath he battles pushes against my spine, forcing me to inhale. I sense him looking over my shoulder, down my front, watching my breasts surge beneath my gaping shirt as I breathe—Legion did the same thing when Bodin licked my cleavage. The memory kindles heat in my blood, making me ache for release. A needy moan slips from my lips.
“Look at you,” he murmurs hotly. “So desperate for my touch.”
“Yes,” I breathe, eyes fluttering as his other hand lands on my waist.
“Where?” he grunts.
“I . . .”
I can’t concentrate because his palm glides around my hip, aiming between my thighs. He stops short of where I need him most and growls in my ear, “Beg for it.”
