Page 67 of Rhapsody of Ruin
His breath came hard, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with something between rage and hurt. The fire crackled, the scent of smoke thick, filling the void where neither of us spoke.
Finally, he moved.
One step. Two. Until the heat of him pressed against me like a furnace, his shadow swallowing mine. He loomed, taller, broader, his presence filling every corner of the chamber.
“Do you think I will be mocked?” he whispered, his voice low and lethal. “Do you think I will let the court see me weakened by your lies?”
I should have stepped back. I should have turned away. Instead, I stood still, defiant, though my knees trembled.
His hand lifted, rough and unyielding, fingers sliding against the side of my neck. Not gentle. Not cruel. Simply claiming.
He pulled me forward and crushed his mouth to mine.
The kiss was fire, hot, consuming, devouring. His lips were fierce, his grip hard, dragging me against him until I could feel every line of his body through my gown. I gasped, and he swallowed it, deepening the kiss, demanding, taking.
Heat surged through me, searing down my spine, curling low in my belly. My hands, traitorous, clutched at his tunic, holding on as if I might burn away without him.
But there was no tenderness. No trust. Only hunger sharpened into a weapon. He wanted my twilight. He wanted the fire it ignited in him.
And I gave it.
Because what choice did I have?
His hand slid lower, gripping my hip, pulling me tighter. His mouth moved to my throat, teeth grazing, heat blooming where he pressed. My pulse thundered under his lips. Sparks flared between us, the clash of dragonfire and twilight magic.
The chamber swam with sensation, the roughness of his grip, the heat of his breath, the rasp of leather against silk. My kneesweakened, but his hold kept me upright, caging me, consuming me.
I wanted to fight it. To push him away. To scream. But my body betrayed me, shuddering under his touch, my magic rising to meet his, feeding him strength.
And I hated it.
Because every tremor of pleasure was poisoned by the knowledge that this was not love. This was not trust. This was survival sharpened into cruelty.
When he finally tore his mouth from mine, his breathing was ragged, his eyes bright with renewed fire. Alive. Restored.
And colder than ever.
He stepped back, releasing me as though I were nothing more than a blade he had used and now discarded. His face was carved from stone, unreadable, his mouth hard.
I stood trembling, my lips swollen, my chest rising too fast. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting skin, the sting the only thing keeping me from crumbling.
I would not weep. I would not bend.
The silence stretched, deafening, louder than any argument.
Then he turned.
He strode to the door, his cloak snapping behind him. He wrenched it open, cold air sweeping into the chamber.
He did not look back.
The door remained open after he left, the emptiness of it echoing louder than a slam.
I stared at it until my eyes burned, refusing the tears that clawed at the edges.
No shouting. No broken glass. No final strike.
But something in us had shattered all the same.
