Page 36 of Dragons' Bride
Some of the crew shifted on their feet. At least a few didn’t like this anymore than Cyril did. But there were more that all but smiled. Cyril wanted to rip out their throats.
He ensured Kit inhaled fully before he went on, but that was all the aid he could offer. She’d still not cried out at the sixth lash, though Cyril had no idea how she managed to shove the pain so deep away from herself.
It… It wasn’t a good sign.
“That’s six,” Cyril announced, loudly enough to be heard through the deck, which had gone decidedly silent. Kit sagged slightly, but before she could move he put a hand around the nape of her neck, his voice dropping. “Now, we talk.”
Kit stiffened.
“Did you imagine it would end here?” Cyril hissed. Without waiting for an answer that he knew wouldn’t come, he guided Kit down to his cabin and locked the door. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she still refused to cry. Refused to let him into her pain.
Well, he was immortal. He could wait. But stars take him, if she made him lash her, he was going to unravel the mess going on inside Kit’s head even if it took the rest of the voyage to Massa’eve.
Cyril crossed his arms over his chest. “Why is your arm bleeding?” he asked. “What happened?”
“M-My arm?” Kit struggled to keep her composure. She held the top of her dress with one hand, lest it slip further from her shoulders, confusion dancing in the haze surrounding her. At the moment, Cyril wasn’t sure she remembered that shehadan arm, much less that it had bled through her sleeve.
“Yes, your arm.” Cyril hooked a stool with his foot and slid it over to her. “I’m well aware of what happened to your back.”
“There is nothing of note with my arm,” Kit said. She did sit at least. Probably because she was in too much pain to keep standing. For now, Cyril would take it.
“After what happened on deck, I’m in a mood to make up my own mind.” Cradling her elbow in his hand, Cyril inched up the sleeve spotted with blood. When he saw the wound there, his body went preternaturally still. “What is that?” he demanded.
“Nothing. An itch.”
She’d clawed her slave brand raw, as if trying to take the puckered skin off with her nails. Cyril closed his eyes.
“I’m fine,” said Kit.
“I’m not,” Cyril snapped, his hand tightening on her elbow as he gave up all pretense of control. “I’m not fine with this, and I’m not fine with having whipped you just now. I’m not fine watching you flinch in fear and even less fine with the numbness you are fighting your way into. I’m fine with none of it, Kit.”
“Well you should be.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you are a royal dragon prince of Massa’eve and I’m a slave in lip-paint. We are a business deal and nothing more.”
A chill went through him. “You think you are a business deal to me?”
“It’s the truth.”
“You want another truth?” Cyril growled softly. “Here it is.” Gripping Kit’s sides, he lifted her into the air until their faces were in line with each other, and pressed his mouth over hers. Cyril’s tongue swept in between Kit’s parted lips, taking her with a possessiveness that erupted from his very soul.
Kit tasted of sweetness and fire, of determination and vulnerability that made Cyril ache. With her in his arms, the world seemed to blur at the edges and Cyril was no match for the storm of emotions the touch of her lips released. He shifted her in his hold, one arm dropping just below her backside while the over cupped the soft curve of her cheek.
Her skin was velvety soft beneath his touch, a delicate contrast to the rough calluses of his own hand. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, feeling the steady rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips.
Cyril's own pulse raced, his chest tightening with desire and something deeper that he couldn’t – wouldn’t – conceal from her.
Kit’s hands rose to grip Cyril’s arms, her fingers digging into his flesh. Cyril shuddered. An emotion. He’d have been happy with anything, even an attempt to knee him between the legs. Anything but the cold veil of nothing she’d wrapped around herself on deck. But this… her touch, her hold, her allowing him to be her anchor if only for a few heartbeats – it was everything.
He threaded his fingers through Kit's hair wanting every sensation, every detail of their connection seared into his memory – her sweet taste, the hard press of her fingers, the way her mouth softened against his. And in return, he bared the primal need burning inside his heart to her.
They both trembled when Cyril finally pulled away. Rearranging Kit in his arms, he cradled her in his lap as he settled them both on the cot, his forehead pressed into her hair. She didn’t relax against him but she didn’t push away either.
“I have you,” Cyril promised. “I’m here with you. I’m not going to let go.”
She shuddered, lifting her face to fight the threatening tears.
